Chapter 7: Lines in the Sand

To avoid confusion, this chapter begins from Dylan's perspective. Any paragraphs separated by a line break represent a shift in perspective from one sibling to another.

Every night had been a desperate torture, trying to hold myself back from arousal. I knew that every time I became erect I risked my sister discovering me, hard against her body. But she persisted in taunting me by wearing Morrigan's scent, and all too often in the darkness I would jerk awake, my hand greedily grabbing at Niamh's breast, crushing her soft flesh, and at the very edge of my own orgasm. So many times I thought back to the night last week when I had slipped one hand beneath her satin panties, wanting so badly to explore my sister's womanhood, but too afraid and ashamed to allow my fingers to explore that velvety, forbidden place between her thighs.

Tonight was no different; I replayed the private dance Morrigan had given me, the way she'd opened her legs and offered me a chance to feel her sex, hot and slick with her lust. I imagined a different ending to the scenario, though; rather than having my pawing at her exposed and enticing body cut short by the time I'd paid for running out at so inopportune a time, the session continued.

Oh, and how I had enjoyed myself with Morrigan, there in my fevered dream. Instead of tentatively reaching for her, my fumbling virgin fingers trembling as I put them upon the very avatar of my desires, I had been proud, powerful, knowing. My hands had worked at her with expertise, bringing her to an effortless orgasm. Overcome by her lust, she had begged me to take her there and then, foreswearing all others if I would make love to her but once.

I had lunged forward, impaling myself in her glistening depths. She moaned, thrilling to the feel of me inside her, unafraid that we would be disturbed- after all, in my dream nothing existed outside of the private booth we now occupied. Lifting her gently up, caressing those magnificent breasts, I pressed her against the wall, fumbling for the lights. As I rocked in and out of her, revelling in her little cries of pleasure, I fumbled for the lights, desperate to see the face of the woman who had kindled such unquenchable lusts in me. Blinking against the harsh glare of the stage lights, I pushed the platinum-blonde hair out of her face, tucking those tresses behind Morrigan's ears, to reveal the face of-

Niamh. I was buried inside my sister; it was her- our- pleasure I was exulting in. At that, I had awoken, drenched in a cold sweat. My hand was clasped around Niamh's breast; I had reached underneath her faded tank top in my sleep, and I could feel her nipple, diamond-hard, in my palm. Overcome by the sex dream I had attempted to flee, I orgasmed. And with each spurt, I saw my sister's face, twisted in her own ecstasy, urging me onwards in the dream. I was ashamed.

But I was, if nothing else, still smart enough to mitigate what I could not control. Unable to prevent myself from having wet dreams, I had at least taken steps to make them as rare an occurrence as possible, masturbating furiously with Morrigan firmly in mind each time, imagining that I might have a chance with a woman so physically perfect as her. And not just that, but I had taken to wearing two sets of briefs to bed, a handkerchief strategically placed over my groin in each, to sop up any nocturnal emissions there might be. Not a perfect system, no- but then, the only perfect system would be one in which I shared a bed with Morrigan and not Niamh, where the perfect breast I still idly held was that of a stripper, and not my sister.

Still embarrassed by the unexpected turn of the dream I had awoken to, feeling the cooling semen I had expelled against my flagging penis, soaking through the layers of fabric I had entrusted to that duty, I removed my hand from my sister's bust. Every movement was careful, to ensure she remained asleep. Her breathing remained even, slow and gentle; I was safe. But as I lay there, my mind was inexorably drawn back to the dream. Before the face- Niamh's face, I thought, my mind quailing at the prospect- all had been perfect. Perhaps unbidden, perhaps inspired by the perfume Morrigan and my sister shared, I began to grow hard again.

I needed a way to blot that image out of my mind. A brother and sister, engaged in rutting that way? It was unthinkable. And yet ... and yet, I had thought of it. Morrigan's body, perhaps, but with Niamh's face. I began to compare my sister's body to that of my goddess. And what I found surprised me. Morrigan's skin tone was hard to discern, hidden by the stage lights, smoke, and body glitter she had worn, but I estimated that without the stiletto heels she had worn to emphasise her perfectly-formed calves both would be of a similar height. I thought back to the day Niamh's towel had slipped from her body outside the bathroom, to her heavy breasts- the same breasts I had weighed so many times in my hands, when I had awoken from a lust-hazed dream to find her still asleep by my side. Both were similar in size and shape, I was sure of it. And that, combined with Niamh's favourite scent, must have been enough to trigger a subconscious association between the two, my lower brain functions layering the face of my sister onto the form of that magnificent body.