TABOO TALES(erotica)

Through the red haze of my lust I could hear her moaning, hear her voice begging me to fuck her again. I stood up and thrust my cock into her, burying myself into in a single plunge, the head forcing her vagina open and levering aside the clenching walls of her cunt to penetrate her deeply. She shrieked in pleasure, thrusting back against me to accentuate the strokes, her back undulating and her hips rotating so that I corkscrewed into her, pinning her down to the bed like a javelin plunging into the earth. Her cunt juice was whipped to a froth where we joined, creaming us both, flecks of it splattering over her thighs and my balls.

I fucked her hard – long, slippery strokes down into her willing body. I fucked her with all the frustration of the last month, each stroke a testament to the silent hours where I had played with myself, imagining this moment where I could feel the clinging suck of her flesh around my shaft and hear the groans and sighs of her pleasure. I fucked her to possess her, to defy the taboos of society, to forever bind her to me in a secret bond that only she and I would know; and I fucked her because I loved her, and this was the ultimate culmination of that love…. to possess her, to become one flesh – hers and mine, brother and sister, lovers together.

The pitch of her cries changed, becoming more shrill, and her back arched as she came. A spurt of her juice sprayed from around my shaft and she shrieked, her hands gripping the sheet. Her orgasm triggered my own, and I seized her hips and buried myself as deeply as I could into her writhing body. For a single moment of eternity time stood still, the spiral of my pleasure building rapidly until it seemed as if my brain would burst – and then my sperm erupted from the swollen head of my cock, sizzling hot as it hosed into her, thick and white like clotted cream, splattering against the trembling walls of her cunt. She ground against me, still coming herself, her vagina sucking at me like a greedy, gobbling mouth to draw my seed into her, down into the secret depths of her body and into the fertile field of her womb.

Gradually the storm of our lust passed, and our cries of pleasure were stilled. I withdrew, my shaft bobbing free, and she rolled onto the bed with a sigh of contentment. I climbed next to her and we held each other silently, each of us washed by the tidal wave of passion, each of us a part of the other.

We made love twice more before we slept – long, slow love, my shaft embedded in her as we lay side by side, or me on top, riding her gently, feeling the clasp of her body and the acceptance of her flesh. Twice more I spurted into her, soft orgasms in the quiet of the night, my seed entering her to lie inside her body.

And then we slept, our arms around each other, each of us looking forward to the new day.

******

Ninety miles away, my mother also slept, a fitful and restless sleep plagued with doubt and fears for her children. And as she tossed and turned a segment of the anterior communicating artery in her brain began to bulge as high-pressure blood encountered a blockage. At first it was a minor swelling – a tiny white protrusion on the artery, like a bulge on a bicycle’s inner tube, pressing against the surrounding tissue. Like a hole in a dam wall the flow accelerated, the blood building, pressure increasing. The swelling grew rapidly at its weakest point, the elastic wall of the artery stretching rapidly, the tissue bulging and distending until it could stretch no more – and then it ruptured.

She woke in the darkness, almost immobilised by the pain – a blinding, gripping headache unlike any that she had ever known, tearing into the back of her head with such intensity that she felt her skull would shatter. She stumbled to her feet, swaying, feeling her way to the bathroom where she sank down on the cool tile floor overcome by nausea. The pain was a blinding sheet of agony, spreading rapidly down her neck – a paralyzing, debilitating agony that consumed her mind and robbed her of rational thought. She tried to cry out but could not – and so she lay alone in her anguish until, in a little while, her consciousness slipped away and she embraced the comforting blanket of darkness that enfolded her.

Chelsea’s Story

The strident ringing of my mobile phone penetrated my sleep, relentless and shrill until I fumbled on the bedside table and answered it. The clock showed it was 4:53.

“Hello?” My voice was slurred, thick with fatigue.

“Chelsea, it’s Dad.”

“Hello?”

“Can you hear me?”Content protected by Nôv/el(D)rama.Org.

I fought to clear my mind. “Yes, yes. What is it, Dad? What’s happened -”

“It’s your mother.”

I felt the cold clutch of fear grip me. “What’s happened? Is she alright?”

“She’s had a stroke… they’re trying to stabilise her.” I could hear the catch in his voice, his calm a thin veneer over his tears.

“Where is she?”

“She’s here, in the hospital. Where are you?”

“Maryville.”

“Is Ben with you?”

“Yes.” I said it without thinking, my mind numbed with the awful news.

“You must both come home…. it’s not looking… she’s not good.”

“Of course. We’ll leave now.”

“Drive carefully.”

We checked out and were in the car within fifteen minutes, traveling fast on the empty roads, holding hands. Ben spoke quietly.

“You know, its now that you realise how much they’ve done for you.”

I nodded. “She’ll be alright, won’t she?”

He hesitated. “We don’t know very much, Chelsea, but a stroke is a pretty savage thing to have… we should be prepared for the worst.”

“Do you think it was us that caused it?”

He turned to me, his voice astonished. “Good God, what a thing to say! Why on earth do you think it is our fault?”

“She’s always been in good health… and you said that she suspected us, and then the minute we go away together it happened. Perhaps God is punishing us for what we did.”

He gripped my arm. “Listen to me. It is not our fault and God is not punishing us. She had high blood pressure and something let go in her brain. That’s all there is to it. Do you understand that?”

“Yes.”

He stared. “Promise you won’t think that again.”

I nodded. “Alright.”

“And promise we’ll have another weekend together as soon as we can.”

“I promise.”

“All right. Now try and sleep a little – it’s going to be a long, hard day.”

We drew up at the hospital a little after dawn, a grey sky streaked with gold. The night staff were just coming off shift and a nurse directed us to the intensive care ward. Dad was there, sitting numbly in a chair with his head in his hands and the three of us hugged, drawing strength from each other. He told us of how he had woken and realised that she wasn’t beside him, and how he had found her curled up on the floor unconscious.

“They’re working on her now,” he said, “they say it’s too early to tell.”

We waited, sitting in a line in the corridor, watching the clock on the wall opposite. At last the neurologist appeared, still dressed in her scrubs.

“Mr Rogers?”

“Yes?”

“Are these your children?”

“Yes.”

“Very well. She took us into an office and shut the door. “Your wife has suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage… do you know what that is?”

“A stroke?”

She nodded. “That’s right.” She seized a pen and drew rapidly on the whiteboard, crude and angry strokes that showed what had happened. “The scan shows significant bleeding under the arachnoid membrane in her brain, suggesting that the artery ruptured a while before you found her. We have done what we can to control the bleeding, but the extent of damage to the brain tissue is not clear.”

“How is she?”

“She is in an induced coma, but would be unconscious anyway. It is too early to test her vital signs.”

“What area of her brain is affected?”

“Speech, balance, eyesight primarily – and memory.” She shrugged. “The bleed was very extensive, so it’s difficult to say.” Her voice softened. “Mr Rogers, the prognosis in cases like this is generally not good. You should prepare yourself for the worst.”

Dad looked at her. “No. I’ll prepare myself for the very best outcome.”

She smiled at him. “Well, we’ll all work towards that.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m so sorry, I have to go. Do you have any questions?”

There were a million questions but none that she could answer, and so she left and we discussed our strategy – to have someone by Mum’s side 24 hours a day, taking shifts. Dad stayed first. He turned to me as I prepared to leave.

“Chelsea – would you mind giving me a minute.”

“Of course.” I watched Ben walk from the room, terrified of what my father was going to say. He was close to me, his face only a few inches from mine, and he knew that we had been together. I wondered if he could smell the aroma of our fucking on my skin or the scent of his son’s semen as it leaked from my vagina.