Rachel's Research - 1 - Debbie And Phil free porn video

Journalism isn’t an easy life, especially for a woman. 

Okay, everyone moans about their jobs and it had provided me with an income for over two decades – albeit often a sporadic income – but no-one has ever become rich while working at the sharp end of the pencil.

Because of this, most professionals have more than one string to their bow. Some write books, some write copy for advertisers, some write articles for the endless number of magazines – paper and online - under pseudonyms. Others still have entirely different part-time careers to help through the dry times.

In my case, I have had my husband Dan’s large and reliable income as a fall-back, so when commissions were few, I have been able to explore other, less financially rewarding and in some cases, less legitimate avenues of my profession, as well as most recently going back to the world of academia.

Not all of these avenues were known to my husband. He did not know that I wrote the occasional article and case study for websites designed to provide online support to couples in shall we say, unconventional relationships. He did not know that, using skills obtained in my first degree then honed by real life, I had become something of a specialist in the field of consanguineous relationships – all under carefully protected pseudonyms of course.

In particular, he did not know about my secret side-line in writing erotic stories for several online publishers. These had been based on a small number of themes, one of which was the perennially popular and, to those not involved personally, permanently perplexing problem of love and sex between family members. 

Incest, as it is so often and so casually described.

Exactly how this originated, I will, for the moment at least, keep to myself. Suffice to say, it was enough to give me a considerable empathy with the subject but even so, I was looking forward with some trepidation to the demands a full-on PhD programme would put on me, my family and my marriage.

Dan, of course, had been supportive right from the beginning when I had first broached the idea of going back to University two years ago to study for a Masters’ Degree. I wasn’t sure how he would feel about me remaining a non-earner for another three years at least, so I had initially dressed it up as a change to the way I worked.

“You want to go freelance?” he asked, surprised but to my relief, not annoyed. “I thought you had to go back full-time as soon as you’d finished your Masters. I thought your career depended on it, Rache.”

“They’re short of budget,” I lied. “So it suits them too. They offered part-time but I wanted the freedom, you know?”

Dan sighed. It was by no means the first time his wife of twenty-five years had made a sudden and unexpected change of course in her life. As before, the man that I loved but didn’t deserve, tried to understand what I was saying and to find a way of helping make it happen.

“It’s not as if we need the money,” he conceded thoughtfully. “But I thought you wanted your career to…”

“I’ve had second thoughts,” I interrupted. “I’ve enjoyed this master’s degree so much, I’ve got a real taste for academic study now.”

“How long would a Doctorate take?” he asked.

“Three, maybe four years.”

“And you’re sure you can stick it out that long?” 

“I’ve never been surer about anything.” 

Ditching my career and returning to University after nearly two successful decades in a high-pressure job in journalism had been hard work, but the love of psychology my Bachelor’s degree had engendered had returned almost immediately.

I was where I belonged, if not in life, at least as far as my career was concerned. And who knows how my course of study might help the other, more difficult, more secret aspects of my life?

Everybody has secrets, but some are much darker than others. Most people lock that kind of secret away and try to get on with life; others have secrets so dark or so significant that they keep rising to the surface and will not let go.

Like most people, I have something in both of these categories.

Some of my secrets are small; a concealed inability to resist chocolate raisins, a hidden love of cheap romantic novels, a taste for exotic, sexy lingerie. Nothing serious or illegal, but given my feminist history, the sort of thing my colleagues would laugh at. 

Other secrets are larger; a side-line in reading and writing erotic stories, an occasional evening’s anonymous cyber-sex with a stranger when my husband is away. Nothing to be too ashamed of but which might hurt my marriage or damage my career as a serious political journalist, if they ever came out.

One or two of my secrets are big; too big to be openly discussed, things to be suppressed as hard as possible for as long as possible.

I had thought my biggest secret was one of these; something I could make myself forget and get on with my life. For years this had been the case, but as I grew older and the distractions of my grown-up family had reduced, it had kept coming back to haunt me.

Memories and emotions from deep in my past had been rising to the surface more and more frequently and more and more intensely until, at the age of fifty-three, I realised I could dismiss them no longer and had to look them in the face.

Returning to University to pursue my academic studies had been intended to help with this but had backfired. Far from making my past easier to deal with, my recently acquired Masters’ degree in Psychology had only heightened my interest. 

Instead of helping me dismiss my past, it had awakened a deep desire to explore the whole subject in much more depth.  The precious doctorate I had come to desire was the next step in that process. I knew that the subject of my research would bring me face to face with episodes and incidents in my life that would be painful. 

It would bring me into contact with people who had been faced with similar decisions to those I had been forced to take, but who had chosen different paths.

It would make me question the whole of the last thirty years of my life. But it had to be done, my sanity depended on it and there would never be a better time than now.

“But why incest, for God’s sake?” Dan asked, genuinely puzzled. “Isn’t it just child abuse? Won’t you get really upset by it all? It’s happened before, remember?”

I had been expecting this. My husband wasn’t a man to simply accept things unchallenged and this was a big thing for anyone to accept. It was true that in the past, my journalistic investigations had taken me into worlds and places that had distressed me badly, but this was different. 

I had already been to these places. I already knew what awaited me.

The real reasons for my choosing this topic for my Doctorate were long, complicated and dated all the way back to my teenage years, but these could not be discussed. Instead I told my husband the same half-truths I had told my supervisor.

“There’s plenty of work going on about the abuse element already,” I lied again. “And it’s not just children. Okay, when you think of incest, child abuse is the first thing that comes to mind; Josef Fritzl and men like him. That certainly is abuse and should be a crime in anyone’s book. But that’s not what I’m proposing to study.”

“Go on,” he said, unconvinced.

“Consensual adult incest is a real and growing thing,” I explained. “There’s more to it than just the issue of abuse and protection. There are real medical and social implications involved, hence the funding.”

The funding was trivial, but it lent legitimacy to what might otherwise be thought a doubtful direction of research, so I stressed it strongly and frequently.

“The effect of complex family structures and popular culture on behavioural boundaries and sexual relationships,” he read from the title page. “It sounds very serious, but we’ve talked about it often enough. I think I understand where you’re coming from.”

Dan had me bang-to-rights on this, but I wasn’t going to cave in and let him know. Despite over twenty-five years of marriage, he did not know all my secrets and most certainly did not know the Big Secret. I began to explain for the umpteenth time the basis of the research that was going to dominate my next three years and I hoped, help me finally to come to terms with my past.

“You know some minority cultures have a long history of arranged marriages with their cousins?” I asked after a long monologue about the research process I would follow.

“Of course. It’s perfectly legal here too. We’ve been through this,” Dan replied patiently.

“That’s right; it’s not illegal here. If it was, most Royal Families would have died out generations ago. But did you know that even in this country, those minority cultures have a hugely disproportionate number of birth defects?”

“I didn’t know, but it doesn’t surprise me,” he said, listening intently.

“It’s true. Some South Asian groups, in particular, have many times the birth defects of the rest of the population.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“Well, there’s some evidence – small but statistically significant – that these defects are rising in other ethnic groups too. The amount of intermarriage and cultural transfer between that Asian group and the general population is minuscule, so it must be down either to genetic damage or…”

“Or?”

“Or a change in behaviour in the mainstream population.”

“You mean an increase in marrying cousins?” he asked, not quite understanding.

“Maybe,” I replied tentatively. “The statistics are inconclusive on that so far. It’s a fundamental part of the research I would have to work on. But there is anecdotal evidence that something else is going on too.”

“What sort of thing?”

“Well,” I took a moment to choose my words carefully. “There is qualitative and some quantitative evidence that family dynamics are changing. With so much relationship breakdown, remarriage, cohabitation and single-parent households, family diagrams now look more like webs or matrices than like trees. There is a credible hypothesis that norms of behaviour are changing as a result.”

He looked puzzled. I went on.

“The boundaries between and within families are being confused and are breaking down. Genetic parents are no longer bringing up their own children; there are far more stepsiblings and half-siblings than ever before, often raised apart. Genetically related children are growing up in different places and in different cultures.” 

“Okay, I get it so far.”

I was getting into my stride now; much in the way I had presented my research idea to the University.

“We know from studies in Israel that completely unrelated children brought up communally in Kibbutzim can acquire the Westermarck effect – you know, the instinctive aversion to having sexual relationships with family members - just as if they were genetic siblings.”

“You mean if you’re brought up as if you were brother and sister, you feel and behave as if you were brother and sister even if you have different parents?”

If I was trying to baffle my husband with jargon, I was being unsuccessful and should have known better than to try.

“Exactly. And the opposite could be true too; with so many siblings no longer growing up together and parents not being in traditional roles of responsibility, the Westermarck effect could be breaking down. In that case, there would be less social or instinctive aversion to offset the strong sexual attraction that family members naturally feel towards each other.”

“Naturally? Why? Surely it isn’t natural to fancy your sister – or your mum,” he challenged.

“Why wouldn’t it be?” I replied earnestly. “Think about it. How many couples do we know where they either look like each other or like their parents?”

He thought for a moment. 

“Okay, maybe but…”

“There’s no but! Each of us is programmed to make little copies of ourselves, right? Otherwise, the human race would have stopped millions of years ago.”

“I suppose so.”

“So, evolution has led us to be attracted both to the best quality DNA available, and to potential mates who are most likely to reproduce. Are you with me?”

“Of course; I went to University too!” he grunted.

“Who is the most obviously fertile person you know? If you’re a young man, it’s your mother. She gave birth to you after all. If you’re a young woman, it’s your father for the same reason; undeniable fertility.”

“You’re not saying every teenager is sexually attracted to its parents? That we all have Oedipus and Electra complexes?”

“No!” I insisted. “I’m saying that we’re likely to be attracted to people who look like our parents because to us, that’s what fertile looks like. If you’re a guy, you’re likely to be sexually attracted to girls who subconsciously remind you of your mother. Vice versa for girls. And who is most likely to remind a guy of his mother?”

“His sister?”

“You’ve got it. It’s only the Westermarck effect that comes from growing up in close proximity that counteracts this fundamental sexual attraction. That and legal and cultural issues of course.”

“So, your hypothesis is that families are becoming less close, so the Westermarck effect is getting weaker,” Dan asked. “That this weakening is leading to stronger sexual attraction between family members which in turn is leading to sexual behaviour between family members?”

“That’s right,” I smiled.

“With consequent increases in birth defects?”

“Exactly.”

“And that this is being encouraged by reducing social constraints too?”

“I’m thinking of calling it the ‘Game of Thrones’ effect!”

“What?” he exclaimed, surprised.

I laughed.

“I thought that would grab your attention.”

“It certainly did that! Why Game of Thrones?”

“It’s one of the biggest things in the media now, isn’t it? Crossing generations and getting into the culture?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“And what’s one of its biggest ongoing themes?  Incest! It’s appearing in lots of other media too.”

“You can’t blame a Game of Thrones storyline for an increase in birth defects!”

“I’m not trying to! It’s as much a symptom as a cause. What I am saying is that it’s an example of societal rules changing quickly. Sixty years ago, a divorced woman was an outcast. Now more than half of all marriages end in divorce. It’s the same with unmarried mothers. We used to call their children ‘bastards’ but that’s so far in the past we don’t even know what the word used to mean anymore.

“We don’t think twice about same-sex couples either,” I went on. “Though that used to be illegal as recently as our lifetime. Even transsexuals are becoming normalised. It’s not surprising that boundaries of acceptability are being pushed in other directions too.”

I paused for breath. It had been an impassioned speech, even for me and I had to stop before I said too much, even for my wonderful, ever-patient husband to take in. 

“I suppose so,” he said, still unsure. “But I still don’t see what your personal interest is.”

This line of questioning was getting too close for comfort so I ignored it and delivered what I hoped would be my killer blow.

“As I said, it’s only a hypothesis, but it’s strong enough to have attracted funding for a PhD.”

He frowned, unconvinced.

“Really?”

“Of course! Think about it. The implications for the Health Service alone are potentially huge. Just because something becomes socially acceptable, doesn’t change the genetics. There could be a big increase in birth defects across the whole of the country.”

“I suppose so.”

“And the impact on social cohesion could be profound. Traditional family structures are already collapsing, with consequent demands on welfare and social care budgets. If the hypothesis is right, it’s something that needs to be prepared for now.”

He nodded. “I get it!”

“And what about the law? How many prosecutions for incest could the system cope with? And if both parties are consenting adults and no babies are conceived, why should it be a crime at all? It’s just the ‘yuk factor’ really. But that’s no way to make laws; gay marriage has proved that. Besides, our justice system is already overwhelmed.”

“Okay, okay! I’m convinced!” he laughed out loud. “Enough of the psychology already!”

I laughed too and put the kettle on again.

“So, you’re okay about me being a student for another few years?” I asked, desiring rather than needing my husband’s acceptance; not entirely confident it would be forthcoming.

“It’s fantastic, Rache,” Dan smiled enthusiastically. “We can afford it; you do what you need to do. For whatever reason, you’re really passionate about this slightly weird subject and we already know you’ve got the stamina. Go for it, girl!”

I leaned against the kitchen counter and smiled at the man in front of me; the man I had married so many years ago despite the complications of my past. The man I had grown to love more than any other – almost any other I corrected myself. 

It would be a challenging few years, but it had to be done; if not for the University, for myself and my sanity.

However difficult it would be, soon Rachel’s Research would really, actually begin.

*

All that was over a year ago, I mused as I sat back on my chair and sighed, sipping my hot coffee deliberately slowly, savouring each mouthful. A lot had happened since.

Most projects in life are much harder in reality than they seem in the planning and my research had been no exception and in the past twelve months, hard work had taken its toll. Although much of my bright-eyed and bushy-tailed excitement still remained, it had acquired a hard-nosed determination to see things through despite the agonies of statistical interpretation, data capture and analysis that had plagued the first phase. 

If I had known the amount of maths I would need to use, either by myself or with the goodwill and co-operation of others in the University, I might have been less keen to put my research project into effect. But I had stuck it out and now, a painful year into the programme, the bulk of statistics were finally behind me.

What those statistics revealed needed further analysis but at first reading, they did tend to support the hypothesis on which my PhD was based; certain types of birth defects were indeed increasing. Much of the increase remained in areas dominated by the particular communities expected, but there were statistically significant increases among the general population too. 

What’s more, there were marked clusters both in some inner cities and in more remote areas.

There seemed little correlation between levels of poverty or education and birth defects; if anything, the clusters seemed to be in more affluent areas where family bonds were stronger. There was a need for more in-depth research here too but for the moment I was finally able to do what was most important to me; talk to real people about their real lives. 

From these interviews, the plan was to assemble a portfolio of case studies, as I had described the process in my study plan, and which was fundamental both to my success academically and for my own sanity.

At first, it had surprised me just how easy it had been to find examples of real consanguineous relationships. My journalistic contributions to carefully chosen, supportive websites had been my first and best source of genuine case studies, but a number of approaches had come following the publication of a series of incest-based stories on two erotic websites under my usual author’s pseudonym.

Okay, there had been plenty of fantasists, perverts and downright weirdos too, but I was used to this and, once I had weeded out the creeps and time-wasters, I had been left with a hardcore of genuine people with genuine histories.

Some wanted to correspond by email, others by instant messaging, a very few via Skype. One or two insisted on meeting face-to-face before disclosing anything personal. With my official University identity card, I was able to reassure the majority of my good faith and complete confidentiality – promises I had stuck to like glue.

Even now I remain amazed just how many people are prepared or even eager to talk under the right circumstances and, once the conversations have started, just how much intimate detail they are prepared to disclose. It’s almost as if they have been bottling it up inside themselves for years, desperate for an opportunity to share what, in most cases, are the deepest, most emotional secrets of their lives. 

When that opportunity to talk in safety finally arrives, there is no holding them back. 

To my even greater surprise, several of my case studies asked if their real-life experiences were worthy of making into an erotic story and publishing online. To be fair, most of these requests came from those correspondents I had found via those story sites, but they were still cases I believed to be genuine.

For these people, the idea of seeing in print one of the most important and most secret aspects of their lives – anonymised of course – seems to have a huge, almost cathartic appeal. After a few back-and-forth conversations, I developed several stories whose narratives either exactly or very closely followed my new friends’ real lives.

When published, these stories attracted more correspondence which in turn produced more stories until I had a good solid set of examples with which to begin the qualitative, behavioural side of my research.

The soft ‘ping’ sound that told me a message had just arrived on my desktop pc, drew me back from my musings. I carried what remained of my coffee back into the study where there was a small blue box in the bottom right-hand corner of the screen.

I sat on my swivel chair, took a long sip of the warm drink then maximised the window and read its contents.

‘Hi, Rachel. Good news, I’m finally happy with the article and the story. As long as you don’t put in any references to our real names, go ahead and publish them both. I can’t believe I said that. Better do it quickly before I chicken out. Thank you SO much. Love Debbie x.’

I smiled in relief and delight then immediately logged into both my erotic author’s and my anonymous incest-support website accounts. Within fifteen minutes, both documents had been prepared for submission for Editor’s approval and I sat back in my chair, relaxed for a final read-through.

*

Debbie had been one of my most recent discoveries; or rather, she had discovered me. Similar in age to me, happily married and with three grown-up children, Debbie had made contact after reading one of my anonymised contributions to a specialist website for people in or with a history of consanguineous relationships. 

After a hesitant start, first by email then over many instant message conversations, Debbie had revealed that for many years, she had been involved in a deep, loving, sexual relationship with her older brother Phil. It had started while they were both at school when she was seventeen and he was eighteen, had continued sporadically when she had gone to University but had ended when he went to college too, in a different part of the country. 

They had both met other people and for a while had both been happily married. Her brother’s marriage had since broken up but Debbie and her husband were still very much a couple.

It was a story not uncommon in the world of incest and like so many with similar secrets, she had been desperate to tell someone for many years. I had been a safe, non-judgemental ear into which she could pour, whisper or even shout her secrets and true feelings. 

I looked again at the documents still on my screen. The plain, research-based version had already been filed in my academic folders within the University’s secure server. The article was mostly factual and contained little more than hints at the detail of the sex that had taken place.

The version on my screen was very different; this one was specifically designed to be published on the erotic story websites I routinely used. 

Written in the first person, I had tried to replicate Debbie’s tone of voice in the words I had chosen and to bring to the page the intense desire she still felt for the longest-standing love of her life.

Listening to her talk and putting her passion into words had been profoundly arousing and deeply distressing for me at the same time. I hoped that this would also shine through in my writing. 

I checked that the house really was empty, poured myself a glass of white wine and began to read for the last time before publication, the story Debbie had related in so much pleasurable detail.

*

‘Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!’

“Yes! Oh yes!”

I screamed wildly into the pillow, hoping my wailing voice was muffled enough not to be heard outside the open bedroom window but quite unable to hold myself back. Beneath my knees, the ancient bedsprings bounced and complained at the treatment they were receiving for the fifth time in only three days.

‘Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!’

“Fuck me! Oh yes, fuck me!”

Philip’s fingers dug hard into the fleshy part of my hips as he pulled me back onto his violently thrusting cock, its head pummelling my cervix as it had so many times over the last thirty-odd years. 

I could feel the front of his hairy thighs rasping against the soft underside of mine, feel his tight sack slamming against the base of my clitoris, my sagging boobs dangling down as, on all fours and in the bedroom I had slept in as a teenager, my brother fucked the living daylights out of my fifty-five-year-old body.

‘Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!’

“Don’t stop! Don’t stop! I’m soooo clooooose!”

My voice sounded almost hysterical as once again, Phil used all the moves and angles that he knew made so much difference to me and my pleasure. An orgasm was close – very close – and I wanted it so badly; wanted him to have his own climax too; wanted to experience again the incredible sensation of being inseminated by a fit, strong man with whom I was completely and utterly in love.

Well beyond the age of fertility and with complete trust in my lover, it had been years since I had needed the pill. Apart from our first few months together all those years ago, we had never used condoms either, so all of our couplings had been flesh-to-flesh; the only real way to express how I felt about the love of my life.

“Can’t hold on much longer, Debs…” the voice behind and above me croaked.

“Okay… nearly there… nearly there…”

I clamped down on his cock as hard as my abused pelvic floor and well-used vagina would allow.

‘Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!’

“Almost… there...”

‘Slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap-slap!’

“Now… now…noooowwwWWWW, YYEEESSSS!”

And with that, my middle-aged body went into spasm, my insides melted in a pool of heat, the vagina that over twenty years ago had given birth to two children began to pulsate, gripping the shaft moving within it as hard as it now could…

Seconds later, Deborah Cartwright, married, middle-aged mother of two, occasional golfer, respected partner in a well-known local firm of solicitors, collapsed face-down on the bed in another helpless orgasm brought about by the presence of her older brother’s cock inside her body.

Seconds after that, the cock within her began to throb and pulse as millions of that brother’s sperm were pumped deep into her vagina, smeared across the smooth pink peach of her opening cervix and directly into her womb as they had been so many times over the last thirty-odd years.

As his climax overtook him, I felt the weight of Phil’s body on my hips, pressing me into the rumpled sheets and the heat of his downy chest against my tingling back as we both panted for breath. 

“God, yes!” he gasped, laughing out loud. “Fuck me, that was good!”

A minute or two later, his softening cock slipped from my tired body and my spent brother rolled onto the bed alongside me.

“You’re still hot as hell, Debs!” Phil laughed as he snuggled up to my still-trembling body and kissed me on the ear. “It’s getting harder to keep up with you.”

“Shut up and let me sleep,” I mumbled into the pillow as the aftershocks of my climax faded, tired but for the moment satisfied and very, very happy. 

*

Not being able to marry or even live with the person you love most in the world is one of the hardest things that human emotions can deal with. The world is littered with songs and poems about every kind of love; concealed love, unrequited love, forbidden love; the list is endless.

But it is rare to find anyone publicly lamenting the pains and agonies of the love most forbidden; that of romantic, sexual love between close relatives. 

And yet history is full of it; mythology is full of it and increasingly, our real world is filling with it.

All around us, taboos are being broken down one by one; divorcees are remarrying in church, abortions can be obtained on demand, homosexuals can get married, transsexuals now have rights. I could go on. But as yet, no-one stands up for those of us involved in what the world sneeringly describes as incest. 

Most people are revolted by the idea of physical love between fathers and daughters, mothers and sons or as in our case, brothers and sisters but they don’t understand what this special kind of love can be like.

Philip is older than me by barely a year. It was supposed to be longer but Mum became pregnant by accident soon aftrer giving birth to him. He and I started having sex when I was just legal, but our romantic relationship began long before his penis actually entered my body for the first time.

Indeed, it had started long before either of us recognised it for what it was.

In our early years, we had spent many days and several holiday staying with our Grandparents while Mum and Dad worked on their new and growing business. We weren’t a rich family so when we stayed with either set of Grandparents, Phil and I had to share a bedroom. We had separate beds at Mum’s parents but when we stayed with our father’s parents we had to share a double bed.

This was actually fun when we were very young, and indeed wasn’t much of a problem as we grew older but eventually, things began to get more complicated.

It would be wrong to detail things that occurred involving siblings as young as we were, innocent though they were. Suffice to say that by my sixteenth birthday we had both grown pubic hair, I had developed something approximating to boobs and Phil was routinely getting involuntary erections.

It wasn’t long before he started taking himself off for long visits to the bathroom once I had gone to bed, and for him to get extraordinarily embarrassed at strange times, especially if we had been cuddling close. 

I was still too naïve to understand what was going on until, in the end, two inevitable and predictable things happened.

Firstly, Phil got an erection right in front of me, sticking out through the fly in his pyjama bottoms. He did not know it was so clearly visible until he saw the look on my face. To my inexperienced eye, it was very large, very obvious and I stared at it, amazed until he ran out of the room in horror.

Secondly and most crucially, he had a massive wet dream while we were both asleep, cuddled up in the double bed like two spoons. His groin was pressed against my bottom which must have accidentally stimulated him too much as we slept. However it happened, we woke in the night, both covered in large amounts of sticky semen and both had to go into the bathroom together to wash it off.

Phil was almost in tears with embarrassment. I told him it didn’t matter even if it was gooey and smelly, and asked what had happened, why and had it hurt? I told him I had seen his penis hard and sticking out before, and wondered if that hurt too.

I suppose that’s when the whole thing between us really started. By the time we had washed our soiled nightclothes, left the bathroom, changed back into our underwear and got back into bed, I had seen Phil nearly naked and he had seen me naked from the waist down. 

As an icebreaker it was crude but effective; a watershed had been crossed.

Within a short time, I had seen my brother fully naked and with an unintended erection. He in turn had seen me naked too and had looked very closely at my fast growing breasts and the complicated collection of flesh between my thighs but at that stage, neither of us had done anything but look. 

But things could not stay that innocent for long. Momentum was gathering.  

Over the coming weeks we grew both closer and bolder. From looking we quickly progressed to tentative touching, especially my growing boobs which Phil seemed completely fascinated by. 

Touching soon became no longer something that only happened at our Grandparents’; we started getting together at home too, either after school when we had the house to ourselves, or with Phil sneaking into my room after Mum and Dad had gone to bed.

From touching it was a short step to mutual masturbation. This phase lasted longer, with deeper and deeper exploration of both our bodies as we became more comfortable with each other. 

Long before I was seventeen I had given Phil both his and my first ever blowjob (it was simply awful, tasted terrible but I stuck with it and eventually made him cum). In return, he gave me my first ever orgasm with his fingers. The intensity scared me so much, it was a full month before I let him touch me down there again.

From masturbation, we began deep kissing with tongues. 

Looking back, it was strange that it should have happened in this order, but that’s what we did. In retrospect, this was probably the moment our relationship changed from being two curious teens exploring each other’s bodies, to something much more serious and long-lasting.

Certainly, once that threshold had been passed, for the first time since we had got together, I began to feel more like a girlfriend than just a playmate or masturbation buddy. With long, slow kissing added to our portfolio, our sessions lasted much longer, were much more relaxed and produced even deeper and more exciting sensations in our bodies.

Sometimes Phil would even kiss me on the lips in public when there was no-one around who knew us.  

I suppose it was around now that I fell in love with him properly.

From kissing and masturbation, it was inevitable that we would eventually move on to our first attempts at proper sex. 

Our first time was as most first times are; after school, on my bed, on my back, skirt and knickers off, after a good long fingering to reduce my inhibitions and make me more open to my brother’s suggestions.

All I can say is that if that was his plan, it worked! 

Things didn’t go smoothly though, at least not at first. Although I wanted to do it, once it had started, I was terrified of the expected pain and froze on the bed. Phil was overexcited too but managed not to cum prematurely as he climbed onto my anxious, helpless body, opening my thighs with his knees and lowering his hips with their familiar weapon towards my waiting groin. 

My whole body went stiff when I felt the head of his cock being rubbed along my slit in search of my vaginal entrance. My knees locked and my legs closed but Phil had already got too close for me to shut him out.

In the end, he found his target, but my nerves had left me too dry down there, so he entered me at an awkward angle. The dryness combined with the remnants of my hymen to make his penetration difficult. In the end, my defloration was clumsy, painful and short but eventually successful. 

When Phil’s cock finally broke through what little his fingers had left of my maidenhead, it was the first time any penis had entered me. 

Then we both realised there was a problem.

Beyond the fact that his erect penis was now at least part-way in my vagina, neither of us had any real idea what we were doing. All I knew was that it hurt and that having a part of someone else’s body inside mine felt really weird.

But after a minute or two, he got the idea and began moving back and forth a few times. The pain was sharp at first, then lessened as I began to lubricate properly, and Phil’s cock found an increasingly smooth path in and out of my body.

By the time he came inside me for the first time, a dozen or so strokes later, we had both managed to get enough pleasure out of the encounter for it not to be frightening anymore.

Having happened once, clumsily and awkwardly, we were both a bit frightened by what we had done and the intensity of our feelings and avoided being close to each other for a few days. This was extremely difficult living in the same house and eating at the same table, so it couldn’t last long, especially when I for one was so madly in love.

It was only when we could resist each other no longer and it happened a second time – and took much longer and was much, much better - that we realised it was something we both really wanted, and things really took hold.

From then on, I thought of myself more as Phil’s girlfriend than his sister and I believe he felt the same. 

Throughout the remains of our schooldays, we made love several times a week. Some weeks it was every day. Mum and Dad were both busy with the business so the house was often empty, and we could get together as soon as we got home. Other times we would sneak into each other’s bedrooms at night once the coast was clear and do whatever could be done silently. 

We were so naïve that our first few fucks were entirely unprotected. I could easily have got pregnant, but thank God, we were lucky. I went on the pill as soon as I could get it without too many questions being asked, in the meantime we used condoms bought from vending machines in public toilets.

It is worth admitting here and now that, although I did have quite a nice figure, I was a shy girl, not one of the prettiest in the school and most definitely not a girl you asked out if you wanted easy access to female bodies, boobs or vaginas. I was considered okay for an occasional snog but a poor prospect for anything more. 

Some boys even called me frigid which, given I was having full-on penetrative sex more often than even the ‘easy girls’ were, speaks volumes for the ignorance of teenagers.

It wasn’t all smooth sailing though. 

During our last year at school, both of us had flings with other people. Phil had a brief relationship with Amy, his best friend’s younger sister and a classmate of mine, for the simple reason that she was drop-dead gorgeous, had fancied him for years and he correctly believed he could get into her knickers after a party. 

Whether Amy intended losing her virginity to him is questionable; the fact that it happened is indisputable, as is the fact that after he had deflowered her, they were together for several months.

After I found this out, I allowed myself to be bedded several times by that same best friend and made sure that Phil knew it had happened. Not because I fancied his best friend particularly, but because I wanted to get back at my brother for cheating on me with his sister.

We were both hurt by this and were stupid to have done it, but teenagers make mistakes and we got back together.

The episode did make us realise how insular and dependent upon each other we had become and how that insularity was making other people ask questions that could become awkward. After that, we were much more careful in public, and took care to go out with our separate groups of friends more often.

The rest is, as they say, history.

Barring a few breaks around University, marriage and childbirth, Phil and I have maintained an ongoing physical relationship for over forty years. Some years are relatively barren, other are nothing short of orgiastic. 

I’m pleased to say that this year was proving to be one of the latter.

I suppose we are cheating on our partners; in my case my husband, in Phil’s case, his long-term girlfriend but it doesn’t feel like it. To be honest, the first time my husband and I slept together felt more like I was cheating on my brother than the other way round. Even now it has a slight feel of infidelity about it.

My husband and I have three kids, now in their late teens or early twenties. Two boys and a girl, in that order. My oldest looks uncannily like my husband, the youngest, my daughter looks like my mother rather than me.

The middle child, my younger son looks like his father too, but only I know this.  Everyone says he looks like me, and he does. He looks like me because I look like my brother.

The truth is that my brother Phil is almost certainly the father of my middle child. 

It wasn’t deliberate. At the time, my husband and I weren’t really ready for a second baby. It was too soon after our first child was born to be a good idea. We were both tired all the time and our sex life had all but dried up as a result, so I hadn’t bothered to go back on the pill.

Soon after the birth my husband went away on business for three weeks and Phil came over to stay a few nights and help with the baby. To cut a long story short, we got carried away - many times - and he ended up creating another baby inside me. The non-arrival of my period just as my husband returned, demonstrated this clearly.

When he did return, I of course, made sure we had lots of sex, however tired we both were. A month later I announced that my periods had stopped and took a home test, which as I already knew, was positive. 

I said nothing to anyone. Only I knew the truth and it has remained that way to this day.

*

“What time shall we leave?” Phil asked forty-five minutes after our first copulation of the day had ended.

His soft voice roused me from a very pleasant, post-coital, early afternoon snooze in his arms. My brother was caressing my left boob with his right hand as I woke; a very pleasant feeling but sadly one which also reminded me how much they had changed since that day when, as teenagers, he had first tentatively placed his fingers on my breasts.

God alone knows how many times we had done the evil deed since then.

“Visiting time isn’t till four thirty,” I replied, snuggling up to him. “We’ve got another hour at least.”

He kissed the top of my head casually.

“I’m not sure I can manage another round just yet,” he grinned sheepishly. “I’m not as young as I used to be.”

I ran my fingers over the soft, sticky collection of organs lying on his lower belly. There was some evidence of things beginning to stir but he was right; a little more time was needed. 

“I’ve got to call Linda too,” he added, pretending to ignore the attention I was giving to his cock and balls. “She wants me to bring back a few things from Hardy’s”

Hardy’s was a traditional artisanal bakery in the town in which Phil and I had grown up, and our eighty-two-year-old mother still lived. Linda his girlfriend, always wanted him to bring back some of her favourite breads and cakes whenever he visited. 

Given Mum’s recent hip operation and the expected long recovery time, there were going to be a good many visits over the next few months. 

Given the distance between our current addresses and our original family home, sleeping over was a necessity. 

Philip and I were taking maximum advantage of this, visited her together, supporting each other and our mother as any normal siblings would do. We looked after the house, fed her cat and kept her cheerful throughout the healing process. 

What made things special was that, with a legitimate excuse to be together, free from our spouses, kids and without the risk of being caught, for a few short weeks we could do what we had always dreamed of doing; live as man and wife.

Well, at the moment we were living more like a honeymoon couple, given the frequency and passion of the sex we were enjoying. It was exciting, liberating, every bit as wonderful as I had hoped it would be but at the back of our minds, we both knew it would eventually have to come to an end.

Still, Mum had another week in hospital followed by at least six weeks in a care home to recover, so we had the best part of two months to catch up on decades of lost time. The soreness between my legs was testament to the energy we were both putting into this project, but I was by no means ready to call it a day.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked quietly as I gently massaged my brother’s sticky cock, feeling the very early stages of an erection returning. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean?” Phil asked, wriggling his groin against my palm.

“You only fuck me that hard when you’re upset about something,” I explained.

He winced at my use of the word ‘fuck’ as he had ever since we had started doing it. It was a word I only used when with him and mostly, I only used it to tease him.

“Is that right? I thought you enjoyed doing it…”

“Doggy style?” I completed his sentence for him. “I do, couldn’t you tell? But I know you and you’re upset about something.”

I knew I was right. Having known the man literally all my life, we could read each other like books. Over the years and especially after we had gone far beyond the usualTo continue reading this story you must be a member. Join for FREE here.