The Middle Sister, Part One. free porn video
Sometimes I'd fantasise about Izzy, her suddenly in my arms, the pair of us spiralling into a moment beyond consequence. And when I imagined that instance, the clutch of lust's grip around my heart, I could hardly contain the dizzying voltage of it.
Undressing her, my tongue louche and uncompromising. Carpetbagging fingers to strip her flesh of assets, cradling her bare buttocks and pulling her against my erection. On her back and naked, two sodden fingers immured to the knuckles, the curl of my wrist hard against her mons.
But I'd never get as far as fucking her. My cock would erupt long before I could author such an improbable lie, unable to imagine the unimaginable.
God! If Hester ever knew I had such thoughts about her sister! Talk about fouling the nest! Unlike Hester, with her blossoming hunger for sexual adventure, Izzy kept her libido on a tight rein.
Izzy-in-the-Middle. That's what the family called her: three sisters, three years between each girl. Hester and Samantha, yes, but you'd never guess Hester and Izzy were related, not even if you coloured Izzy's flaxen crop Mephistopheles red. Hester was open-hearted and sexually combustible, a smile for everyone. Izzy, demure, fretful and evasive. A girl who wore an air of nobody's business but her own. Samantha just sixteen, a problem sure to happen.
That time back from the pub, round at ours with family and friends. Izzy's stoic decorum undone by Beefeater Gin, easing herself on to my knee, her warm backside settling with flagrant disregard for opinion or consequence. Her head against mine, her boozy breath on my neck.
Taking familial boundaries for granted, she felt safe with me, never imagining for a moment that her lithe beauty in my lap would conjure a storm of lust in my cock.
But my recalcitrant cock had no training in decorum. Izzy's riddling for comfort in my lap cooked up a storm. Her skirt's hem rucked high over thighs, me trying not to stare. She hadn't an inkling — no idea of the sexual undercurrents that swirled beneath my crumbling facade of disinterest.
"You'd never be unfaithful to Hester, would you, Nathan?" she exhaled, all breathy in the gin-slurred voice of a thousand wronged soap opera wives. She saw only safety in me, a storm-port of refuge from her suspicion of every man's motives except mine. I kept my hands to myself, gripped the chair arms to keep shameful impulses at bay.
She nestled her cheek against my shoulder, exhaled air tickling my neck. The rise and fall of her body, mumbling to herself before raising her head. Then an inner skip of resentment abruptly dumped on the world, an incandescent flare of anger she could not contain. She looked about, seeking out her boyfriend Harry and giving him the evils. "Not like him over there," she spat out, the word him receiving a double dose of invective.
A silence laden with implications echoed across the room as all conversations stalled, every eye looking our way. She rested her head again, closed her eyes and emitted a sad sigh.
A shower gel sweetness mingled with some darkly expensive scent. The rise and fall of her, breasts shifting gently against me as she breathed, eliciting inappropriate thoughts. I wanted to kiss the crown of her head, place my cheek against hers, breathe the air she exhaled.
Then, the really shitty thoughts arrived: undressing her, touching her breasts before licking her cunt and then fucking her this way and that.
I would not be accountable. I needed to get her off my knee before I ruined too many futures. And even though I bridled the urge to grope and slather all over her, the last thing she needed was my burgeoning erection burrowing into her buttocks. And so I gently shook her by the shoulders while calling her back, "Izzy, luv."
I know — blah, blah, blah — I'm a hulking beast of a man. Six years of daily training has delivered a physique on which I pride myself. If I'd had the mind, been halfway sober and focused, had gathered only a quarter of my strength, I could have shifted her easy enough. But her shampoo cleanliness and the treacherous musk redolence cooking beneath the satin of her top conspired to sap my resolve.
I looked over at Hester with imploring eyes, willing her to come and rescue me from myself. She gazed back with a look of, Why-the-fuck are you just sitting there?"
I raised an eyebrow, a plea of, it's not my fucking fault!
Hester stood up and came over but not before giving me a last look of, It serves you right for being a fucking doormat for her self-pity. She resignedly took hold of her sister by her limp hands and began gently coaxing her on to her feet. Then both Hester and Harry encouraging Izzy up the stairs to bed.
Above me, in the spare bedroom, Izzy's muffled complaints, her undecipherable fish-wife verbiage. I imagined Hester undressing her sister, kneeling to undo her strappy heels, unclipping her skirt at the waist before peeling it down over bare legs. Izzy as a comatose patient; Hester as her carer, struggling to slip a borrowed nightie over girlish bare breasts. Such thoughts and others did nothing to discourage my erection. And when everything was quiet above, I moved the fantasy on, frame by frame, imagined Harry fucking Hester with Izzy passed out at their side.
The next day at the table over breakfast, I looked Izzy in the eyes and asked her, "You okay this morning, Iz?"
A blank yet offended look. "Why wouldn't I be?" She turned and looked at Harry. It was as if there were secrets in the air — as if no one was sure who knew quite what was proper any more. And then Izzy turned back to me and smiled, asked, "What you and Hester got planned today?"
And then I knew I was, and always would be, just family.
That's when thoughts of Izzy began to drive me a little insane. She was no longer just one more fantasy I could dip into, one of the many women from my everyday world I pressganged into the service of my sexual interior. Purely non-sexual thoughts of Izzy began to fill my days, thoughts I was powerless to evict. Her name would trip off my tongue with inappropriate frequency, trite Freudian slips hanging in the air to condemn me.
And Hester noticed. "You've been looking at Izzy in that peculiar way you have," she told me one night after tea. "I hope you're not hatching stupid ideas."
"What peculiar way?" I asked.
"The way you used to look at me."
"It's my astigmatism."
"Haha." She gave a wry smile. "There's nothing wrong with your eyes, but your head's not been right since you let Izzy onto your knee."
"That's utter bullshit — and you know it."
"Just you watch yourself, mister. That's all I'm saying. You don't know Izzy like I do — what she can be —"
"— I'd prefer not to find out," I said, interrupting her and desperately wanting to believe my own lie.
******
And then Barrington came into our lives.
Oh, now it's backstory time about our young Izzy.
Izzy studied theatre at RADA, now acted, sang and danced, was desperate for the whole package: theatre and film. Last Christmas she landed a season in panto. Initially, just another girl in the chorus line, she became understudy to the actress playing Peter Pan, taking on the role proper when Becky from The Street came down with the flu.
We went to watch her first matinee performance. She had chopped off her hair, wore it pixie style, a look she adopted for her everyday life. In fetching green tights and leather jerkin, she cut a lithe and boyish figure suspended by wires. Leading Mrs Darling's brood off to Neverland, I thought her never more beautiful, watched her as if Tinker Bell jinxed, hardly believing feisty Peter the same neurotically insular Izzy I knew.
Since panto she'd landed no parts, made do by teaching dance part-time at community centres. When people asked, she would ham it up and tell them, "Resting, darling!"
Barrington was some guy from Narnia — that's what Hester and I called Izzy's theatrical world. He was a producer, maybe a backer or somesuch, or so Harry told me when I asked, "Who the fuck is Izzy talking to?" I'd spotted her at the bar chatting to a six-foot-four, impeccably tailored, middle-aged stranger.
"That's all I fucking need," he had groaned after saying Barrington's name.
It irritated me to see the diminutive Izzy hung on this slab of a bloke's every word, a need in her eyes I had never seen before. When it was her turn to speak, her hands moved like small caged creatures newly escaped from their hutch, fingers reaching out and touching Barrington lightly from time to time to assure herself the moment was real.
Only five minutes and I had the measure of Sebastion Barrington, saw how his attention wandered from Izzy whenever an attractive girl squeezed past. And this is not me retrospectively projecting. He could not let a young woman pass him without checking her out. It made no sense to me; he had the prettiest girl in the room mere inches away.
Another girl snagged his gaze, and Izzy reached out and gently touched his chest to fix his attention. She pointed to our table and Harry raised his hand.
I was twenty-four, assumed life held no further mysteries. But when Izzy introduced Barrington to our group that night, how could I have known that long-standing friends and family were about to become the enigmas I had never know they already were.
There were eight of us at the table, and Barrington nodded to each person in turn as Izzy called their names, concluding with: "Sebastion, you've already met Harry." Then turning to Hester and me, "And this is my big sister, Hester, and hubby Nathan."
Barrington stretched out his hand for Hester to take while intently looking into her eyes. "So much beauty in one family," he told her. Then turning back to Izzy, "You must introduce me to your mother, darling."
Hester gingerly lifted her hand for him to take, her eyes bemused, bright with ironic unease.
"Truly delighted, my dear," he said before kissing the back of her hand, his lips lingering long enough to arouse my concern.
He did not immediately relinquish Hester's hand, kept her fingers cupped between both palms while giving her a searching look. The usually indomitable Hester looked strangely disconcerted — as if he now presumed history between them.
"Why don't you join us, Sebastion?" Hester suggested, delighting in the first use of his name.
"I'd hate to impose," he said, reaching for a stool from a nearby empty table and placing it between Hester and Izzy's seats.
For the next half-hour Barrington held court, talked loudly about his new theatre project, his interpretation of Priestly's Time and the Conways, due to open the following week up at The Vic. The others listened, hanging on his every word when he told how the BBC was interested in his work. His voice was a mouthful of plumbs, public school nasal at its most obnoxious, and it began to grate on my nerves. I resented this ocean-going fish who had swum into my stagnant pond of a world.
When Hester went to the bar to get drinks, I followed and asked, "What do you make of this Barrington bloke?"
"Sebastion? He's certainly a charmer," she said while waving a tenner to get the barman's attention.
"I think he's a pretentious dickhead!"
After she'd ordered, she turned to me and said, "You're always going on about meeting new people, Nathan. Sebastion is new, and he's interesting — and better still, he's actually someone. Not like those loser friends of yours. And oh, I forgot to say, good looking too! What's not to like?"
"Have you noticed how Izzy is with him?"
"You know how much her acting means. It's her life, so please give her some slack!" She saw my expression: "Oh-my-fucking-God! You're jealous." She laughed out loud, picked up her drink and marched back to our table.
At first, I thought Hester was laying it on thick with Barrington to annoy me. Little by little, Izzy was relegated to the reserves. If she tried to join in the conversation, Hester would talk over her, would touch him lightly to retrieve his attention whenever politeness demanded that he pay Izzy her due. By last orders, Izzy was glaring at Hester with something close to hatred. I'd never seen her that way before, how her eyes never wavered, fixed on Hester as she and Barrington laughed and shared hushed intimacies.
Later, back at home in bed, I asked Hester if she fancied Barrington.
"There's something unique about Sebastion, don't you think?" She was silent for a moment. Then "— Something almost supernatural."
"You mean like, psychic?" She wasn't into all that shit. It was such a strange thing for her to say.
"Something superordinary then."
"Do you want to sleep with him?" I asked, already knowing she did.
"Is that a bad thing?"
"He's not what I had in mind when I said I'd like to watch."
"Shame," she said, turning away to flick off the bedside light. "He's exactly what I had in mind."
************
Six months later, I ran into Barrington again.
In the toilets of a club in town, already a little high and powering a diminished cake of fluorescent yellow around porcelain laid on by Armitage Shanks.
A figure loomed at my side, and I turned to see who was stealing my light. A moment to recognise him, suddenly unnerved by the intensity of the look he returned when our eyes met.
"Nathan, isn't it?" he eventually offered, his eyes settling on certainty.
"And you're . . . — Sebastion, right?"
"The very same, old chap. And is your lovely wife accompanying you on this fine summer evening — Hester, if memory serves?"
"Can't seem to shake her off," I said, simultaneously catching sight of his penis from the corner of my eye. For a moment I thought he had a boner. He held his cock with such intent; as if readying himself to give some wannabe starlet a damn good seeing to.
"I know, old boy — the bain of our lives. And that mousy creature — her baby sister, I believe?"
"Izzy? I thought you knew her?"
"Not biblically, dear boy," he replied. "If only it were so. We met for the first time after her spellbinding performance as Peter. She and Wendy made an adorable couple."
I did not care for his snark, zipped my fly, then went to the sink and turned on the hot tap. Barrington joined me, pummelling the soap dispenser on the wall before drenching his hands.
"The girl Izzy —" he began.
"— She and Harry have separated."
"I would have called!"
"Probably best you didn't."
"I thought the child was merely sulking. She'd got it into her head that she was right for Hazel Conway. Not quite what I had in mind."
"She's not been herself since Harry buggered off."
"Lured by the Siren's call, eh? All of us merely playthings for the gods."
"We've managed to coax her out with us tonight, though."
And when he came over later — as I knew he would — he had a tall and stunning blonde in tow, a Dutch girl named Joosje whose beauty I found hard to believe was God-sanctioned. She was unnervingly attractive in the way I imagined a teenage fantasy digital artist would render a High Elven female. She did not say much, seemed happy to enhance Barrington's omnipotence, whispering to him from time to time. She looked more suitable for the part of Izzy's sister than Hester ever would.
He talked us into joining him at the Fitzrovia Club, some private members affair he often visited when in town, assuring us transport was already arranged. Hester agreed without asking me, and so we tumbled out into the night, where I watched Barrington and Josjee usher her into the private hire waiting at the curb.
When it drove off without us, I turned to Izzy with incredulous eyes: "Did I just dream the abduction of my wife?"
She turned and looked up at me. Already tears were forming in her eyes.
A cab pulled up: "Taxi for Nathan!"
"I don't know what I've done wrong?" Izzy said before getting inside.
"What do you mean?"
"She knows how important Sebastion is to me — and you're no better, happy to let her throw herself at him."
"We have an understanding."
"Oh-my-goodness, an understanding! What an astonishingly hip couple you pair are!"
"Do you think I like the thought of her with someone like him? He's old enough to be her father, for Christ's sake."
She wasn't listening, had opened the cab door, her skirt rising over her thighs as she twisted herself to slide onto the seat. Her legs momentarily parted, the vanishing point of detergent white.
"Where to, mate?" the driver asked.
"The Fitzrovia," I replied.
Before the cabby could drive away, Izzy called to him, "Wait!" Then turning to me she said, "I know a better place."
"What place?"
"We should teach her a lesson."
"Hester?"
"Who else?"
"I think I'd better get another cab."
"I've seen how you look at me." She turned to me fully with eyes to challenge denials.
"I really should phone her," I said.
"She doesn't deserve you."
I took out my iPhone and fingered the screen. The machine picked up. The expectation of words undid my thoughts.
I texted instead: Izzy wants to go home. I'll see her safe then catch you up.
Is she okay?
Just being Izzy.
Should I come?
Do you want to?
That thing might happen.
Barrington?
Joosje too.
You're making me hard.
Joosje asked about you.
I'll come soon.
Be careful. Love you x
I replied, Love you too. x
We travelled in silence, and I thought about what Izzy had said, incredulous the night had gifted her me like this. Waiting all that time, now two buses arriving at once. I rehearsed my moves: the slip of my tongue between Izzy's lips, how it would curl in her mouth, over her perfect teeth. My fingers; her cunt. My tongue; her clit. My cock; her cunt.
And then her turning bodily to face me, her eyes intent on me in the sodium wash of the city. A moment before I understood.
Then both of her hands began their mission, unzipping my fly. No time to feel the chill of the evening air on my cock when her mouth took it into its keeping. I studied her expressions as her lips accommodated the bulk. From the outside, all was calm in our world; inside Izzy's mouth, an orgy of tongue-curling slushing and sucking had begun.
I caught the driver's eyes watching through the rear-view mirror. He held my gaze before turning on the radio to mask Izzy's slurping, my involuntary moans of surrender.
Home before completion, all thoughts of dropping Izzy off and continuing and meeting Hester banished like my rational mind. Izzy's mouth on my cock was worth more than a "maybe" from Joosje. Packing my cock away in its box along with its unappeased rage was a chore.
Izzy in the half-darkness of the hall, slinking against me like a welcoming cat; too close, too warm, too soft. No time to flick on the lights, her pressing against me, her warm flesh flagrant through the flimsiest of dresses, its feral urgency an ambush. Kissing her became a smug and beastly business. It was as if I were dreaming her — as if she were my creation, one I could do with as I pleased.
Kissing Izzy, the taste of my cock on her tongue. Both of us breathless, breaching the surface after diving for pearls.
"Are you sure about this?" I asked as I held her tight to stifle contrition.
She shushed me with one finger before taking my hand and leading me up the stairs.
The jaundiced wash from streetlights through half-pulled slats became the stage lighting for our betrayal, an unholy twilight that rendered her flesh sepia and half-shadows. The room's malarious hue gifted her flesh a bilious pallor as I watched her remove her dress at the foot of the bed, her arms rising to let the garment levitate over her head.
She was not wearing a bra, only panties that were not quite anything at all. Her breasts were a younger girl's; nascent — and yet fully arrived. She pivoted for me with the fey grace of Pan's Neverland. A wriggle; her panties gone. Slipping naked into my arms, where bones beneath flesh revealed her ethereality as an illusion. When I breathed her in, the hiss of air in my nostrils was the sound of her name, an unequivocal, Izzy,
The same flesh as Hester, Chanting it, believing it, finally understanding it. The certainty was electrifying. Perhaps that was the essence of it, the one fact that had brought me to this point, the cause of my obsession. It was my perverse grab for power, a bid for some privacy I could use to fortify myself against the hold of love Hester had over me? Izzy would be the secret Hester could never take from me. I knew then I had always given too much ground to Hester, that the secret of Izzy was sedition, my bid to overturn the tyranny of marriage.
But that night I had no time for causes. The wrong immediacy of it all was what mattered —taking the middle sister when the elder should have sufficed. What a cruel and delicious betrayal. The contrast between their bodies, their temperaments, their small ways of responding to my attention became a thesaurus of complexity. Hester's lovemaking had a fearless voracity; Izzy's reticence a counterpoint to her sister's bumptious certainty. I wanted to plum Izzy's fathoms, get to the bottom of her quiet assurance. It was as if Izzy had jettisoned all thoughts of propriety, stood her mind down only to burden her body with the responsibility of consequence.
I stood holding her, but a little to one side, as if displaying her proudly, full-frontal for some imaginary glamour shot. My hand flat on her abdomen as I savoured every inch of its steady descent. Two fingers worming while the curl of my palm against the down of her pubes doubled her pleasure. I stooped slightly to mouth her nipple, alternating between each breast while runaway fingers frigged her. My other hand became a clamp for the nape of her neck, keeping her immobile and in place as I enjoyed the easy squelch of her cunt, tasted the newly stirred pliancy of each nipple. She parted her legs wider than my fantasy rehearsals had ever scripted, her cunt ad-libbing, saturated beyond expectation. Such viscous wetness: like butter too long in the sun.
She moaned as a woman betrayed. "Oh-God, Nathan!" before twisting herself to escape the clutch I had maintained on her neck. Facing me full-on, she reached out for support from my shoulders before launching herself, propelling her lithe frame upwards and wrapping her legs around my hips. Her butt settled onto my palms raised in an instant, readied for dead weight. But there was nothing to her. A waif of a thing.
I became lost again in deep and sensual kissing before laying her carefully onto the bed. She watched me undress, said, "I think your body is beautiful, Nathan." She was touching herself, but her eyes never left me.
I knelt on the floor at the side of the bed and took hold of her ankles, then her feet, dainty and neat, manoeuvering her so that she lay sideways, her hips half off the mattress. I widened her thighs for access. My tongue, once unleashed, went in for the kill.
The redolence of her cunt was all Hawthorn in May; the long evening musk of her animal flesh was sweet and thick, heavier among the down of her mons, hardly masked by the apples and pears of Hester's Body Shop Christmas gift. I tasted her, found her cunt over-ripe fruit that collapsed at the advance of my tongue. She stretched her arms, sent hands reaching for my hair, clutching for locks that never were there — resorting to palms and fingers, using them to hold my head in place, exerting nuances of pressure to calibrate my tongue when I licked her just right. But a solitary tongue was not enough for Izzy. She raised her hips, expectantly, the upward thrust a demand that I fill her.
She bucked and billowed beneath me as if trying to dislodge my mouth, crying out with calls of, "Oh-God," loud enough to pardon a sinner. And I began to wonder, imagine if this was all an act. No woman could be so demonstrative, be so utterly aroused. And I remembered how she was an actress, that this might be her finest role to date. Hester had always said she was feckless, that no man could trust her.
As if reading my mind, she drew me up from between her legs, arranged us both so that we sat upright and faced each other.
"Are you in love with me?" she asked as if to humiliate me, and I knew then being here was a miscalculation.
"Do you even have to ask?"
"I want to hear it, for you to say it."
"It doesn't mean I don't love Hester."
"So you'll tell her about us?"
"Is there an us?"
"I wish she could see the pathetic look on your face."
"Do you hate her that much?"
"I love my big sister."
"Is this because of Barrington?"
"It's because of too many things."
But it was strange — that look on her face just then. It was as if Barrington and Hester were now the furthest things from her mind. What I saw in her eyes was something like the satisfaction of unrequited love suddenly attained, as if she had waited forever for this moment, now smug in its fulfilment. And I thought, Jeez, Izzy, Barrington was a fool not to cast you in his play.
"What are you waiting for?" She asked — the question as a taunt.
Was she expecting me to whimper and crumple, scurry away back to Hester? I dared not move, was pinned by the malevolent derangement of the self-satisfaction I saw in her eyes.
"If you're going to stay, you'd better fuck me now — before I change my mind."
It hurt to know she'd played me, made me the patsy that would help her deliver a double dose of pain to Hester's door. It made me even more determined to have her; before my world fell apart.
A collar for her neck, two fingers and a thumb squeezing either side, their cleft dead against the centre at her throat. But she was unfazed, held my eyes even when I tightened my grip and eased her onto her back. I took my cock in my free hand and guided it between her legs. She parted them quite readily, drawing back her knees to accept every anticipated inch.
I did not penetrate her immediately. Instead, I drew from her cunt and its palette of oils, slathering the head of my cock, sent it skidding this way, daubing the full length of her crack. Grease for her butt-cleft, the silken pliancy of her cheeks called for my cock's intrusion. I let the shaft linger and sink, slowly subsumed, squeezed from all sides. I wondered if she would take it that way, perhaps tell Hester later, send news back home, the ultimate revelation. An unappealable nail for a marital coffin.
But she twisted from me when I began my final approach back there. And so I fucked her in the usual way, propped on one arm with my free hand at her throat, her eyes daring me to finish. I was determined to give her something to remember, fucked her with punitive disregard for her comfort or pleasure. And all the time that my hips lunged and withdrew, our eyes remained locked. Sometimes my thrusting would be more than she could bear, and she squeezed her eyes tight, only to open them a second later, her composure renewed.
Her hands flat on my haunches. A palm for each cheek, expanding a widening fissure. When finally her finger found me, pushing through my sphincter's clinch. I groaned my resistance as it wormed and began to undo me. I marshalled my hips, gave one last thrust: Godspeed to my jizz, here's to a happy conclusion.
I rolled from her onto my back, lay panting as I reviewed my performance. I realised she had not cum, that she had denied me the pleasure of that most intimate moment: the giving oneself over to another in the trust of self-loss in orgasm.
She did not kiss me before she slipped out of bed, reached down and picked up her bag. Then her traipsing into the en-suite, a slut done with her john. I could hear her talking, giving our address. By the time she had dressed, her taxi was outside.
"Where are you going?" I asked.
"I thought I might drop in on Hester and Barrington. Care to join me?"
I don't know what she saw in my eyes at that moment, but she offered me a sly smile before saying, "Come on, Nathan. No need to sulk. You're going to love the fireworks I have planned for you all."
Hortense
- 23.11.2021
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