I turned onto Paradise Street and was surprised to see my sister’s car parked in one of the visitor spaces outside the three-storey block that houses my flat.

My surprise was compounded when I reached the car, and she jumped out and grabbed me, sobbing into my shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Helen?” I asked gently as I held the sobbing woman, “talk to me.”

“Can we go inside?” she asked, her voice small and sounded very young.

“Of course we can,” I agreed, “come on.”

I took her hand and led her into the building, up to the first floor and let us into flat number 15.

I helped her out of her coat and sent her to the living room while I hung it up and then went to the kitchen to make tea. I prefer coffee, but I knew that Helen only drank tea, so I accommodated her.

I carried the tray with the tea things in, put it on the table in front of the sofa and sat down next to my sister.

“Want to talk?” I asked.

Even though she was my older sister, by four years, I had always been the mature one, the sensible one, the one who was calmest in a crisis.

She didn’t say anything, just looked at me with sad eyes and nodded her head.

After we had sat in silence for a couple of minutes, I moved to sit next to her on the sofa and put an arm around her shoulders, I looked at her.

“You know, sis, talking involves moving your lips and sound coming out,” I said quietly, “something’s upsetting you, what is it?”

“It’s Pete,” she said, flatly, “he’s having an affair.”

“You’re sure?” I asked.

In answer, she pulled her mobile phone out of her handbag and switched it on, pressed a few on-screen buttons and handed it to me. There, very plainly was a video of my brother-in-law very clearly sliding his erection in and out of the backside of a woman who was very obviously not my sister. This woman was dark-haired, my sister is very definitely a redhead.

“I’d say that was pretty conclusive,” I said, “how did you get it?”

“I took it this afternoon,” she replied, “I left work early, for a doctor’s appointment. After that, I went home because I knew Pete was working from home today, and I had something to tell him.”

“And this is what you found?” I asked holding the phone up.

She just nodded her head, a large tear rolling down her cheek.

“I walked into the house and was surprised when I didn’t find him at the living room table working on his laptop. What I did find was a trail of clothing from the door through to the dining room, out into the hall and up the stairs. Then I walked into the bedroom, our bedroom and saw them, that’s when I took the video.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?” I asked.

“I can’t go back there,” she stammered, “I can’t go back to that house, I can’t sleep with him in that bed, not after what they did in it.”

“You know you’re welcome to stay here,” I said.

“Two problems there,” she replied, “one: I have nothing with me but the clothes I’m wearing and the contents of my handbag, and two: you only have one bedroom.”

“You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the sofa,” I said, “and the clothes are no problem, Tesco’s is open twenty-four hours, we can get you something from there.”

“I don’t have much money with me, I’d have to use my credit card,” she said.

“No,” I replied, “not if you don’t want Pete to find you. They can trace where you’ve used it, I’ll pay for everything, you can give me it back later. Have you eaten?”

She shook her head no.

“Then we’ll get something while we’re out,” I said, “just one thing though, what do you want me to say if Pete rings me and asks if I know where you are?”

“I know you hate lying,” she said, “so just tell him the truth.”

“And if he asks why you’re here and not there?”

“I’ll take care of that now,” she said, pulling her phone out again. She pulled up the video and started typing.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Sending him a copy of the video, that should give him a hint.”

As soon as the video was sent, she switched off her phone.

“I need to get a new sim card,” she said flatly.

“Come on then,” I said, “let’s go get some shopping done, then we’ll eat.”

Tesco’s wasn’t busy so the shopping didn’t take too long. She picked up a pack of seven pairs of knickers, a couple of bras, two pairs of jeans and four t-shirts. I added a light jacket for her and she also picked up a pair of trainers. After we took the purchases through the check-outs, we loaded everything into the car and headed to the local Brewers Fayre for dinner.

It was after ten when we got home, I made some space in my wardrobe for her clothes and we retired to the living room for a nightcap. I poured myself a couple of fingers of single malt and got Helen a rum and coke. Since it wasn’t Havana Club or Bacardi, I couldn’t really call it a Cuba Libre, even allowing for the fact that Pussers Navy Rum isn’t white anyway, then I put a CD of Mozart on the stereo and we settled into one each of the two sofas in the room.

Once we’d settled, I looked at her and smiled.

“What do you think caused it?” I asked.

“I truly have no idea,” she replied, “we’d been trying to start a family for six months. In fact, that was partly why I was home early, I missed my period two weeks ago and I’d been to the doctors to have it confirmed. I was going home to tell him I’m pregnant.”

“That’s a harsh thing to know when that’s the situation,” I said, “what are you going to do?”

“My first thought was to go out and buy a gun and shoot the pair of them,” I said, “the marriage is over, there’s no way I could forgive what he’s done.”

I thought that, under the same circumstances, I’d feel exactly the same and told her so. We discussed sleeping arrangements, I was adamant that she would take the bed and I would take the sofa, which was actually quite comfortable, and if needs be, folded out into a queen-sized bed.

We were still arguing over it when the phone rang. I let it go to voicemail.

After the announcement and the beep, I heard a familiar voice.

“Hi, Phil, it’s Pete,” he said, “there’s a problem, Helen has disappeared, without leaving any sort of message. All her clothes and things are still here. Have you any idea where she is? I’m going frantic here, please, as soon as you get this message, give me a ring, will you?”

Then he hung up.

I looked at Helen.

“No mention of the video there?” she said, “do you think that perhaps he didn’t get it?”

“I think he must have; he’s guessed that you’d immediately run to me,” I answered.

“Are you going to call him back?” she asked.

“No, let him stew overnight,” I said, “I’ll ring him tomorrow.”

“All right,” she agreed, “where’s the spare bedding? I need to make me up a bed on the sofa.”

“It’s inside the body of the sofa, but you take the bed, I’ll have the sofa.”

“No, Phil,” she answered, “I am not going to turf you out of your bed. You take the bed I’ll take the sofa.”

“Helen,” I objected.

“No, and that’s final,” she replied, “either you take the bed, or I’m getting in my car and leaving.”

I held up my hands in surrender.

“All right, have it your way,” I said, “care for a hot chocolate to go to bed on?”

She said yes and I went into the kitchen to make the sweet, hot drink, just like Mum used to make for us when we were young.

As I placed the mugs on the coffee table between us, she looked at me.

“Do you know what we forgot at Tesco?” she asked.

“No, what?” I replied.

“We forgot to get me a nightie,” she said, “do you have a shirt or something I can borrow?”

“Of course, just have a rummage around in my wardrobe, pick whatever takes your fancy.”

She disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared a few minutes later wearing my Leeds United away shirt.

“Is this all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “in fact, it looks better on you than it does on any of the team.”

She smiled at the compliment.

“Thank you, kind sir,” she said, taking a sip of her chocolate, “Mmm, this is good, just like Mum used to make.”

“Hardly surprising,” I replied, “considering she was the one who taught me to make it.”

We finished our chocolate in companionable silence and I stood up, gathered the pots, took them through to the kitchen, rinsed them under the tap and loaded them into the dishwasher. Since it was only half full I didn’t start it but returned to the living room.

“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather have the bed?” I asked her.

“No,” she replied, “I’m not going to kick you out of your own bed for me. Of course, we could share it, as we used to when you were little and got scared.”

“I remember those days,” I said, “I used to climb in with you and you’d ask me to tell you a story.”

“And look where that led Mr Successful Novelist,” she replied.

“But then Mum sat me down in the kitchen and told me I hadn’t to do it any longer.”

“Yes,” she said, “you were thirteen, and you started having, er, nocturnal emissions.”

“Wet dreams?” I asked.

“Yes,” she agreed, “and the emissions were landing a little too close to the danger zone.”

“And you complained to Mum?” I asked.

“No,” she replied, “Mum sat me down one day and asked why my bed sheets had semen stains on them.”

“She thought we were having sex?” I asked.

“No, she thought I was having sex,” she answered, “which I was, but never in my bed and never without a condom.”

“So she decided to stop me coming into your bed,” I said.

“Well since there was no way to stop you coming in my bed,” she began.

“I get the picture,” I said.

“And that’s about the time when I started noticing that my knickers had a habit of disappearing from the washing basket, and then turning up again a couple of days later, usually a little crispier,” she said, “I assumed that you were borrowing them for fantasy purposes.”

I blushed a deep pink.

“No need to blush,” she said, “I was quite flattered that my little brother seemed to think of me as his fantasy girl,” she said, “I even occasionally made sure they were well coated in my juices.”

And that revelation made me blush even deeper pink.

“Can I make a confession?” she asked.

“Of course,” I replied.

“Back then, I used to get turned on by the fact that my brother got turned on by my dirty knickers.”

She stood up, turned her back to me and rolled the thong that she was wearing down her legs before stepping out of it and stooping to pick them up. It was a good job that the football shirt was long on her.

She turned back to me, thong in hand and held it out.

“Here you go,” she said, “just in case you wanted to relive old times.”

“I think, perhaps, that that’s my cue to go to bed,” I said, standing, “do you need a hand making your bed up?”

“No, I can manage,” she replied, “I’m sorry, Phil.”

“What for?” I asked.

“Teasing you,” she replied.

“That’s all right,” I told her, it’s what big sisters are for.”

She walked across to me, put her arms around my neck and kissed me on the cheek, the rock hard nipples on her firm breasts trying to bore into my chest.

“Thanks, Phil,” she said, “you’re the best.”

“That’s only because I’ve got the world’s best sister,” I replied, “do you need anything else before I go to bed?”

“No,” she replied, “I can manage, good night. I love you.”

“Me too,” I said, which is how I had always answered that when we were kids.

In my bedroom, I went into the bathroom, emptied my bladder, washed my hands and face and cleaned my teeth before stripping off and climbing, naked as always, into my bed.

In less than two minutes I was asleep.

Some hours later I was awakened by the sunshine streaming through the window, birds singing outside and my left arm around a slim red-haired body with my hand cupping a small, firm breast. I also had a strange sensation in my groin and realised that this was caused by my morning erection being trapped between the said red-head’s thighs and in very close proximity to her very wet vagina. Somewhere during the night, the football shirt had disappeared.

I gave the tit a gentle squeeze, eliciting a soft sigh of contentment, then I remembered just exactly whose tit it was, and started to gently extricate myself.

“Where d’you think you’re going?” a sleepy voice asked.

“Bathroom,” I said, “I need to pee.”

She reached her hand down to her own crotch and took hold of my erection.

“You’ll never manage it like that,” she said, very matter of fact.

“I’ll stand there and think pure thoughts,” I replied, “that works.”

Her answer was to shift her lower body so that my erection slid along the length of her slit and slipped out of its prison, then she turned herself in my arms until she was facing me.

She took my face between her hands and kissed me. Not a peck on the lips, a kiss, open-mouthed, tongue a long deep French kiss.

As she broke the kiss, she smiled at me.

“I always wanted to do that when we were teenagers, now, go and empty your bladder,” she said quietly.

It took some time, and a considerable effort on my part, but I managed it.

When I came back into the bedroom, Helen was lying on her back, legs apart with her right hand busy at her crotch.

“Oh, sorry,” I apologised, “I’ll give you some privacy.”

“You could give me some help,” she countered.

“Helen, I’m your brother,” I replied.

“Yes,” she answered, with a little gasp, “you are. You’re my brother who used to act out his sibling fantasy by wanking into my knickers.”

“That was wrong of me,” I said, “I’m sorry.”

“Phil,” she said, stopping what she was doing, “you weren’t the only member of the household who had teenage sibling fantasies.”

“What?” I spat, coming close to yelling, “what are you talking about.”

“You weren’t the only one of our parents’ children who got to sleep at night by masturbating to thoughts of his, all right, her in my case, sibling,” she replied, “I spent countless hours fingering myself and pretending it was a different part of you plunging in and out of me.”

“Oh, Helen,” I said softly, “we really do need to talk about this.”

I turned to my dresser and opened the top drawer, pulling out a pair of boxers and socks, then went to my wardrobe and took a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.

“Finish what you’re doing, and get dressed, I’ll put the coffee on.”

I took my clothes into the living room to dress, I’d have preferred a shower, but I thought that that could wait.

By the time the coffee maker was finished, she appeared fully dressed in the living room.

“Feel better?” I asked.

“Not as good as I could have,” she replied.

I carried two coffees over to the coffee table and we sat down, side by side on the sofa which wasn’t covered in rumpled up bedclothes.

Before we could even start to talk, the door buzzer sounded. I stood up and walked down the short hallway to the front door, where I picked up the intercom phone.

“Hello?” I said.

“Mr Sutcliffe?” a voice on the other end asked.

“Yes,” I replied, “who are you?”

“DC Sutherland,” the voice answered, “we need to speak to you, it’s about your sister.”

“You’d better come up,” I said, “on the first floor, turn right we’re at the end of the corridor. Number fifteen.”

“Thank you, sir,” he answered.

I pressed the button to open the outside door to the block and then unlocked the flat door.

Back in the living room, I told Helen who it was and why they were here.

“Oh,” was all she said.

When they knocked at the door, I sent Helen to answer it and she led them in just a minute or so later, by which time I’d cleared away the bedding from the second sofa and folded the bed part of it back inside the frame.

There were two of them, a man, presumably DC Sutherland and a uniformed woman who introduced herself as PC Wendy Allbright. I welcomed them, invited them to sit, offered coffee and shook hands. They accepted the seat, refused the coffee and sat down opposite us on the sofa bed.

“Thank you, Mr Sutcliffe, Mrs Sutcliffe,” Like I said it’s about your sister.”

“Yes,” I replied, “if I can just interrupt you. This is my sister Helen Nicholson.”

“Oh, sorry, Mrs Nicholson, I assumed.”

“Wrongly,” she said sharply, “so I assume that you’re here because my cheating rat of a husband has reported me missing.”

“Cheating rat?” the woman queried.

“I came home early from a doctor’s appointment to find him in bed,” she explained, “dancing the horizontal tango with my best friend.”

I was surprised by that revelation.

“That’s not the story he tells,” Sutherland said, “he tells it that you didn’t come home from work yesterday and that he’s going frantic wondering where you are. He’s rung your parents, and they’re worried now.”

“Then I’ll ring them and put their minds at rest,” I said, “and Helen has video of him and this other woman at it in the bedroom.”

“Will you have to report where I am?” Helen asked.

“We’ll have to report back to your local police that we found you,” the woman answered, “but not where you are. All they’ll get is a notification from the West Yorkshire force that you’ve been found but don’t want your whereabouts known.”

“So they won’t tell him I’m here?” she asked.

“No, you’re over eighteen and entitled to leave if you wish, it would be a breach of confidentiality,” Sutherland said, “I won’t say it doesn’t happen, but it’s very rare.”

“Okay, well you can now tell them that you’ve found me and that I’m safe and well,” Helen said.

“Well we can, but I’m afraid we’ll need to see some ID, just to prove that you are who you say you are,” Sutherland said.

Helen stood and got her handbag, fished out her purse and handed him her driving licence.

“Will that do?” she asked.

He looked at the licence, took down some details and stood up.

“Mr Sutcliffe, Mrs Nicholson, thank you for your cooperation,” he said, “please don’t get up, we can see ourselves out.”

“I’ll see you out,” I said, “I need to lock the door after you.”

“Very well sir,” Sutherland said. He gave a nod to Helen and I led them back to the door.

Back in the living room, Helen was standing at the window watching the police leave.

“You’d better ring Mum and let her know you’re all right,” I said softly.

“I really don’t want to turn my phone on,” she said.

“Then use the landline,” I suggested, “she’ll be worried about you.”

She walked over to my desk and picked up the landline phone, dialling the number from memory, then she put it on speaker.

“Philip, darling,” I heard my mother say, “how nice to hear from you, are you ringing about Helen, you know she’s run away from Pete?”

“It’s not Phil, Mum, it’s me,” Helen replied, “I’m at Phil’s, and yes, I’ve left Phil.”

“But why?” Mum asked, “you seemed so happy, you were trying for a baby.”

“Well, that’s one piece of news, Mum, we succeeded, I’m pregnant.”

“That’s wonderful dear,” Mum said, “Pete must be thrilled.”

“Pete doesn’t know Mum,” she replied, “I went home straight from the doctor’s yesterday and found him in bed.”

“Waiting to celebrate with you?” Mum asked.

“Already celebrating,” Helen said, “with someone else.”

“Don’t be silly dear,” Mum said, “Pete wouldn’t do that to you.”

“He not only did, Mum,” Helena answered, “but I have the video to prove it.”

“I take it that you don’t want Pete to know where you are right now,” Mum said.

“You take it right, Mum,” she replied, “I very much don’t.”

“Well, he won’t hear it from us, darling,” Mum said, “Now, is Philip there?”

“I am Mum,” I replied, “and listening in.”

“Very well, well, you look after your sister,” she said.

“I will, Mum,” I agreed, “to the best of my ability.”

“Good, well, I’ll let you two get back to whatever it was you were doing,” Mum said.

“Right Mum,” Helen said, “we’ll come over and see you at the weekend, perhaps.”

Helen pushed the button to terminate the call and turned back to me, she looked drained.

“So what now?” I asked.

She sniffed at her armpits.

“I need to shower,” she said.

“Me too,” I agreed, “you go first.”

She disappeared into the bathroom, while I went to the kitchen to see what, if anything I had in for breakfast. There wasn’t much, so my solution was to go out, Frankie and Benny’s at Birstall did a good breakfast.

Helen came back out from the bathroom, naked.

“Helen,” I objected.

“Oh shut up, I’m sure I’m not the first naked female you’ve seen,” she said, “in fact, I know it, you saw me naked often enough when we were younger. Can I borrow a pair of scissors and a razor?”

“Do you want to shave your legs?” I asked.

“No, I want to get rid of the forest around my fanny,” she said, “Pete likes bush, but I’ve always preferred to be trimmed.”

I shook my head, that was definitely a case of TMI.

“Top drawer in the bathroom for razors, I’ll get the scissors for you from the kitchen,” I answered and set off to the kitchen.

I got a pair of sharp scissors from the kitchen and took them back through to the living room which was deserted. I found her in the bathroom, still naked sat on the toilet, peeing. She finished, wiped herself then accepted the scissors from me.

“Wash my back for me, please, Phil,” she asked softly.

“Helen,” I protested.

“Phil, I’m asking you to wash my back, not fuck me senseless,” she replied.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

“Although I’m willing if you are.”

I just shrugged my shoulders, convinced that I wasn’t going to win this one.

“Oh, what the hell,” I said, “what harm can it do?”

“Precisely,” she said, “it’s not as if you could get me pregnant.”

She reached into the shower cubicle, turned the water on, then waited for the half-minute or so until it warmed up, put a hand under to test the temperature then adjusted it upwards a little and stepped in.

“Aren’t you getting undressed?” she asked.

“What for?” I asked.

“You can hardly get in the shower fully dressed,” she explained in the tone she might use with one of her seven-year-old pupils.

“I wasn’t getting in,” I said, “I was going to wash your back.”

“And how were you going to do that, with the shower screen between us.

She picked up a sponge, wet it under the shower, squirted some shower gel onto it and began to wash herself.

I just stood there watching as she soaped first her arms, then her legs and finally the front of her torso.

Once she’d finished, paying particularly languid attention to her breasts and genital area, she turned her back to me and held the sponge out behind her.

In a spirit of, well if I do this, maybe she’ll let me off the hook I quickly stripped and let myself into the shower cubicle, which was big enough for both of us, just.

I took the sponge from her and began to soap her back, becoming very tentative as I reached her buttocks. My right hand was holding the sponge, and my left was on her left shoulder, helping to stabilise me in the cubicle and hold her steady as I applied the sponge. Once I’d finished the soaping she reached up and took the showerhead out of its mounting and handed it to me.

“Rinse me off, please,” she asked.

I decided that I couldn’t get into trouble doing that so I obliged.

It was while I was rinsing off her back that she reached up and took hold of the hand on her shoulder and gently guided it down to her left breast. As I cupped it, she let out a contented sigh.

“Helen,” I whispered to her.

“Shush,” she replied, “just hold me.”

She took the showerhead from my other hand and led that one to her right breast.

“Hold me up,” she said as one hand slid down to her crotch and parted her labia. What she did next made me rock hard. She aimed the water spray at her crotch and began to spray her vagina, the water jets hitting her clitoris and causing her, after only a few seconds to start jerking as the first spasm of her orgasm hit her. She stood there, supported by my arms as she shuddered for over a full minute before, breathless, turning in my arms and kissing me.

“Thank you, Phil,” she said as she broke the kiss, “and now, I think it’s your turn.”

She handed me back the showerhead and gestured with her eyes to me to replace it in its cradle, then, she sank to her knees and engulfed my erection in her warm, moist mouth. It only seemed like a moment before I was spurting what felt like gallons of my spunk down the back of her throat. I counted eight separate spurts before my brain gave up and I just started enjoying the sensation. Afterwards, as I felt myself start to soften, I withdrew from her mouth and kissed her, deeply.

“I can’t believe you kissed me after you came in my mouth,” she breathed as I pulled her close into me, “nobody ever did that before.”

“Why not?” I asked, “after you’ve swallowed my seed, the least I could do is a thank you kiss.”

“Nobody,” she repeated softly, “god, I love you. We should have done that years ago.”

Her small hand gripped my now flaccid member.

“How long before he’s ready for round two?” she asked.

“Round two?” I queried.

“Round two,” she repeated, “you know the part where you carry me off to the bedroom and we spend half an hour fucking each other senseless.”

This was the moment at which I knew that all my objections were gone. I didn’t love my sister, I was in love with her, and in lust as well. And I had been since I was a teenager. I turned off the shower took her hand and pulled her out of the cubicle, picked up a large fluffy towel and began to dry her.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Drying you,” I replied.

“But why?”

“Because I want to,” I answered, “and because I don’t want to get the bed wet when I take you to it.”

“You mean,” she began,

I stopped her by clamping my lips to her and giving her a long deep kiss.

“You’re sure?” she panted as I released her lips.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been as sure of anything in my life,” I replied, “although I’m not quite sure how we’ll explain it to Mum and Dad.”

“I don’t think we’ll need to explain it,” she replied, “they’re Mum and Dad, they love us and have you ever known a time when they didn’t completely support us?”

“No, I don’t suppose there is such a thing,” I agreed, “but before we go any further, there’s something I need to get clear.”

“What?” she asked, suddenly looking nervous.

I kissed the end of her nose.

“Are you serious about this?” I asked, keeping my eyes locked with hers, “because as far as I’m concerned, once you and I get into that bed together for anything other than straight sleep, then it’s a commitment, for life.”

I paused and put my hand on her belly.

“If we do that, then any more little lives that get put in here will be put there by me,” I said.

I slid my hand down to her vulva.

“The only man to enter here will be me,” I said before shifting my hand around and pressing lightly on her anus.

“Or here,” I added, and then moved my other hand so that my fingers were resting on her lips, “or here.”

She looked at me, her eyes sparkling and nodded her agreement.

“And those are the only three orifices that any part of me will ever be entering,” I added finally.

Her answer was a very deep, very meaningful kiss.

“I love you, Phil,” she said breathlessly as the kiss ended, “I always have, I always will. But there is something you need to know about those orifices. Well, specifically about one of them.”

“Which is?” I asked.

“The one at the back,” she said, “that one is completely untouched, virgin territory. And it’s yours any time you want it. Just like the rest of me.”

She reached behind herself and handed me another towel.

“Here,” she said, “give me that one, it’ll be much quicker if we each dry ourselves.”

It was and, within a few minutes, I was carrying my naked sister through to the bedroom where we were about to consummate our union.

Once we were in there, I laid her, gently, on the bed and she immediately opened her legs and looked at me.

“Do you like it like this?” she asked, “or do you want me to actually trim it, or even shave it bald?”