The noise of engines in the street below brought Jack back to the world. Seven a.m. and every bus in Manchester sounded as if it was using Lever Street to escape the city. Most had to stop at the lights on the junction with Great Ancoats Street and wait for the change that allowed them to turn and continue their journey. On green, the guttural combustion growls escalate in volume and rise through the icy November air and into his third floor room, through the small gap that the fixed double-glazing allows. To Jack's dehydrated half-sleeping mind, it is the sound Soviet armour massing in the suburbs of Berlin.

The previous night he'd opened the window to let out the smoke, and later he'd pressed his face up to the meagre opening to try and sober himself by inhaling the brittle night air. Now as he lies in the winter morning darkness in this box of a room, the engines outside agitate his nerves. The memory of last night replays and sobers him. He can no longer delude himself it has not really happened, as he had done minutes when half awake. His stomach is churning but he keeps it down. He rises, blunders across the room and bangs the window shut; It hardly made a difference, inside his skull someone is riding the wall of death.

He turns from the window and looks back at the naked female, foetus-curled at the far edge of the bed. the sight of her there shames him. Soon he will have to face her and they will talk. What will he say? What can you say to your sister after a night like last? He sits on the edge of the bed beside her and strokes the length of her back. His touch is intended to awaken her, so he can speak with her and get it over and done, face this thing they have unleashed. But the closeness of her beauty and stark whiteness of her perfect skin re-kindles his lust for her. He his hands slide over her blatant curves and at the place where her flesh is most copious, he applies pressure and lets his fingers sink into her and become enfolded by her heavy flesh. He feels her heat, and tackiness that is her night sweat mixed with the drying spillage of their sibling cupidity.

He becomes still and watches the waking flicker of half-dreams beneath her closed lids, and when he sees that she is nearly back with him, he whispers, "Carla, please wake up, we have to talk."

Jack Collier's road to incest had not been trodden lightly, he had not skipped and whistled to it. She was sixteen when he first noticed his sister as a sexual being; he was twenty-two and home from university for the summer. The memories of that first lust for her became chiselled granite that he carried with him.

Carla and her friend Vicky were sharing a blanket on the lawn while perusing some teenage magazine together. Barelegged in short summer skirts, they chatted and giggled, bitching about the celebs featured in the mag'. Squeezed close together on the blanket, their sides and thighs touching. Each let their legs bend at the knee and rise ninety degrees, leaving their feet balanced high. They fidgeted against each other and let their calfs sway, their entwining, rubbing against each other like two family cats casually brushing past in greeting.

Vicki's skirt had ridden up revealing the peachy curves of her tanned buttocks. She wore fresh white cotton panties which had become tightly enfolded in the crack of her butt. Jack peeked at the two girls from the sun-lounger as he read the newspaper. He tried to think of only Vicki's legs and arse, and tried very hard not to think about Carla's longer exquisitely formed white legs, and how he wished her skirt had gone high like her friend's. He tried to stop himself thinking what it would be like to go over to them and rub his face against the four feet tangled in an orgy of toes, then lick and suck them all.

And then he was unafraid to let his thoughts go where they would. He took off their panties and kneaded girlish fleshy curves, a hand for each of them. Then he spread their legs wide and fucked them as they lay face down, first one then the other, ten strokes each; repeat. Neither said anything to him, they continued to chat and giggle as he ploughed each in turn. Their young cunt juices were thick, copious and oily. They kissed each other while he hammered them. But it was Carla's tight fresh cunt he imagined his hot cum would dribble from when the time came for them to stand up and leave. He really had tried so hard not to think those thoughts that first time.

For the rest of that summer he was vigilant and did not let her see him staring at her. She obsessed him and he would watch her whenever he had opportunity. Once he had passed her bedroom and the door was open. It was morning and she was only part dressed, her breasts were bare. He could not help himself and he stopped and stared. Her back was to him but he could see her reflected in the large dressing mirror at the far end of her room. The perfection of her tits left him unable to move; they were large silky and white, delicately upturned at the ends in the way that youth permits for only such a short time. When she became aware of him she turned fully to face him; unabashed she returned his stare, There was no outrage in her eyes, she did not spit "perve!" as she would have two years ago. No, she calmly turned away and continued to dress herself. She had not closed her door.

The following year was the wedding of their older sister Catherine. Carla had been a bridesmaid. That summer day he'd been stunned to see how even more beautiful she had become. He had not seen her since the previous summer. He watched silently in awe of her as she guilelessly stole much of the attention. Her personality had matured, she was eager and warm, socially adept, her love of people obvious. It was Carla in shoulderless-bridesmaid-white that guests' eyes were drawn to as the wedding party stood for photographs. Later as she circulated at the reception with her warm smile and easy manner, it was Carla they all wanted to spend time with. In the evening the uncles vied with each other to be with her on the dance floor. Jack was leaving the country the following week, and he made her promise to keep the last dance for him.

After, when he was away in the States, he often thought about that final dance; her body pressed against him, her head on his chest. his left hand rested on her bare shoulder, his other at the curve of her spine. The touch of her exposed skin excited him, it felt softer than any other before. He pulled her closer and when he felt her against him he allowed his lower hand to slide down to where on her hips the flesh becomes denser. He'd had to use all his will to not let it glide lower.

The heat of her body, after a night of dancing, caused her fragrance to rise from her and envelop him. He could almost taste the essence of her in the air, it was her fully ripe sexuality that he inhaled. He'd held many women before, but his sister's body - so familiar by sight - was strange and long forbidden. She was pliant in his arms and her closeness excited absolutely; he did not know if he could stand it. He knew she was not available to him, and the people around only emphasised it. But he wanted to push at this taboo, to see how far he could take it without breaking it, perhaps bend it.

She was quite drunk by now and held herself against him immodestly. His cock became hard, his mouth dry, his head humming. He allowed himself to press against her hips and then drew back from her. But she would not let him and continued to make contact. Had she felt his arousal against her? He hoped the long dress she wore would protect her from his screaming erection. He tried to push awareness of the other dancers away and imagine they were alone. He savoured the intimate burden of her growing heavy in his arms. He now knew that the depth of his need for her was dangerous, knew that if acted on it he would be a ruined man.

When the music stopped he did not let go and she'd had to call his name to break the trance. It took effort to disengage from him and she asked if he was okay. He could only stare at her blankly. He regained his composure and looked at her for a clue and saw in her face her understanding and knew that she had seen through him, and he felt ashamed. It was a look of wide-eyed incredulous knowing that for a second hijacked her beauty. In the instant of that look, he became sure she would allow him anything. She smiled, leaned into him and gave his lips the curtest of kisses, and said; "Jack, please take care of yourself when you're away. I will miss you more now." She walked away, but turned and looked back at him from over her shoulder; in that parting moment he thought he saw a new cruelty alive in her eyes. He had not moved an inch.

He did not see her again after the reception, she and the rest of the family had travelled home that night. He had pre-booked himself a room in the hotel, he'd travelled from London to attend the wedding. Unable to sleep, thoughts of Carla harrowed him and finally it was too much and he used his iphone to look up an escort agency. When asked what kind of girl he would prefer to keep him company, he had no qualms of specifying the look he required; young, red-haired, long legged, with creamy smooth white skin: Just like Carla.

Two days later he flew out to California to begin his new job. The thought of his sister travelled with him.

For weeks he beat himself blue. He opened each of her emails expectant of some hint from her, but all they contained were family news. Later in the year, when she started university he heard from her less; but on his birthday he received a package. Inside was a gift-wrapped book, with a card printed by Amazon letting him know it was from her. The large folio was a study of pre-Raphaelite art. He had no interest in art and wondered why she had chosen it for him. He put the book aside and did not look at it again for twelve months. Gradually he was able to put the memory of his lust for her aside, and denied himself the reality of it.

Months later, when he was packing his things and getting ready for his return home, he came across the book again in one of the bedroom draws. He took the volume and sat on the edge of the bed and leafed through it. He flicked past one of the full-page colour plates and something caught his eye that caused him to back-pedal. What he saw there opened a box in his head that he though he had locked and bolted.

It was a reproduction a painting by Burne-Jones, entitled, The Beguiling Of Merlin. It showed two figures, a male and female: the female had a book in her hands and was looking over her shoulder at the male, who is helpless under some spell. But the thing that rattled him was that there in the picture stood Carla; the female figure had the same lithe long boned physic, the elegant well defined neck and visage and identical clean lined features, and hair of a reddish hue. He gaped at the picture and wondered if after their dance at the wedding, when she turned back to look at him, whether his own eyes had become dark and his features wan like those of Merlin.

He read the caption on the facing page.

This painting is all about love, infatuation, power, entrapment and betrayal. Nimue was a Lady of the Lake who had been introduced to Camelot by King Pellinore. She enchanted an infatuated Merlin into a deep sleep. He is shown trapped in the tangles of a hawthorn bush, helpless to act. Nimue, now in the position of power, reads from his book of spells.

She had always loved art; did it have a deeper meaning or was she trying to educate him? Was he seeing too much into an innocent gift?

The next day, thirty-two-thousand feet over the Atlantic, Jack decided that as soon as he could he would go and visit Carla in Manchester, where she was now studying.

It was the first term of her second year at University. When the family learned he was to visit Manchester, they'd asked him to spend time with her and try and learn something of her student life. They were worried about her, she had not seemed herself when she had been home in summer. There had been no need for them to ask though, since his return home he had thought of little else other than his young sister. He'd booked a room at one of the Cities Travel Lodges, to use as a base. He had thought of looking for work in Manchester.

Lights were coming on in the city centre as Jack stood waiting for his sister. They'd arranged to meet by The Queen Victoria Memorial in Piccadilly Gardens. She was late, and so to pass the time he watched the students coming and going and gave his mind free rein. Manchester had the largest student population in Europe and in term time the city centre was awash with youth, all dressed to let the world know who they were, or thought they were, or wanted to be. He looked in part-envy and wondered about their young lives. Each one of them thought they would make a difference, perhaps change things; and maybe some would. So many faces passed him by, then merging with all the others. But more would appear to take their place, and he wondered from where they materialised. Was there an endless source hidden away, a place where they were generated and sent out onto the streets? They could not be real people, surely, all with lives, loves and dreams of their own. He started to think of them as NPCs in a video game, there just to fill and authenticate his week in this strange city. He wondered if he approached some fresh-faced-young-thing and said the right words, whether they would offer him clues to use during his stay?

He was bought out of his reverie by her voice calling his name, he looked around and saw the unmistakable shock of her red hair. It was the thing about her people always saw first, what they noticed, what they would remark on. He watched Carla approach and her conspicuous beauty hit him again, but differently than at Catherine's wedding. Now it was Nimue, the enchantress that was walking towards him

Yesterday, on his drive from London to Manchester, he'd taken a detour and visited the Lever Art Gallery at Port Sunlight on Merseyside. The painting that had come to obsess him was housed in their collection. Although the reproduction in the book was excellent, and he had looked at it incessantly over the last week, when he had stood before the actual canvas, he had been disconcerted. Unprepared for the physical size, and the power emanating from the real thing, the murdering green hues close up disorientated him. He looked at the figure of Nimue in the painting, and knew he was now enchanted and that he would not be free of her spell until she'd had him completely;she was life size in oils, her look told him this.

She saw him waiting and waved and he returned her gesture and she smiled a great wide smile just for him. They exchanged kisses, embraced, and held each other for a moment.

"God, Carla, look at you ... I don't know you any more. Where's the farmer's daughter I remember and love?"

"She's back at the home. This girl is setting this city alight with her beauty, style and wit." She laughed and kissed his cheek again, happy for him to be there.

"I bet they don't know what's hit them."

"I make sure they do."

She laughed again and was saying to him, "L.A. has been good to you Jack, you look more seasoned and alive. You've lost weight too!"

They're health and exercise crazed over there. Some of its rubbed off."

But for all her beauty he thought he'd seen weariness in her eyes that was new to him. Something about her face had changed, like a flower that has just turned from bloom and will now begin to wilt. Only someone intimate with her would have noticed. They walked together, arm in arm, looking to find a bar.

Over drinks they caught up with each other's news, and while the wine flowed Jack watched her. The alcohol animated her. They talked and drank and changes in her began to slip through cracks in the little sister persona that she had put on for him. She spoke of friends, holidays, and parties, but was disinclined to talk about her course and studies. She was cynical and worldly now. At the wedding, she had been eager and fresh, a delightful young girl emerging into womanhood.

"I know you're here to check up on me, Jack." She said without warning.

"Check up ... what do you mean?"

"You've come to see that I'm handing in my homework on time; that I'm mixing with the nice children and that I still go to church on Sundays. Will you be seeing the headmaster on Monday too?"

"Christ Carla, you know me better than that, surely? I thought it would be good for us to get together. We've not been alone without the others since you were a kid. Remember how you always wanted to hike with me ... and that last time we did: three Monks Hill, wasn't it?"

"That's one of my favourite times Jack. I did really look up to you back then ... I still do, you were everything I wanted to be; intelligent, confident, good with everyone. A beautiful person."

"You're all those things now Carla, no one could be any more than you have become. Don't throw it away."

"See, I knew you were here to sort me out!"

"No, I want get to know the person you've become, not the little girl I remember. I want to be your friend."

"You might not want to be the friend of this person I am now."

He paused and wondered if he should tell her more about his own past and the things he had experienced since leaving home ten years ago.

"I was no saint at you age. I did stuff ... stuff I'm not proud of. I still do."

"Ooh! I bet that time you went to Amsterdam you smoked soooo much dope that you were so out of it man! I bet you paid to get your cherry popped in a whore's window while you mates watched and cheered you." She cut him.

"Sorry Jack." She reached over and touched his arm; "It's just that I'm sick of it. This summer, while I was home for a few weeks, I had them on at me all the time. I'm grown now, but you all still think of me as a sixteen-year-old."

She drained her glass, then continued, "Listen Jack, I could devote my life to looking after sick children or donkeys, or whatever. Or I can go to work in a burlesque bar, or fuck my way around Europe. It would be my choice ... understand? My choice, no one else's."

Her anger surprised him and he had second thoughts of opening to her; for now at least. It might not be a good time to tell her of his nine months lost to cocaine and anything else intoxicating that happened to be at hand. And all the days, nights and weekends wasted fucking any female he could talk into his bed.

He stood and picked up their empty glasses. "Okay, let's start again. I want you to show me your life and who you have become. You ready for another?"

"Bring the whole bottle this time." She laughed.

Waiting to be served he watched her; now alone she cast her gaze over the other drinkers sitting nearby or standing in small groups. He soon realised that anyone who noticed her passing glances would be drawn in to her orbit and steal looks at her. Not in the sense that they would stop and stare, rather he could tell that her look had lodged itself somewhere in their mind and discomforted them. And although they would continue to speak with their companions, friends or lovers, their eyes would continually be returning to her, hoping for something from her, a sign or the favour of a smile. While she was present they would be distracted by her, unable to give themselves fully to their companions. It wasn't only men who were drawn to her, girls and mature women too would fall to her subtle incomprehensible glance.

He returned with the drinks and thought about how without dressing provocatively or flaunting her body, she affected this magic. An aura was radiating from her that spoke to the sexual core of those that she had noticed. Eyes would be drawn to something about her and he searched to find what that something was. The obvious was her hair; styled exquisitely, it hung and blazed about her; and partly the eclectically impossible rightness of her style. She could take some outlandish item and make it no longer odd, but right for her; it was the poise and easy sensuousness that the tiniest of her gesture had. But he concluded that her eyes drew the looks: no longer the eager eyes of a sixth former, but eyes now alive with lasciviousness.

They talked and drank, all the while looking into those eyes. He felt her sexuality reach out to him, but she seeming unaware of the effect she was having. By the time they had put on their coats and made their way out of the bar the something in the box was pushing hard to come out.

The streets were busy with people making there way home, or on their way out for the night. She stopped to light a cigarette; a new affectation he thought as he watched her inhale. She looked skyward and exhaled exhaled and suddenly she was cheap and ordinary to him, his earlier imaginings seemed ridiculous.

She inhaled again and noticed the look he gave her. "Sorry, jack! I know you'll think me a complete degenerate. I picked the disgusting habit up when I was in France, last Easter, with Colette. She corrupted me." But she laughed and looked pleased with her own thoughts.

Later they ate a meal in Chinatown and she seemed more the country girl again; his little sister. He decided to ask her about the book.

"Oh, and thank you for the book. I've been looking at it a lot this last month. What made you buy it for me."

"I've always loved the Pre-Raphaelites; such a dissipated clique of hedonists ... don't you think? All those wives, girlfriends, brothers and sisters"

"I didn't know anything about them till I got that book from you."

"There was one picture in it I thought you might like; can you guess which one?"

His blood chilled his throat dry. He took a drink.

"Don't worry Jack, I'm not going to test you. But one of the pictures contains a likeness of you. "The Beguiling Of Merlin," by Burne-Jones. That night we danced, when I looked back at you as I was leaving, that painting came into my head. It was one I've always loved. For a moment, you had the look of an spellbound Merlin About you."

She looked around for a waiter to ask for water. Then brazenly; "Why did you have that look Jack?"

"I didn't know I did."

"Oh yes, I have never seen anyone look that way--. You don't have to lie to me Jack. I felt you pressed against me when we danced."

"Carla, you shouldn't say stuff like that."

"But you were."

"I tried to not let you feel it."

She waited for him to say more, and when he didn't, asked;

"Jack, did I beguile you?"

"I'd had to much to drink, that's all"

"Colette says, older brothers always lust after their little sisters. She told me how her brother used to ask her for a blow job."

"And did she give him one?"

"She said she did."

"She sounds adorable. Is this the same Colette who got you smoking."

"The very same. She's taught me a lot. Opened me up to all sorts of new shit."

"Is she your girlfriend now?"

"You can make you own mind up. I'll phone her, you'll like her. It'll be fun." She dug in her bag and retrieved her mobile.

"Hi, Colette. Remember how I told you Jack was in town--that's right. He wants to meet you." She laughs at something her friend says. "Yes, I'll let you play with him, but only if you are nice to me as well. Meet you at the Print Works: Hard Rock Cafe. Say half an hour?"

Half an hour later they were standing at the bar waiting for Colette to turn up. Carla was attentive to her surroundings again, sexual and haughty, a once caged cheetah released back onto the savannah. Even though she was obviously in his company, guys would try to talk to her, chat her up. She would give them her look, then deny and confuse them. The interruptions began to spoil the flow of their conversation, and Jack said so. She came closer to him, resting her hand on his arm as they talked, her thigh just pressing against him. She reached up and brushed his hair into place and said, "If I stay close to you, guys will think we are lovers and leave us alone." She kissed him softly on the cheek.

And it worked, men stopped interrupting them, but people still looked and he imagined they envied him.

They stood and drank larger from bottles, she held onto his arm, and occasionally she was jostled and got pushed against him. When this happened she would not pull away embarrassed as she might have a few years ago, but linger against him, then would slowly draw back, but not far. When she was pressed against him he could feel her heat again, like when they danced at the wedding, but it carried a different scent to him now.

"How do you usually cope with all the attention, Carla?"

"When I'm out, I'm usually with Colette. We look after each other."

"Don't you ever cop off," he asked, trying to sound not that interested.

"Jack, if I want a guy I have him. But it's me that decides."

She drank from her bottle and looked around the room. Then she was waving to a dark skinned girl who had just entered the bar. She moved quickly off to greet her friend as if she were someone long lost to her and unexpectedly returned. Jack watched from a distance as they spoke to each other just out of earshot. When things looked settled between them, Carla led her friend by the hand and introduced her.

When the niceties were done with, Colette said. "Carla has told me a lot about you Jack. I feel I already know you. She keeps promising to tell me more about the Collisters and their secrets

"We have no secrets in our family, do we Jack?" There was a conspiracy in the air. He did not feel a party to it.

"None at all." It was lame, but what cold he say. He felt busted.

"Carla, you don't know, Jack might have secrets of his own."

"No, he could never keep a secret. Could you Jack?"

They were playing with him and he could not understand to what end they were leading him. Did they intend to humiliate him. He made an excuse and made a trip to the toilets. The tube light glared, cold white porcelain and water: he wet his face and took time out to calm his nerves.

When he was on the way back he saw them breaking from each, they had obviously been kissing. He was momentarily stunned. His little sister really had changed, become grown and more sexual than he could ever have imagined. He did not judge, just had not expected it and so pretended not to see.

He was the centre of their attention again and when the three of them danced, Jack's mind descended once more into dark imaginings. The idea of being watched dancing with these two gorgeous girls was evoking his lascivious side. As they all danced, he moved in-between the two of them and thought, no one will know the redhead is my sister.

They both responded and were moving suggestively next to him. Carla was laughing and he could not tell if it was mock sexuality, or if she was allowing him some new intimacy; but her friend did not hold back, she closed to be near him and had a leg each side of his own leg, pressing against him. People watched the three of them dancing, he imagined the onlookers thinking they were a menage-a-tois and that later he would enjoy them both.

For a moment he let his mind think what it would be like to be in bed with the two of them. He thought of Collette's boyish chest and imagined his sister's more substantial flesh and him touching the two to compare. There it was again, the thing in the box. It was banging again. The three danced and moved about each other, putting on a show for the onlookers, their bodies and hips suggestive, the girls brushing each other then surrounding him and holding him from either side. In spite of himself, his cock became a marble hindrance.

They danced and talked for two more hours. At 2 a.m. they were out on the streets among the crowds that moved from bar to club to home.

"Where next?" Asked Colette

"There's Club Kudos." Carla said. "It only opened last week."

"Girls, I hope you don't mind, but I'm dead on my feet. You two go on, I'll call it a day."

"Oh Jack, It won't be the same without you. Don't be a wuss!" Pleaded Carla. Then restinging her head against him she allowed the intoxication to take hold.

"What about we all go back to Jack's room, I'll phone a cab and while we wait we can have a last drink. It would be better than queuing at the rank. It gets a bit rough down there about this time," Colette said.

The three walked the short distance to Jack's hotel arm in arm. He wallowed self satisfied in his position between them both. The night porter looked envious as they breezed past. They wished him a good night.

In the room Jack poured three whiskies. Carla was at the far end of the long couch that could be opened out into a bed. Colette was on the double bed propped up by pillows, she was rummaging in her handbag and pulled out a small leather purse and commenced to roll a joint.

Jack watched. His first thought was that it was a no smoking room; his second was, god, its years since I smoked weed.

"Good Skunk, this." said Colette. She drew deeply on the spliff. "Pass that cup to catch the ash in please, jack."

Carla was staring at him, waiting to see his reaction. "See what a gown up girl I am now, jack, I have big friends who do drugs and shit!"