I was happy to hear the familiar sound of a new email arriving. Hoping it wasn't just more spam, I checked and it was Greg's folder that was highlighted. I clicked my brother's message open and settled back to read the letter. They were always long and chatty.

I was only twelve and he was twenty when he left home, I was too young to recognise his qualities as a man and there was too much of an age gap for us to be friends – he had always just been my big brother. My parents would never tell me why Greg left home so suddenly but he sent them letters every few months – they both read the letters but I think only Mummy answered them. He went to London looking for streets paved with gold. They weren't, of course.

He did manage to get a decent job eventually. He settled down and married but didn't tell us until afterwards. They never had children and Ethel would never come north, among the savages, as she said so Greg never came north. Or so my parents led me to believe. His marriage just kind of fizzled out a few years ago. They sold the house and split the proceeds. Greg now had another mortgage round his neck, it was on a dreary house on a dreary estate in a dreary suburb. And he was stuck in a dead-end job he didn't really like. He still didn't come north.

Then Mum and Dad died under the wheels of one of those huge trans-continental trucks and Greg came north. He got here as soon as he could and was a big help to me with all the endless phone calls and papers to collect and sign. Why does death have to be so complicated and so darned expensive?

He asked if he could stay in the spare room – his old room – and of course I agreed but we were strangers in the same house. He stayed on for just a couple of days after the funeral then went home again but we swapped email addresses before he left. I didn't expect to hear from him very much but there was a message from him nestled amongst the 'forwarded' stuff from some of my American friends in my inbox next morning. He didn't say much, just that he got home safe etc. I responded rather perfunctorily but got another message from him next day, a bit longer and on a tasteful stationery which he had designed himself. Again I replied fairly briefly. He wrote to me every day after that, usually with a lovely background picture, and soon we were chatting by friendly email on a daily basis. Over several weeks we caught up on each others' lives.

Not that mine was an exciting life. I've always been a quiet person and as a teenager I was shy and retiring – bookish without being a swot and a little overweight – so I missed out on the excesses of my generation. I made a few friends but they didn't last much beyond school except for Janice until she moved away when her husband got promoted to the Cardiff office and we lost contact.

I never married: just never met the right man, not that I ever really felt the need to go looking for him, especially after Sebastian. I've never considered myself attractive, which is why I'm shy, so when he asked me out I nearly died. In retrospect I supposed it was my bust that attracted him. I've always been ashamed of the top heavy figure and generous flesh I inherited from my mother and tried to hide it in loose frumpy garments.

All the girls talked and drooled about him. Trouble was, Sebastian knew it. So we went out together a few times in his car. He would usually want to kiss me but to be honest, I didn't really enjoy it. Soon, of course, he wanted to go further and paw at my breasts. I reluctantly allowed that and even more reluctantly allowed him to touch me 'down there', through my panties but I refused to go any further. "Not yet," I told him, "Give me time." He seemed to accept that but in my heart I knew this arrogant, selfish boy, for all his film star looks, would never have my virginity.

We had arranged to go to a night club so the next night Sebastian collected me and I had made my mind up to finish with him that night. Maybe I dressed up a little for the club but certainly not provocatively, I just don't have that kind of wardrobe, but Sebastian seemed to be more attentive to me that evening, and he tried to get me to drink more than I wanted but I knew the dangers of that. He had several beers and wanted to slobber his kisses on me all the time. I felt quite uncomfortable when he held me close the couple of times we danced; he pressed his chest into the cushion of my bosom and he kept clutching at my bum in public.

I was relieved when it was time for me to get my taxi home. I told him 'goodbye' and that I wouldn't be seeing him again but he escorted me out of the club and suddenly pulled me into the dark corner of a car park. He fumbled at his trousers then pulled out his thing, muttering something about a fucking cock-teaser. It was visibly growing as I stared in horror at the dimly-lit pink shape advancing on me.

We often get posters advertising various women's groups at the library. One of them had offered a free one-day seminar on women's basic self-defence. I remembered the rather forceful woman who led the course and the savage triumph in her eyes as she acted out her strategy with the battle cry, "Stomp his Foot, Kick his Balls!" She was a real man-hater, that one, but she had been raped as a teenager and later gang raped by a half-drunken football team so I suppose it's understandable. I even felt sorry for the man-shaped punch bag she used for practice.

Anyway, I was well armed with my four inch spikes so, with my bloodthirsty instructor's mantra ringing in my mind and putting all my ample weight to good effect, I stomped. Hard! I stepped back and I kicked as hard as I could using that pink thing as my target. Maybe the kick was overkill because the stomp alone caused him to squeal like a stuck pig. Which seemed appropriate as I had well and truly stuck that pig's trotter.

I stepped round him as he puked up his beer, smoothed my dress and marched to the taxi rank, heels striking to the rhythm, "Stomp his Foot, Kick his Balls!" Next time we met he was wearing a plaster cast on his left ankle. Well, we didn't quite meet: as soon as he saw me he hobbled away rapidly in the opposite direction. Since then I've never been bothered about men so if Mr Right ever does appear, then he shall have my virginity.

I've been a librarian all my life and now I drive the fifteen miles to the Central Library in town each day. I suppose I'm lucky still to be working after the savage cuts in the library service. Back home, my evenings are spent mainly maintaining my internet contacts and surfing the net. I had to learn 'computers and the internet' when they started getting introduced in the branches and that's when I got the surfing bug.

Wednesdays are a little different. I stay on in town for the literary society meeting, have some supper in the same cheap and cheerful café each week then drive the fifteen miles home to a glass of wine or cup of cocoa while I check my emails, maybe responding to one or two of them before snuggling into bed. As I say, not an exciting 42 years.

In their wills, our parents had left me the cottage and the bulk of their modest estate apart from a few small bequests to charities and Mum wanted Greg to have some family keepsakes. There turned out to be some 'slight legal problem' with the wills, according to their solicitor, so the wills were all in limbo for a few months until it was sorted out.

Once everything had been cleared Greg asked if he could come and collect the items Mum had left him. Would I mind if he spent Christmas with me in the cottage? We had got very friendly in our emails so I readily agreed. I quite liked the thought of having him around and the house had seemed so empty without my parents so I hadn't been looking forward to spending the holiday alone.

It was late on Friday evening when he arrived. He had driven here to the Yorkshire Dales after work and was grateful for the warm, welcoming log fire burning in the grate, the bowl of home made soup with wedges of fresh bread and butter and the beer I placed at his elbow. I sat opposite him enjoying the wry wit and self-deprecating humour as this entertaining raconteur told me about his day and the horrendous traffic the start of the holiday brought. I sipped at my wine and kept his beer supplied and could have listened to him all night but he pleaded exhaustion and went off to bed. I wasn't far behind him: the library had been tiring today as we prepared for the Christmas close-down.

Next morning I had to get my groceries in for the holidays and asked if he would be OK for a couple of hours? No problem, he'd go for a walk around the village but could he use my computer to catch up on his emails? "Sure, help yourself," I told him as I started my car.

When I returned he helped me unload and put away my shopping then invited me out to lunch. I agreed and drove us up to the moors to a remote pub set in the bleak high moors landscape. He had phoned around and managed to get a cancellation. We were lucky because everywhere was fully booked so close to Christmas.

There was a big coal fire making the place warm and cosy. It was busy and it was crowded with people making an early start on the Bacchanalian festivities but we settled down to a tasty lunch, accepting the slow service as par for the course this time of year, then decided to get some fresh air. We strolled along one of the farm roads that snaked up the hillside, our breath steaming in the clear crisp air. Our conversation was wide and varied but we were both panting from the unaccustomed exercise when we turned back and descended to the pub. The drive home took us through villages of stone cottages nestled along the rocky mountain stream which rapidly became a river bubbling in its urgency to reach the distant sea. The sky was beginning to darken as we wound through the narrow roads to our destination.

"God, I miss this place," he said as we got out of the car. He stretched his arms to encompass the fertile valleys and starkly beautiful moors beyond. I followed his distant gaze and saw the lights of the cottages glimmering against black shadow of the hills in the rapidly descending darkness of night.

I love it myself, I thought. It was all so real, so solid, so eternal. The cottages were built of the backbone of England and the rugged land fashioned the people with the same down-to-earth permanence. We watched night fall in silent companionship which he broke with his hand held up open to the sky, "I haven't seen stars like these since I was a kid. Way too much light pollution down south. Even on a clear night I can only make out a couple of the major constellations. I had forgotten how beautiful it is." His voice faded to quiet reverence as I turned to face the points of light shining adamantly against the blackness that is not black of the limitless universe.

Was it the awesome beauty of the stars sprayed unwinking across the void that made me shiver or the temperature now plummeting below freezing? I opened the cottage door and we removed our outer clothing then he stirred the fire back to life as I blinked my way through to the kitchen peering through steamed-up spectacles to put the kettle on. We watched a re-run of Judy Garland's "The Wizard of Oz" then we were mutually delighted to learn that we both played backgammon. He set the board up and piled enough logs on the fire to last all night as I made a plate of sandwiches.

With the sandwiches and bowls of nuts and some Wensleydale cheese on the coffee table between us and both of us drinking freely of the wine, we set to battle. He played a safe defensive game and gave my more adventurous tactics a testing time but after four hard-fought games we were evenly matched and set the board up for the decider. I left my home board a bit ragged and his lucky string of doubles decimated me. I was stuck with three on the bar and only my first point open as his string of doubles continued and he quickly bore off.

"I like your style, you play with fire. Bubbly and adventurous." His comment as we packed the game away, made me smile. Then, "Just as I would expect from 'DoubleDee42.'" I felt myself blanch and he had to rescue the glass which threatened to slip from my fingers. "I've followed her stories ever since I came across them."

DoubleDee42 was my nom-de-plume and alter ego, the secret side of me that nobody knew. I put my hand to my mouth as I realised that I hadn't set him up with a guest account on my computer. "You never replied to any of my private messages. 'ShigalegBoy.'"

"I seldom reply to men," I replied. Even to myself I sounded like an automaton. "Too many complications. I didn't expect you to pry."

"I didn't pry," he said gently. "'Betty's bOObs 01' was there when the screensaver faded." I had forgotten I'd been working on it that morning before breakfast – often my most creative time. Damn it all, I'm just not used sharing my computer so have no internal privacy.

Greg continued, "I guessed maybe the lack of response was something like that but I wanted to discuss styles and so on. I was also hoping I could get you to collaborate with me. I have a story idea but I know you have the writing skill."

His relaxed acceptance of my alter ego surprised me, as did the coincidence of him being a 'fan' whom I did vaguely remember from his encouraging messages. I had never given thought to collaborating on a story and I always ignored the semi-literate demands with too many capitals that 'he/she/they should do... ' whatever was his (invariably his) favourite obsession. Not that I recall ShigalegBoy being in that category.

I do remember clicking through to his stories but couldn't recall any of them. "Let's look at them together, maybe you can give me some pointers, from the woman's point of view. How the heck would I know?" he asked with a shrug.

And how the heck would I know? I thought. My heroines bimbo their way through life with their 42DD tits hanging out everywhere. They're always 42DD breasts, it's a kind of 'watermark' with me. But the stories I read had been my classroom and my small collection of toys were my teachers. I was only technically a virgin: I had surrendered my hymen to eight inches of cold plastic years ago.

"Would you believe, my knowledge is as theoretical as yours?" I said with a wry smile. No, he didn't believe it until I found myself telling him about Sebastian. I had never mentioned it to my parents or anyone else and just talking about it now brought back all those sickening memories buried within. Even my victory march seemed shabby after all these years. The tears started as I told him and soon they were gushing uncontrollably. I felt his arms go round me and I wept my grief out on his shoulder.

As my sobs subsided to the last few hiccoughs he rubbed the back of my shoulder consolingly and whispered that it was OK now and in the past. His soft words and comforting arms soothed me. He finally gave me a quick hug, pecked a kiss on my forehead and stood up from his squatting position by my chair. Or tried to stand: his knee had stiffened up while he was dawn there and he hobbled back to his own chair massaging his knee.

"Sorry about the amateur dramatics," I sniffed.

He smiled back at me, "You've carried that load a long time. It needed to come out."

He was right, I did feel 'cleaner' and refreshed. I thanked him again and told him I was OK now then went on to explain how I had gained my knowledge just by reading the stories on Storiesonline, especially the female authors. "And from my bedroom toys," I added without further explanation.

"Feel like reading some porn with me, then?" If it hadn't been for our previous conversation, that would have sounded like the corniest of pick-up lines but it was delivered with a friendly grin.

I had moved into my parents' lovely big bed after the funeral. I had always made it known to my Mum that I loved the way it caught the early morning sunshine and the view across the Dale was so peaceful. I've always had her blessing that it would be mine so my old bedroom had been turned into my study as soon as Greg had left after the funeral.

He pulled a spare chair up and sat looking over my shoulder at the screen. He navigated me to his own stories list. They were all in the Incest category but writers often have a favourite theme and I noticed all but one had a good score next to it. I opened the first by date of publication.

It was a teenage boy/man being seduced by his mother. The plot was credible with a nice switch, he had brought out the angst of the boy's conscience and the sex wasn't shot through with upper case obscenities. The rest of his stories, including a four-part mini series, were all variations of the son/mother relationship, seduction being either way or mutual. Except for the one story with the poor score they were all well-written and Greg told me he had agonised a lot over the odd one out. He'd switched it round a lot, heavy editing and even a complete rewrite but just couldn't get it right and had published it almost to bury the ghost. I knew that feeling. I also knew the feelings reading the stories evoked in my body.

But something was disturbing me a little. I recognised Greg as the youth in his stories, but the mother always looked like me. Suddenly the tumblers clicked into place. It wasn't me he was describing. "So that's why you left home so suddenly," I accused. "You and Mummy." Maybe because I'd just being reading so many stories with that theme, the idea didn't seem as alien as it would have done had I come across it 'cold' as it were. I was curious. No I was nosy but I asked which of the stories told the truth about them.

He didn't deny my accusation, just said, after a few moments of thought, "I suppose the first of the 'Just you wait' series is the closest. Every night after Dad had gone up to the pub at the crossroads and you had gone to bed, she would flirt with me, getting more and more outrageous as she flashed those gorgeous big breasts in front of my eyes. Maybe it was Mum who turned me into an unashamed tit man." He looked pointedly at my breasts and, contrary to my usual 'hide them' mode I found myself pushing mine towards him. The floppy cardigan camouflage fell on one side to reveal my rounded contours straining the weave of my burgundy top. It took all my self-control not to correct the action but I felt somehow 'safe' with him, maybe even ready to come out of my shell a little.

"I guess you took the name DoubleDee42 from those. Is that your size?" he asked and I smiled my confirmation.

"Then one morning," Greg continued, "Dad had taken the early train to Leeds and would be gone for the day, you had been sent to Aunt Jane's and Mum walked into my bedroom in just her underwear. I was masturbating at the time and the rest is history." He grinned and shrugged and was still staring at my bosom.

It was becoming slightly embarrassing, especially as my nipples were beginning to respond and make themselves visible so I caught his attention again by asking, "So what's this story you want to write?"

He looked away from my breasts and collected his ideas. "I thought to continue that series – it's mostly true stories of me and Mum – we were pretty outrageous sometimes and maybe lucky we weren't caught earlier. Anyway, we were always willing to experiment and had planned the next time Dad went to the city to have a day hurting each other. Nothing severe, just maybe pinching nipples and spanking and so on as a prelude to hot sex."

Funny coincidence department. I had been half toying with the idea of putting Betty (her of the bOObs) through that kind of treatment. She is going to be kinky, that character. But I was up against my old problem that somehow couldn't get 'into the heads' of the girls I read about in 'Fetish' and 'BDSM.' I told him so and he glumly admitted the same problem. Stalemate.

"How did you get found out?" I asked after we had sat lost in our own thoughts for a couple of minutes.

"You wouldn't believe the cliché. Dad came home from the pub early one night. It was snowing hard outside and, well you'll know how quickly that road can get blocked, he didn't want to get stuck up in the Pig and Whistle so left early. Mum and I took our chances where we could, having to dodge around you all the time." He smiled and reached over to pat my arm. "You gave us a couple of real scares, not knowing it. Anyway when Dad walked in, Mum was over the kitchen table, skirt flipped up and getting it from behind from me. When Dad finally calmed down we came to an agreement. I was to pack my bags and leave in the morning and if I ever set foot in Yorkshire while he was alive he'd take his story to the police."