My Brother, My Sister free porn video

Mr. Dirk had done a good job on cousin Danny. Both Curt and I agreed on this point. The mortician hadn't had much to work with, either. Danny had tipped his motorcycle over, sideways, at 70 miles per hour. He'd skidded nearly 100 yards on the side of his face before coming to a sudden stop against a railing alongside a culvert. His bike was just twisted metal, and Danny's face was pretty much human hamburger. One of the cops on the scene is rumored to have puked, sick to his stomach from seeing all the blood and gore. Considering the raw material, so to speak, with which Mr. Dirk had had to work, he'd done remarkably well in imparting to Danny's countenance a semblance of humanity, however "waxy" looking. Danny was only 28 years old. Life is short, but it shouldn't have been that short. The funeral was sad. Depressing, really, and neither Curt nor I wanted to be there. Hell, I don't even want to attend my own funeral. That's a joke. A little gallows humor. Black humor's supposed to make it easier to bear the after-effects of what people call tragedy but understand as a sort of hit-and-miss cosmic unfairness that results in personal catastrophe for those who are unlucky at life. I was glad when it was over, when Danny had been laid to rest and his grieving parents, Aunt Charlene and Uncle Clarence, went home to try to live out the rest of their lives, wishing they'd been the ones to die and that their son had been allowed to live. It had been cold. Standing by the grave, the icy winter's wind blowing, we'd been chilled to the bone. The wind had had an edge to it like a razor's. Even huddled inside my wool overcoat, I'd frozen. My teeth had chattered, and I'd shook, despite my attempt not to do so. Beside me, Curt, who's just as slender as he's always been, looked a little blue under the eyes, and his skin, which was always pale, had looked a ghostly white. The preacher had seemed to hurry through the Twenty-third Psalm. Maybe he'd wanted to get back inside the warmth of his cozy rectory rooms. "The Lord is my Shepherd," he'd intoned, through chattering teeth. "I shall not want. . . ." His words had brought little comfort to the grief-stricken on such a cold and bitter day. They'd given me pause, though, as I'd considered the various views humanity has held on the subject of death and its possible, but unlikely (it seems to me) survival. Some believe God's in charge; others are convinced fate determines our lives. Still others say that existence is just a meaningless accident. I haven't decided if any of these assertions is true, but, let me tell you, there didn't seem much purpose or meaning for Danny inside that coffin. "Carpe diem," Curt had opined. That was the message he'd taken from his cousin's demise. "Seize the day. Live for the moment." That had made as much sense to me as any of the other themes that people had suggested to explain the significance of Danny's untimely passing. "Life is short," I'd replied, offering my own clich?. We hadn't spoken for five years, Curt and me, which is maybe why we had to start with hackneyed expressions instead of words from the heart. We'd been estranged, and we found our sudden togetherness awkward, even painful. I'd stopped speaking to Curt when he'd told me he was a female trapped inside a male's body. He'd said he was going to change his sex. "Instead of a kid brother, you'll have a little sister," he'd told me, as if he'd expected me to be pleased. He'd told me he'd already started hormone therapy and planned to undergo breast-augmentation surgery. "Are they going to cut them off?" I'd asked, meaning his cock and balls, of course. "I haven't made up my mind about that yet," he'd admitted. "What do you think, brother Beau?" "You're crazier than shit," I'd told him. We hadn't spoken a word since--until now, at cousin Danny's funeral. Our reconciliation, our mother said, was the real significance of Danny's death. According to her, he'd died that we might patch things up before it was too late for us to resolve our estrangement. Her interpretation of the meaning of Danny's death was bizarre, no doubt, but it didn't seem any stranger than some of the other pontifications those in attendance at his send-off had voiced. After we'd shared clich?s, I asked, "So, did you cut them off?" Curt shook his head. "I decided to keep them." "I thought you wanted to be a chick." "I am," he said. "I'm a chick with a dick." He'd cut his hair short and slicked it back, wearing a man's suit, he said, out of respect for the dearly departed and his family. Normally, he wore skirts, blouses, and high heels. He wore makeup, too, and carried a purse, he assured me. "That's too much information," I told him. The dutiful son, I'd honored Mom's request and to drive him to the airport after the funeral. We shook hands. His nails, I noticed, were long, but, as a concession to the dead, he'd rounded off their tips. "Nice seeing you, Beau," he told me. "So long, Curt." "It's Kirsten now," he corrected me. "Whatever." I started to leave. "My flight doesn't take off for another couple of hours," Curt--or Kirsten--told me. He asked me to keep him company in the airport lounge. "You buying?" He chuckled, as if to say, You may be older, but you're just as cheap as ever. "Sure, the drinks are on me." After considering his request, I shrugged. Why not? If I were lucky, after this afternoon, I wouldn't see the bastard for another five years, maybe longer. There was no harm in letting him buy me a drink or two. "Okay." Kurt had a card that admitted him to the airport's executive lounge, which, semi-private, was luxuriously appointed and featured waitresses. One had to be a frequent flyer to gain the privilege of enjoying the lounge and its many amenities. "You're a frequent flyer?" I asked, after our drinks had been served. We sat in overstuffed, leather-upholstered armchairs that faced each other over a low brass table with a glass top. Curt smiled. "I'm an ad executive," he told me. "Flying comes with the territory." Just in the past six months, he said, he'd been to London, Bonn, Bangkok, New York, Atlanta, and San Francisco. "You must have enjoyed San Franfreako," I suggested, using the nickname of the city of fags that radio talk show host Michael Savage often employed. Unperturbed by my comment, Curt agreed. "I did," he said, "and Bangkok was nice, too. There are more transsexuals--or ladyboys, as they're known there--in Thailand than anywhere else on the planet." "Must have been nice to have been among your own kind for a while, huh?" I meant the comment as a jibe, but Curt's smile widened. "It was wonderful." He looked at me. His eyes glimmered. "What about you, brother Beau? What have you been up to since you started to hate me?" My life wasn't anything nearly as glamorous as Curt's sounded. "Expanding my haberdashery." "Maybe you should add a line of fashionable items for the well-dressed tranny," he suggested. "I am," I countered, "when hell freezes over." "You used to be more open-minded." "Yeah, right." "Remember what we used to do on cold winter's nights?" I hadn't thought of the activities to which Curt referred in years, and I didn't appreciate his bringing them up now. I recalled them well enough, though. I'm only a couple of years older than Curt, but I've always been bigger, stronger, and more masculine. I'm also more aggressive and more assertive. Curt, who's shorter than I am by a full head-length, has always been of a slender, rather girlish build, and he's both rather effeminate and a lot more passive and submissive than I am, too. "I'm the sister you've always wanted," he used to joke with me when I'd criticize his feminine demeanor. "I never wanted a sister," I'd tell him. Nevertheless, a few times, we had masturbated. First, we'd kept our hands to ourselves, content to jerk off while we watched one another perform the same action on himself. Later, we jerked one another off. At the time, it had been fun. It had been enjoyable. We'd felt some guilt and fear, but, most of all, we--or I, at least--had felt a strong, curious fascination and sense of intrigue that added to the physical--all right, the sexual--pleasure of our forbidden intimacy. Our tender moments together ended, though, when, after one especially intense occasion, as we lay side by side in my bed, semen on our chests, bellies, and pubes, Curt had suggested that, next time, I lay my cock along the cleavage of his ass and hump his buttocks. I gave him a disgusted look--although, to be honest, I hadn't felt disgusted--and said, "No way." I wouldn't have to put it in, he'd clarified his suggestion. "I'm no faggot," I'd told him, repeating my expression of repulsion. He'd giggled. "You could have fooled me, brother Beau," he'd replied. Now, in answer to his question as to whether I remembered these incidents, I said, "That was a long time ago. A lifetime ago." His voice conspiratorially low, Curt confided, "I'd wanted you to do more than just lay your cock alongside the cleavage of my ass. I'd wanted you to fuck me with your beautiful, thick, hard prick." I set my glass down on the coffee table that separated us and rose. "I'm out of here," I announced. "Don't go, Beau!" "Times have changed. I like women, not men." "Okay, okay. I get the message. I won't talk anymore about what happened when we were kids." I hesitated. I should leave, I thought. There was no reason to stay. Curt and I had nothing in common anymore, if we ever truly had. "Please stay, Beau," he pleaded, desperation in his voice and tears in his eyes. "I've missed you." "If you say anything else about--" "I won't, I promise." I decided to stay. I'm not sure why. Maybe I felt sorry for him. Maybe, in retrospect, despite my machismo, I felt--I don't know--something more. "You'd better not," I warned him. The little prick never had been able to hold his liquor, I thought. I resumed my seat, picked up my glass, and swallowed the remaining bourbon. "I'll have another," I told him. He caught the waitress' eye and ordered another drink for both of us. Looking at me through his tears, he thanked me for staying. "You'd better go easy on those drinks," I cautioned him. "They'll have to pour you into your seat." He laughed, too loudly and too long. Either he was already getting inebriated or he was desperate to please me, to have me like him. Maybe he was both. Despite my horror at his having decided to become "a chick with a dick" as he'd described his ambiguous gender and hermaphroditic sexuality, I felt a stab of pity for the man or woman or whatever he was who'd once been my affectionate, good-humored kid brother. Maybe I'd resented his decision to change his sex--partway, at least--more because his having done so had caused me to lose my little brother rather than because the choice was, in itself, repulsive. After all, as brothers who'd shared a bedroom throughout our youth, we'd been close. Too close, in some ways, one might say. Besides, as Curt had observed, at one time, I had been more tolerant. He might have tits and a tranny fanny, he might wear makeup, and he might dress and act as a woman, but I might be the one who'd changed more over the years in other ways. I'd become intolerant, bigoted, and homophobic. As we sipped our drinks, I decided I wasn't going to hate Curt anymore. Life was too short, as Danny's death had reminded me, and, deep down, I did love Curt. I'd never actually stopped loving him. He was my brother. I resolved, further, to accept his definition of himself. If he identified himself as a woman, or a transsexual, or a "chick with a dick," I'd accept him as such as well. From now on, I'd call him Kristen and try, at least, to think of my brother as my sister. Maybe, when we said goodbye, I'd even hug him instead of shaking his hand. But I'd draw the line at kissing. Over our next round of drinks, I told Curt--that is, Kirsten--as much, and, of course, he--or she--cried a flood. It was embarrassing as hell, but I hoped anyone who saw the spectacle would attribute his tears to a liquor-inspired crying jag. I guess, if I were she, I might have a lot of crying to do, too. No doubt, she'd needed a good cry for five years now, maybe longer. "Quit," I pleaded. "People are staring." "I can't help it," she said. "It's as if I were dead and now I've been reborn, as if I were in purgatory and now I'm in heaven. These are tears of joy." "You're happy, so you're bawling?" Sniffing, she nodded through her tears. Women! I thought. Who could figure them? By the time Kirsten's flight was scheduled to depart, we hadn't kissed, but we'd made up. It was good to have my sibling back, even if she was a sister now, instead of a brother, as before. I told her as much. She sniffled, still bleary-, if not teary-, eyed. "No sooner do we reconcile than we have to go our separate ways again." She hugged me close, and I felt her breasts through her shirt, vest, and jacket-- she'd unbuttoned her overcoat--and my own. Even muffled by the heavy layers of clothing, I could feel their buoyant, firm-soft density. They felt as wonderfully womanly as any I'd ever felt pressed against my chest before, and I was startled to find that my penis twitched, swelling slightly. Down, Boy! I chastised the unruly organ. After all, Kirsten was my sister. Then, something caught my eye, and I grinned at her as I asked, "Isn't your flight number 18?" She nodded. "It looks as if we may be seeing more of each other, after all." She frowned. "What do you mean?" I read the notice on the airport monitor that continually updated posted arrival and departure times. Next to Flight Number 18, the word "Cancelled" had appeared. "It's been cancelled," I informed her, showing her the notice. "Damn! This means I have to inconvenience you some more. Would you mind driving me to a motel?" "Yes." She looked disappointed, but not angry. Resignation in her voice, she said, "Fine. I'll take a cab." "No, you won't," I told her. "You're staying at my house." Kirsten smiled. "I love it when you're assertive, big brother." The snow, which had been falling hard for the two hours that we'd spent tucked away in the cozy, warm comfort of the airport's executive lounge sipping mixed drinks while I'd come to terms with my sister's decision to become--well, my sister--was sticking fast. Already, the pavement, like the countryside, was covered in a dazzling blanket of white, and the snow was starting to drift, forming small, shifting dunes. Trees branches were encased in ice, and there was a fresh, wonderful, and exciting spirit of newness in the frosty air that I found exhilarating. I wondered how much of people's moods and dispositions are informed, if not controlled, by the weather. If the full moon could bring out the beast in a man, why couldn't the weather also affect him for good or ill? My house was in Lakewood, a gated master community of townhouses and single-family homes north of town. A spacious place with three bedrooms and a study in addition to the kitchen, dining room, living room, library, and laundry room, there was more than enough room for Kirsten and me. There was too much room for just me, by myself, but after my wife, Mona, passed away, I just couldn't bear to sell it, so I lived here alone, a relatively young widower rattling around in a house too large by two thirds. After parking the car, I showed Kirsten the house. "It's beautiful," she said. "There must be a lot of money in haberdasheries these days." I shrugged. "I own a few now, not just the one I started with." "My, you have been busy, haven't you, brother Beau?" She'd taken off her overcoat, jacket, vest, and tie. Her breasts were more visible through the silk shirt she wore. Through her suit's tight, tailored trousers, I could also see that she had a feminine fanny, full and round, but firm and tight. "Not as busy as you," I observed, eliciting a smile from my little sister. "Where will I be sleeping?" Kirsten asked. "Unfortunately, two of the bedrooms are being renovated, so just the master bedroom's available. Fortunately, there are twin beds." "Or unfortunately," she quipped, grinning. Then, following a quizzical look, she asked, "Twin beds?" No doubt she thought it odd that a married couple had had twin beds, as if they were Rob and Laura Petrie on The Dick Van Dyke Show or Lucy and Ricky Ricardo on I Love Lucy. "During her last year or so, things were bad for Mona. She was in a lot of pain, and sleeping in the same bed was uncomfortable for her. We decided to buy twins." Kirsten looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Beau." "She's at peace now." "You have a beautiful home," Kirsten told me, "and a beautiful heart." "Not so beautiful, the latter," he disagreed. "Look at how I talked to you. Look at how I've treated you." "My transgender status was a shock to you. I understand." "Other people handle shock a lot better than I did." "And some handle it a lot worse, too." Kirsten told me of the beatings that some transsexuals, both male-to-female and female-to-male, receive at the hands of homophobic bastards. "I've had a black eye or two myself, and a split lip once." Beau's eyes narrowed as he scowled. It was obvious that he didn't like to hear that his little sister had been beaten by some Neanderthal pinhead. "A few have been killed." Briefly, she recited the story of Teena Brandon, who was murdered by the young men who'd raped her after discovering she wasn't the male they'd assumed she was. "She bled so much that her once-white socks were pink from the diluted blood they soaked up from the floor where her body lay after she'd been beaten, knifed, and shot to death." "I'm sorry for the things I said to you, Kirsten," I said. "I'm sorry for the way I've treated you." "I've said some nasty things to you, too, brother Beau." "In self-defense, maybe." She smiled as, stepping close to me, she hugged me. Once again, I felt the fullness of her soft-firm breasts against my chest, and my cock, which has a mind of its own, stirred, twitching. I hugged her back, and, I had to admit, she felt good in my arms, small and soft and feminine. I gladly accepted my brother as my sister. "I love you, brother Beau," she whispered. "I love you, too," I replied. After holding one another for a long moment, during which my penis continued to swell, stiffening slightly, we withdrew from one another's embrace, and I said, "We haven't eaten. Would you like to go out for dinner or have something here?" "I'm not hungry, myself." "Me, neither, but I thought you might be." "I'd rather spend time talking to you." "We have a lot of catching up to do," I agreed. After showing Kirsten to the bedroom we'd share for the night so she could stow her suitcase, I returned to the living room. I took off my jacket, tie, and shirt. Bare-chested, I felt better, although I wished I could remove the rest of my tuxedo, as, normally, I prefer to be naked at home. However, with my sister as my houseguest, going shirtless was about as naked as I'd be able to get. I heard a playful wolf's whistle. Kirsten had returned to the living room. She openly admired my chiseled pecs and the tightness of my firm, six-pack abs. "Men like you shouldn't wear shirts," she quipped, "or anything else, really." Ignoring her remark, I offered her something to drink, bringing her an iced tea. I chose a soda. As we sipped our respective drinks, we reminisced. We'd had a lot of good times, and it was after three o'clock when I suggested it was time for bed. Kirsten yawned. "I'm not sleepy," she protested. "You're yawning to catch flies?" "I'm tired, but I'm not sleepy." I understood her meaning. Sometimes, I get tired but can't sleep, either, usually when my sleep cycle has been disturbed, as hers had, by jet lag, or when I'm especially keyed up. "Okay. What should we talk about next?" "We've sort of glossed over our teenage years," she suggested. I chuckled at a memory. "Remember that time that Kevin Snyder and Madeline Pugh were making out in one of the new crypts they were building at the Glendale Cemetery, and--" She interrupted. "Remember the time we made out in our own bedroom, with Mom and Dad sleeping just down the hall?" I was hoping she wouldn't bring up the matter of the few times we'd dallied together as we'd experimented with sex and sexuality during our adolescent years, using ourselves and one another as our research subjects--or, maybe, I was afraid she would bring up this topic. Maybe I feared that recalling such incidents might make me even hornier. All night and into the wee hours of the morning, I'd secretly been imagining Kirsten naked. I almost ached to see her nude. She might be my sister, but she was undeniably beautiful. Despite her age--she was 26--she looked as though she were eighteen. She'd always had flawless skin, and her complexion was as smooth as always, like silk. Her wide blue eyes were dazzling, glimmering as with some secret delight or, at times, mischief. The thin bridge of her delicate nose led to full, sensuous lips and, below them, a rather pointed chin. She had cheekbones for which many a model would envy her. Her ears were small, the grooves well delineated. She'd cut her hair out of respect for dear departed Danny, but the blonde swirls were thick and luxuriant. Were she wearing makeup, there'd be no problem in assuming she was a complete woman, and a lovely one at that. Even with her hair bobbed, sans makeup, her attempt at projecting a masculine appearance was more androgynous than mannish. She was, at heart, a female, and her femininity shone through her attempts to mask it, especially now that, her jacket removed, her breasts, full, firm, high, and round, rose insistently against the shirt that covered them, their nipples erect. I could only imagine how gorgeous Kirsten was with long hair, eye shadow, mascara, foundation makeup, blush, lipstick, and nail polish to accentuate and enhance the considerable beauty of her natural charms. "That's the time I asked you to lay your cock alongside the cleavage of my ass," she said. "Do you remember, brother Beau?" I nodded. "I remember." How could I ever forget? Even then, as a youth, without female breasts and a lovely tranny fanny, Kirsten, as Curt, had harbored a feminine sort of loveliness. He hadn't had curves then--not like now--but his skin had always had its silken-smooth texture, and his buttocks were fuller than most youths his age. His legs were long and shapely, too, and they were smooth. At the time, I'd supposed he was simply a late bloomer when it came to acquiring the body hair that is typical of males who've undergone puberty. Reflecting upon his smoothness, I realized, now, that, most likely, he'd shaved his legs and, possibly, his chest, for his upper body was as hairless as his legs. Only a downy fuzz decorated his pubes. Even his armpits were bald. If the truth were to be told, I'd been tempted to take my brother up on his offer. Standing beside him as he lay upon his stomach, his sculpted back, his smooth, round ass, and his long, shapely legs revealed to my admiring gaze, I'd imagined my swollen cock laid, long and hard, along the cleft between his buttocks. "You don't have to put it in," he'd assured me. "Just lay it alongside and move it back and forth or, if you want, you can fuck me between my ass cheeks, without penetrating me." Recalling Curt's invitation, I blushed. What would Kirsten think, seeing my red face? I wondered. My brother had been a brazen hussy. It seemed Kirsten was equally bold and sassy. "That was a long time ago," I reminded my sister. "Times have changed. I like women." "I'm a woman," she told me. "I mean real women." Kirsten looked as if I'd backhanded her across her lovely face. Tears sprang to her eyes, coursing down her cheeks, and she sobbed. "I didn't mean it like that," I fumbled my words. Her lower lip turned down, quivering, and she sobbed again, louder. Instinctively, I hugged her. My arms encircled her and drew her close, against my chest. I could feel her womanly breasts spread as they flattened against my pecs. I kissed her cheek. "I'm sorry," I told her. "I didn't mean it like that." "How did you mean it?" Her words were like the lash of a whip. "I meant women who are born female," I said. "You think only genetic girls can be 'real women'?" "No." "What is a 'real woman,' in your view?" she demanded, her tone sharp. "You are," I replied. She snorted. "A second ago, I was a freak." "I never said you were a freak," I objected. "You said I wasn't a real woman." "No, I didn't." "You implied it." She had me there, I had to admit. "I didn't mean to." "What did you mean, exactly?" I didn't know what to say, so I blurted, "I find you attractive. Even when you were Curt, I was attracted to you." My confession got her attention. She sniffled. "Really?" "Really." "I'll tell you something else, too. As Kirsten you're truly beautiful. You're magnificent." Her hand rubbed my chest. Her palm moved slowly up and down my bare flesh. The heat of her body warmed me. I felt the fullness of her firm- soft breasts pressed against my upper body. Her lips brushed my ear as her other hand found my genitals and, through my trousers, gave my balls and semi-hard cock a gentle squeeze. "Then, why do you spurn me?" she whispered. I swallowed, hard. "Because," I xplained, "you're also my sister." "You can't impregnate me, you know," she said. Her voice was soft, sultry, seductive. "I'm not a real woman, remember? You said so yourself." "I apologized," I reminded her. "Kiss me." Dutifully, I pecked her cheek. "Not like that," she protested. She stood upon her toes, lifting her soft, full lips toward mine, and pressed her mouth against my own, intensely, passionately, possessively. I tried to pull away, but I couldn't. One of her hands held the back of my skull, pressing my face- -and lips--firmly into hers. Her tongue, moist and smooth, slid between my lips, probing the wet cavern of my mouth. Immediately, my cock stiffened, coming fully erect. It throbbed inside my pants. My balls rose within the tightening pouch of my rising scrotum. As she continued to tongue-fuck my mouth, she gave my balls another, more insistent, squeeze. She felt my burgeoning erection. Withdrawing her lips from mine, she said, "I am your sister, brother Beau, but a part of you--or parts of you, I should say--don't seem to mind. They're ready, willing, and able enough to accept my invitation." "You're my sister," I reminded her. Those words, which should have been sufficient to damper her desire as well as my own lust, sounded, instead of decisive, merely lame. "I was your brother when we masturbated," Kirsten reminded me. "You've seen me naked enough times, and it's not as though we haven't handled each other's cock and balls before. The only thing different is that I have breasts now, and my ass is fuller and more shapely." I couldn't believe I was hearing my sister proposition me. It was too fantastic to be believe. "That's not the only difference," I remarked. "We're adults now, not a couple of horny kids." "And as adults, we're better equipped to make informed decisions," she replied. "In fact," she added, a merry twinkle in her eyes, "we're better equipped, period." She gave me a long, inviting look. "As your brother and sister, I could give you the best of both worlds." Horrified at Kirsten's invitation, I stared at her, mouth gaping. She chuckled. Her hand touched the front of her trousers. "You'd better close your mouth, brother Beau, before you catch a fly." "We're siblings." I'd started to say "brothers," but we weren't brothers, not quite. "Yes," she said, smiling as she shook her head. "I know." "It wouldn't be right." "I could give you a lecture about incest, reminding you of how Biblical figures, pharaohs, and others--and many of royal blood, at that-- practiced incest, but why waste what little time we have?" As she said this, she unbuttoned her shirt. The image of Danny, dead in his coffin, flashed into my thoughts. Life was short, his motionless corpse seemed to say. I'm not morbid, but I'd just attended my cousin's funeral. The thought of him, dead before he'd had a chance, really, to live, was still with me. The dead have a way of reminding the living to live. The poets have long known this, which accounts, in part, for the seduction poems of Andrew Marvell, John Donne, and the others who, through images of death and decomposition, express the theme of carpe diem and press their beloved to surrender their virginity while yet there is time. Despite the counsel of my internal censor, I watched her delicate hands as her long, slender fingers slid each button through its hole. The pleated silk of her shirt parted, a curtain revealing her magnificent breasts. I stared, as if spellbound, at the high, full, firm, round mounds of flesh, as perfect as two scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with cherry-red nipples, both of which, I observed, were erect. "Your breasts are beautiful." The words tumbled out, of their own accord, as I stared, transfixed by their loveliness. "Want to see more?" I swallowed. It was as if I were gulping down my reservations about looking at my sister's nakedness, and I nodded. She laughed as, unbuckling her belt and unzipping her fly, she slid her trousers down her sleek, firm thighs, over her dimpled knees, and down her shapely calves. With the slacks huddled at her feet, she kicked off her shoes and stepped out of her trousers. She was now naked except for her socks and a pair of silk panties. Her figure was feminine, no doubt about it. In addition to her perfect breasts, her tummy was concave, her waist narrow, her hips slender but curvy, and her legs long and smooth and shapely. "Want to see more?" she repeated her earlier question. There wasn't a whole lot more to be seen, I thought, but, again, I nodded, speechless. She smiled as she turned her back upon me, and I saw that the panties were thongs. Lavender and edged with pink lace, the silk underwear hugged her hips, exposing her tranny's fanny. The bare cheeks were as full, firm, and round--in a word, as womanly--as any genetic female's I'd ever seen, in or out of a girly magazine. My penis, already semi- stiff, hardened further. I felt it swell and lengthen inside my trousers. I glanced down and saw that my burgeoning erection had made a tent at the crotch of my trousers. Quite clearly, my cock was not at all concerned that my sister wanted to make love to me. If anything, her suggestion that we engage in incest had had as exciting a stimulus upon it as her nakedness had had. Ready or not psychologically, I was certainly prepared physiologically for a sexual liaison with my transsexual sister. I watched as her hands, tucked into either side of her flimsy panties' waistband, slid the thongs down her legs and she stepped out of them. Her ass cheeks swelled as they arched outward when she bent forward, and I imagined my thick, hard cock laid alongside the cleavage of my sister's splendid buttocks. I also wondered what it would feel like to shove my massive member between those nether orbs and bury it deep inside her rectum. Slowly, she pirouetted, her arms extended over her head, hands together, like a ballerina, and, trumpeting "Ta da!," she showed me her cute little penis. It jutted from her shaved pubes, stiff and swollen, looking like the erection of a teenage boy rather than the rigid, upright organ of an adult male--or, in her case, shemale. Beaming at me, she asked, "Do you like what you see?" I couldn't pretend otherwise, not convincingly, at least, so I nodded. "You're very beautiful." One of her ballerina's hands descended to her genitals. Cupping her balls, she bounced them--and her boyish cock--in her palm. "Even these, brother Beau?" she asked saucily. I held her eyes with my own. I could not lie--or, again, not convincingly--so I told her the truth. "Especially those." She closed the distance between us, smiling. Happiness shone upon her lovely face as she threw her arms around me. I felt the press of her breasts against my upper body. This time, there was not even a layer of silk between us, and I felt the sleek, firm-soft warmth of her bare flesh upon my naked chest. Her mouth pressed mine, her lips parting. Her tongue, wet, became wild inside my mouth. I swirled and twirled my own tongue around hers, and, holding them stiff, we thrust these members back and forth inside our warm, liquid oral cavities. One of her dainty hands clutched my erect prick. She gave the hard, swollen member a firm squeeze. "Do you still think incest is wrong, brother Beau?" she demanded. I did, but I didn't care. She squeezed me again before rubbing my balls through the wool of my tuxedo's trousers. "Take off the rest of your clothes." She didn't need to ask me twice. In less than a minute, I'd doffed the remaining articles of the outfit, and I was as naked as Kirsten herself. She gazed at me--stared at me is more like it--openly and unashamedly. Her sparkling eyes lingered upon my hard, sculpted pecs, my firm, chiseled abs, my thick, powerful thighs and full, firm calves, before coming to a rest upon the long, thick, hard cock that jutted from its tangled nest of pubic hair. "You're beautiful, too," she said, grinning. "Handsome, you mean," I corrected her. "I mean what I said," she replied. "You're beautiful." I shrugged. "If you say so." She knelt on the carpet. My erection was but inches from her face. She bent forward, her breasts still high and round, rather than stretching downward as a genetic woman's natural breasts would do, and kissed the purple tip of my penis with her lips. The press of them upon the crown of my cock was as delicate as the brush of a butterfly's wings, but the sensation sent a thrill that was almost electric through my groin and up my spine. I shivered. She looked up at me, smiling. "Wouldn't we be more comfortable in bed?" I asked. "It's not really about being comfortable," she said, "but we can go to bed if you want--as long as it's not to sleep." Although I'd been exhausted a few minutes ago, I was wide awake now. "There's no need to worry about that," I assured her. She laughed. "Help me up, then, brother Beau." I held out a hand, and she clasped it. Her touch sent a thrill through me, from my balls to my brain. Again, I shivered. "You cold?" "No." She frowned, repressing a smile. "Oh. I see." I helped her to her feet, and we crossed the room. She put her arm around my waist as we walked, side by side, down the corridor to the master bedroom. For the first time since I'd bought the twin beds to ease Mona's suffering, I regretted that I didn't have a king-size bed. "Should we push the beds together?" I asked. Kirsten shrugged. "I'd rather share a twin with you." "Okay." I sat down on the edge of the bed, patting the mattress beside me. Instead of taking a place beside me, Kirsten parted my legs, opening my knees, and knelt on the carpet, between my wide-spread thighs. She spread her delicate hands, and she slid her fanned fingers back and forth upon my upper legs, caressing and fondling my inner thighs. Occasionally, as she massaged me, her fingertips bumped my scrotum, and more electric thrills passed through me. Looking down, past her round breasts, the bowl of her belly, and her hairless groin, I saw her boyish cock, small but insistently erect, as if to declare itself to be up to the challenges that lay ahead, and the clump of her balls inside their taut, risen scrotum. The incongruity of her lovely face and womanly breasts juxtaposed, as it were, to her boyish masculinity, was not repulsive, as I'd thought it might be. Instead, this strange antithesis of male and female parts was arousing. I was very much attracted to the hermaphroditic synthesis of the male and the female, of masculinity and femininity, of man and woman that I saw in the naked beauty of the wondrous creature who, having been my brother, had become my sister, preserving the essence of the former in her present incarnation. Rather than think of Kirsten as my sister, I thought of her, rather, as both my brother and my sister. I guess I was committing incest twice with the same person--at the same time. I have a beautiful cock, if I do say so myself. I've always admired its perfect, smooth length. Erect. it's as splendid as any architectural column that ever graced a Greek temple. It rises, noble, a testament to the artistry of God and nature, from my dark pubes, a scepter (to change the metaphor) that is itself capped with a purple crown and marbled with veins both thick and blue. One might be forgiven if his or her mouth waters at the mere sight of the exotic fruit (to change the metaphor yet again); it has a most delectable appearance. My testicles, likewise, their egg-shapes clearly outlined within the taut, risen pouch of my scrotum, beg to be touched and kissed; they plead to be devoured and consumed. It's my theory that men who suck other men do so because, for most of us, performing the same act upon ourselves--which is what we'd prefer to do--is impossible. Sucking another man's penis is a consolation, if you will, a way, vicariously, of sucking one's own prick. The cock of the other is a stand-in, so to speak, for one's own dick. In any case, sucking or being sucked is a tremendously erotic experience for both parties, and the complex array of emotions far exceeds the simple physical actions and sensations involved, due to the emotional significance and associations that underlie the behavior. For the cock sucker, there are often feelings of humiliation and shame as well as delight and passion. For the man whose cock is sucked, sentiments of privilege and superiority frequently mix with the same feelings of delight and passion that the cock sucker experiences. There is a sadomasochistic element in fellatio that spices the activity, making it all the more delicious and exciting than it would be were there nothing taboo about the practice. Kirsten, apparently, agreed with my sentiments, for, bending forward, she parted her lips to let the tip of her moist, pink tongue slide forth and licked the smooth-rough flesh of my tightly drawn scrotum. The ovals within the pouch rolled gently before the tender pressure of her lapping tongue. She gave my balls another stroke, wetting the pouch of skin with her saliva, before, opening her mouth more widely, she took one of my testicles into the warm-soft-wet cavern of her mouth. In a few moments, she abandoned my balls as she licked the smooth column of my rigid prick. Her head tipped forward, and my gumdrop-glans penetrated her lips. Slowly, she lowered her head down, sliding the "O" of her mouth down the rigid rod of flesh, past the bulging veins within my dick. I moaned. My balls were aflame with fierce, tickling sensations, and my asshole quivered, beating as if it were a second heart, located between my buttocks. My thighs quaked as my knees knocked, muscles flexing. I watched Kirsten's head bob up and down, her sweet angel's face frowning with concentration as she worked her rounded lips, plunging and withdrawing them, back and forth, upon my distended organ. Her velvet- soft lips; her tender, wet tongue; and the watery inner cheeks of her mouth enveloped, bathed, and stroked my manhood as if her mouth had become a vagina, clasping me within its tender, most intimate depths. She drooled, and her saliva dribbled down my shaft, anointing my balls. I watched my cock vanish and reappear between her lips as she pumped them up and down upon my lurching, straining shaft. Her rhythm, slow and steady at first, increased. The faster tempo elicited another moan from the depths of my soul, and I gasped. The pleasure building in my loins seemed to have all the insistent force of a river about to burst through the barrier of a dam. I knew that I could not hold out much longer. I gritted my teeth, willing myself not to come. Nevertheless, I knew I couldn't restrain the passion rising within me like a tsunami much longer. Knowing that it was my brother-sister who was sucking my cock added to the physical arousal that her lips and teeth and tongue provided. With her lovely face stuffed with cock, Kirsten looked up at me. Her wide blue eyes curved in crescent-moon shapes as she smiled. In her own way, possibly for the same reasons as I, she was enjoying this, I thought, pleased by her pleasure. The fervency and ardor with which she ministered to my cock and balls were silent verifications of how much she enjoyed her task, intimating to me the joy she felt at my having allowed her to service me in this manner. She paused. Letting my saliva-glistening cock slide free from the wet interior of her warm mouth, she paused to give my purple glans an affectionate kiss, followed by a series of licks. Her tongue bathed the length of my fleshly stalk, until, reaching its base, she lapped at my balls. She kissed each of my testicles through the taut flesh of my tightly bunched scrotum before taking my organ back into her mouth to resume her teasing attentions. Her head bobbed up and down. Unfortunately, within mere moments, I was compelled to stop her, lest I lose all control and spew my semen into her mouth, ending our lovemaking until I was able, long minutes later, to recover sufficient strength and stamina to resume. "Stop!" She released my cock from her oral embrace, looking up at me, past the jutting member. "Is something wrong?" "I don't want to come," I explained, "not yet, at least." She looked amused. "Oh? What would you rather do?" "Suck your cock." She beamed. "Beau! You mean it?" "Of course, I mean it. What the hell kind of question is that?" "I thought you said you liked women." "You're a woman." "Not a real woman." I laughed at her reply, as if it were the most ludicrous statement I'd ever heard uttered. "You're more beautiful, sexier, and more erotic than a hundred 'real' women." She blushed, lowering her eyes to reveal her luxuriant lashes. "Really?" she asked. She glanced at me, smiling uncertainly. There was a shyness in her voice that hadn't been there before. "Truly?" she asked softly. I realized what an ass I'd been, earlier, in making my inconsiderate comment about her not being a "real woman," and guilt and shame flooded me. "Absolutely," I said, smiling into her lovely face as I lifted her chin in the palm of my hand. Her smile broadened into a grin, a tear appearing at the corner of one of her lustrous eyes. "Thank you, brother Beau," she said, her voice stronger and her manner more confident. "Let's change places," I suggested. Standing, I offered her my hand. Her touch was rose-petal soft as she placed her own palm in my grip, and I helped her to her feet, as if I were assisting a princess . "Please, be seated, my dear sister," I invited her, and she took my place on the bed, parting her legs. I knelt before her, feeling as devout as a pagan worshiper feels who kneels before an altar to his deity. Kirsten, the thought occurred to me, is more than a princess; she's a goddess, and, as such, she deserved to be adored and venerated and worshiped. We men are not much better than brutes. Were it not for the soft touch of a beautiful woman and the awesome pleasures that their nakedness provides, we might remain forever insensitive, callous beasts. They tame us by their love; they make us human by the softness of their curves and the tenderness of their words. Having knelt before her loveliness, facing her boyish cock, the small pouch of her balls, her full breasts, her narrow waist, her shapely legs, and her dainty feet, complete with painted toenails, I no longer felt like the stronger superior, nor did I feel as if I were the weaker inferior. I felt more like a devoted admirer, a lover, who would do anything in his power to make his beloved happy and secure. Now was as good a time as any to start, I told myself. Bowing my head, my lips parting, I closed my lips in a ring around Kirsten's prick. The dipping of my head, the sliding of the smooth skin of her stubby cock past my lips and tongue, and the pressure of my chin against the soft flesh of her clean-shaven groin thrilled me. My own penis, which had started to shrink and soften, became fully erect again, throbbing almost painfully. Ignoring it--and the need for release that its pulsations signaled--I concentrated my attention upon Kirsten's manhood, such as it was, and in bringing to her the same intense pleasure she'd provided me, moments before, when we'd occupied opposite positions. It was wonderful to feel the presence of a cock inside my mouth. I marveled at the softness of Kirsten's genitals. An erect prick does not seem especially soft--indeed, the concepts of erect and soft are antithetical--but Kirsten's was soft. Like her balls, inside her tightened, risen scrotum, her prick was malleable, pliable, and supple. I kneaded her balls as if they were dough or clay. I also played with her penis. My squeezing, pulling, pushing, twisting fingers, like my licking tongue and nuzzling lips and pumping mouth, sculpted her member, elongating it, increasing its thickness, hardening its density, and polishing its smoothness. For one who has not sucked a cock, the comparison of a penis to a sculpture may seem odd. For anyone who has done so, such figures of speech no doubt appear to be oddly apt expressions of the thoughts and feelings one has while he or she is sculpting a penis in such an intimate and personal a manner, his lips and teeth and tongue and mouth, rather than a crude hammer and chisel, the instruments of his or her art. I bathed Kirsten's penis and testicles, my tongue the washcloth, my saliva the water. My mouth became a cylinder that sheathed the piston I made of her cock, thrusting the ring of my lips down and jerking them up, repeating this pumping movement again and again, faster and faster, making my head a machine that embraced the my sister's instrument. Then, my mouth was a garden, in whose interior I sought to plant Kirsten's seed, that it might engender within my soul, if not within my belly, the emotional child of our passionate sexual union. Up and down, my lips, sealed round my sister's cock, pumped and drove, and her soft moans were like music to me, her groans a symphony beyond the art and skill of even a Bach, a Beethoven, or a Brahms. I loved the slide of her cock-flesh, of her hardness, of the smooth skin of her swollen cock, between my lips as my head bobbed up and down, taking her organ into the warm-soft-wet embrace of my mouth and letting it slide free again so that, once more, it might, like a vagina, dripping with passion's juices, devour the member anew. "Wait," Kirsten said. "Stop. I want you to finish in my ass," she said. Looking past her jutting erection, her concave tummy, and her full, high breasts, I stared into her long-lashed, lustrous eyes. "It'll be my pleasure," I assured her. She still declined my offer to unite the twin beds, saying, "Sharing one narrow bed will confine you to the task at hand, which is occupying my cock-crammed ass to completion and filling me with your sperm." Grinning, I repeated my previous assertion. "It'll be my pleasure." "And mine," she assured me. Kirsten stood, but only to climb into the bed, where she positioned herself upon her elbows and knees, smiling at me over her shoulder as I joined her, kneeling behind her, between her parted legs. The view of her ass, as I looked down, past my jutting erection, was magnificent. The curves of her rump, coming together as they bowed inward, joining at the base of her spine, formed the top of a perfect Valentine's heart, the imaginary point of which would end somewhere inside her, perhaps in the depths of her bowels. The cheeks, even as viewed from above, were full, but without an ounce of extra fat, firm and tight, yet sleek and cushiony. From my vantage point, I couldn't see the wrinkled dimple of her derriere's secret portal, but I knew my beloved sister's anus awaited within the deep cleavage of her arched buttocks, and I meant to penetrate the tight ring of muscle and insert my manhood as deeply as possible into her rectum, until my balls were all that remained outside her smooth, creamy ass. Applying anal lube from the tube I kept in the drawer of the bedside table, mostly for masturbation purposes since Mona's demise, I prepared both my prick and Kirsten's asshole for the fun to come. Then, the mattress dipped and swayed as, on my knees, I "walked" the few inches forward that separated me from my sister, and holding my cock in my fist, I guided the stiff, swollen member between the inward-curving cheeks of my sister's ivory-smooth, but satin-soft buttocks. I jabbed at her anus, but the stout sphincter resisted my attempted trespass, and my prick slid forward and up, alongside the cleavage between her ass cheeks. Finally, my brother's long-ago wish that I lay my erect cock alongside the cleavage of his bottom had come true, albeit for him in his incarnation (or reincarnation) as my sister. My cock was, presently, right where Curt-now-Kirsten had long dreamed of its being. Of course, it wasn't to stay there long, not when there was another, far better place for it to visit. I drew back my hips, reclaimed my prick, and, holding the rigid column of flesh firmly in hand, pressed it forward, against the tiny, puckered anus, and Kirsten's sphincter succumbed to my force, opening to admit the conquering cock that slid forward, through the tight ring of muscle and deep into the interior of her penetrated ass. I continued to force my manhood through the little orifice until its full, swollen length filled her ass and I was buried inside her rectum to my very balls, the cheeks of her ass flat beneath my grinding pubes. Impaled, Kirsten uttered a tiny cry, but she pressed her penetrated ass back, firmly, against my groin, signaling her willingness to be so pierced and stuffed. Her acceptance of her fate--her surrender of the sovereignty of her person to me--was a welcome, and fiercely erotic, acknowledgment. I jabbed my hips back and forth in quick, short thrusts to acknowledge her acknowledgment. She'd given me rightful claim to the treasury of her bowels, and I meant to mine the mother lode for all it was worth. I saw Kirsten's face. She'd rested it upon the back of a hand, and her eyes were closed, her brow knitted, and her upper teeth bit lightly at her folded lower lip. She'd uttered no other cries since the initial, soft gasp, and she was motionless now, awaiting her fate. A sense of power filled me, as I felt her anus, round, about my member. I had the power to pound her beneath me, to rock her frame, and to fill and refill her ass with my thick, hard penis. She opened her eyes. Her lips parted. What was she about to say? I wondered. Was she going to confess her love to me? Ask me to be gentle with her? Ask me if I loved her? "While you're fucking me," she declared, her voice husky, "I am neither your brother nor your sister, but your whore." Her words enflamed me. Inside, the fires of lust leaped, huge and intense and all-consuming. My hips jerked back, of their own accord, by pure reflex, and I drove my enormous cock forward in a single motion, fast and fluid, filling her ass with its thick, long length, and making her gasp a second time, as her eyes closed tightly and a tear, whether of pain or bliss I could not say, trickled down her rosy, silken cheek. Her words reverberated in my mind: "I am. . . . your whore." All right, I told myself, You shall be what you have declared yourself to be. You shall be my whore, my harlot, my strumpet! My hips withdrew, and I rocketed my prick back, hard and fast, into her rectum, her ass cheeks flattening before my advance. It felt wonderful to feel the length of my prick slide through her wide-stretched anus--it was better than fucking a cunt, I thought, as I mentally compared fucking my sister's ass with having done the same with Mona's pussy. A cunt was nice, especially the way it became sopping wet, drooling like a mouth, as one fucked it, but it couldn't compare to the tightness of an anus. Kirsten's asshole rode my cock. The rim of her orifice pulled outward, clinging to my retreating member, only to plunge inward again as I shoved my organ back through, deep into her bowels. I could see the circumference of her asshole as it was pushed and pulled along with my thrusting cock. The sight was extremely arousing. Fucking someone in the ass always is exciting in the extreme, associated as it is with feelings of dominance and submission, conquest and surrender, pride and humiliation, on the part of the ravisher and the ravished, respectively. I increased the rhythm of my assault, driving my prick faster and harder, if not deeper, into my sister's bottom, feeling the sleek, satiny flesh of her buttocks' inward curving cheeks slide past on either side of my lunging member and the tight "O" of her anus clinging to my plunging prick. The lubricant made slurping sounds that would have been embarrassing, perhaps, were we not caught up in the passion of our forbidden act. As it was, if anything, the wet, smacking sounds were erotic. Kirsten's moans and gasps, like the contorted features of her lovely face and her impaled asshole, were also thrilling, physically, sexually, and emotionally. Never had I so thoroughly enjoyed fucking Mona or any other genetic woman as I was enjoying my ravishment of my sister. Her little frame rocked back and forth before me, in time with my retreats and advances. Each time I sent my erection back into her depths, she was driven forward, and each time I withdrew my prick through her rounded anus, her body recoiled, her breasts bouncing and her little penis, hard like mine, but with neither pussy nor ass to impale, useless except as an ornament, swung to and fro between her thighs, a metronome keeping time to the movements of my assault upon her ass. Kirsten moaned again, and a tear coursed down her cheek. Was she in distress? Did the tear signal discomfort or, perhaps, even pain? She was petite, and her ass was correspondingly small. My cock was not merely large; it was huge. It was possible that its presence within the tight circle of her anus did cause her some measure of suffering. Almost certainly, it would cause her more than a little anxiety, for the poor thing must be wondering whether she could continue to accommodate such an enormous prick as I fucked her even more brutally and savagely, all but raping her. I felt no sympathy for my sister, though, for it was she who'd insisted that she be treated not as my sibling but as a common whore, and I used her for my own pleasure without regard for her comfort or enjoyment. In doing so, I was merely acting according to her own preference. If she wanted to be treated as a harlot, I was more than willing to honor her request. I've never been buggered myself, although I have inserted a butt plug into my rectum on occasions, so I thought that I might have some sense, at least, if not a complete understanding, of the sensations Kirsten was experiencing as, stuffed with my cock, she was fucked fast and hard in her delightful derriere. I recall how, at first, inserting the plug seemed an impossible feat. I'd held it in position, between my buttocks, the tip against my asshole, and pushed--to no avail. Even lubricated, my anus resisted the instrument's ingress. I pushed harder. The very tip penetrated my anus, but the vast majority of the toy remained outside. Consciously, I relaxed my asshole, willing the sphincter to loosen, continuing all the while to push the rounded diamond shape steadily forward. Abruptly, the plug slid through the sphincter. I felt it enter my rectum. Although I'd pressed slowly but surely, once the object slid through the opening to my bowels, it did so with what seemed sudden violence, and I felt the mouth of my rectum--if one may call the portal to one's bowels such a thing--swallow the hard, smooth dildo-like instrument. The anus closed round the stem between the plug and the base, a rectangular plastic plank designed to prevent the toy from slipping completely into the void and requiring the skills of a surgeon for its retrieval. Being filled with such an object, I'd had to admit, was erotic. It certainly focused one's attention on an anatomical part that often receives little notice. It's difficult-- indeed, impossible--to ignore the presence of a hard, smooth plastic wedge-shaped article inside one's rectum. One becomes, for moments on end, one, as it were, with one's anus and bowels, and a man learns, perhaps, what his anally penetrated partner feels. After a while, the butt plug began to work its way back down my nether passage, and I could feel it, slick and smooth, ease through my impaled anus as if it were an exceptionally large, dense turd. A queasiness filled my bowels, and I thought that I must shit. However, the need to eliminate was imaginary, not actual, and I ignored it, concentrating, rather, on the plug that my body was expelling. When it threatened to fall free of my gaping anus entirely, I quickly drove it back into place with my hand. The plug slid freely back up my ass, past the guardian sphincter, and into my more commodious rectum. It felt as if I'd penetrated myself for the first time, as it did each and every time I reinserted the butt plug as it once more threatened to escape. As a result of my experiments with the butt plug, I supposed that I knew, to some degree, what Kirsten felt with my cock lodged firmly up her ass, stuffing her bottom. The difference was that, big though the sex toy had been, it was small in comparison to the length and circumference of my erection. No doubt, Kirsten felt as if I'd split her asunder, pounding her as I did with my enormous prick. I retreated again, until half the length of my cock was visible between her buttocks, and drove the massive member home again with the same sudden violence as I'd felt when the plug had finally penetrated my bottom. As soon as my balls kissed Kirsten's ass cheeks, I withdrew again, the same distance, and plunged into her rectum again. I did not retreat the full length of my cock, only half this distance, before ramming her anew. Back and forth, in this manner, I drove my penis, brutally fucking her with quick, hard, short strokes that brought from the depths of her soul a wordless protest of moans and grunts and gasps. Her countenance wore a look of panic, but she bit her lip, tears wetting her face. Never did she say a word, however, to indicate that I was hurting her or frightening her or abusing her, although, I was confident, I was doing all of these things as I fucked her relentlessly and passionately, making of my sister the whore she'd wanted to become. Her little cock was a blur as it swung between her legs, and both her balls and her breasts bounced and flounced. Her eyes were closed tightly, her brow was furrowed deeply, and she gritted her teeth fiercely. Her little hand was closed in a fist around the rumpled sheet. A sheen of sweat made her face glow. She was a trooper, my sister. She asked for no quarter, and I gave her none. She'd wanted to be ravished, and I ravished her, assaulting her ass mercilessly and relentlessly. My cock slid again and again through her impaled anus, pumping her backside. Whenever I thought I must quit, defeated by exhaustion, I observed her pierced bottom. I watched my cock vanish and reappear within the clinging circle of her anus. I studied the silken globes of her ass, between which my thick, hard prick thrust and retreated. These sights, and the occasional sighs, gasps, moans, and groans of my sister, penetrated by my cock, gave me the strength and the stamina to continue. And continue, I did. For the first time, I became truly aware of the implication of the phrase "mechanical sex." As it presented itself to me, the idea didn't relate to routine, impersonal, by-the-numbers sex. Instead, it alluded to fucking that was as powerful, fast, and driven as that which would be provided if men who, as half-human machines, or cyborgs, were women's sex partners. (Think of the art of the decadent H. R. Giger!) My own fucking was like that--fast, hard, and relentless--except that, instead of dripping oil, my body beaded with sweat. Still, my cock was as much a hammer, an instrument, or a tool as the cock of any construction worker, scientist, or laborer. I moved it back and forth inside Kirsten's anus and rectum with a brutal, but fluid, machine-like rapidity, battering her ass so fast that my hips and rump were but blurs. As orgasm neared, I decided to penetrate my sister's ass even more deeply and completely, but, to do so, I had to alter my position. I eased my hips back, watching my thick, hard cock reappear between Kirsten's buttocks until it was free and clear. Looking down, into the deep cleavage between her ivory cheeks, I saw several inched down inside of her gaping, round-reamed rectum. I saw its pink walls and, a few inches beyond, the darkness of her innermost depths, the bowels themselves. I was the one who'd opened my sister's asshole to the size of an onion's circumference. It was because of me that I could see down the gaping hole, into the deeps of her most intimate parts. The knowledge that it had been I who'd cored her made me swell with a sense of power and newfound pride. Now, I would fuck her harder and deeper yet. I gained one knee, and pushing off from Kirsten's backside with my hand, managed to stand--or, rather, to squat--behind my sister, my knees flexed. Her ass arched up, toward me, the wide-open asshole seeming to stare at me. Taking my prick in hand, I guided it into the stretched hole, surprised how easily my organ slid home, reasserting its claim to the territory Kirsten had ceded to me. It wasn't merely the lubricant, as thick and slick as it was, that made access so easy. Part of the reason--maybe the biggest part--was that Kirsten's asshole was now many times its original size. Although, after I'd finished butt fucking her, her anus would, eventually, return to its normal size--or something resembling it--it was now so stretched that it readily accommodated the reinsertion of the cock that had reamed it. My prick, enormous though it was, fit her asshole as if the two had been fashioned for one another, sliding into her as easily as a sword enters its scabbard. Keeping my spread hand upon the small of Kirsten's back, just above her rump, and squatting behind her, my knees bent, I, having reinserted my prick into her bottom, began to fuck her anew. The bed bounced and dipped and swayed as I delivered successive assaults to her impaled derriere. In this new position, I was able to penetrate her even more fully, cramming her with every millimeter of my penis' hard, swollen length. Although I was not able, squatting like this, to apply as much speed, I pounded her hard, my cock entering her deeper than ever so that, again and again, it crammed her, filled her, stuffed her, bringing more gasps and moans and grunts and groans from my sister, my whore. Unfortunately, I couldn't resist the passion that mushroomed inside my balls, my groin, my heart, and my brain, and, plunging balls-deep into Kirsten's ass, I gritted my teeth, closing my eyes, and felt the emissions of my semen jet forth from my balls and cock, to spurt into her depths. It was the longest, most copious ejaculation of my life, and jet of the thick, warm fecundating fluid after jet spewed into her bowels. I withdrew quickly, almost falling backward out of the narrow bed, wanting my sperm on her flesh as well as inside her ass, and watched my creamy white fluid spurt over her back, her buttocks, her perineum, her cock and balls, and the backs of her thighs