TABOO TALES(erotica)

Dirk’s pre-cum trickled from the head of his prick as he stared at the couple on the screen. His fist flew up and down his shaft, churning his juices to a white froth, and his eyes were riveted on the images before him. He heard the cries of her orgasm and saw the frantic pumping of Ben’s cock as he spurted, and he saw the dark stain of their lovemaking on the sheet below her hips. He imagined that it was his cock inside her, being gripped by the tightness of her cunt. He envisaged the spurt of her juices as she came, splattering over his balls and staining his thighs, and in his mind he could hear her shrieks of ecstasy ringing in his ears. His fist moved faster, driving him upwards towards his orgasm, watching as Ben bent over her again to thrust his cock into his sister’s steaming bowels.

With a cry of anguish, Dirk spurted. His first jet splattered over the laptop, his sperm dripping over the image of the writhing couple, beads of pearl white illuminated by the backlit screen. He adjusted his aim and squirted over the table top, long streaks of his seed glistening in the sunlight, each one lying closer to the head of his pulsing cock until the final few dribbles fell onto the polished surface in front of him.

Dirk looked down at the mess he had made and laughed. His cock was softening now, and he put it away. He found some tissues and wiped down the laptop screen and then he carefully scooped his jism off the table and into a saucer. He carried it through to the bathroom and soaked the head of the pink toothbrush in it, rubbing the sticky clots between the bristles, and he laughed again to think that Chelsea would be taking him into her mouth.

He returned to the dining room and packed up his computer and carefully placed it in a carry bag, together with his camera. He wiped down the tabletop and then gazed around the room to check there were no signs of his intrusion. The saucer he had used remained on the workbench, and he walked into the kitchen to wash it.

The sound of the water in the sink covered up the scratch of Chelsea’s key in the front lock, and the click as the door opened. The thick carpet covered her footsteps, so that she was only a few feet away from him when he shut off the tap. Her voice, when it came, was like a blow in his solar plexus that knocked the wind out of him with fear and surprise.

“Well, well, Dirk. Here to collect your grubby little camera, are you?”

Dirk whirled around, the saucer slipping from his grasp and smashing on the tiled kitchen floor. He gaped at her, his mouth open like a fish, and although he tried to speak no words came.

Chelsea was pale with anger, her eyes like glass shards. She advanced on him, leaning forward as she moved, and her voice was filled with her rage. “What the fuck have we ever done to you, you grubby little pervert? Did you think you could get away with it? Do you think that we wouldn’t know what you were doing, you little shit!” She watched him fall back step by step, his head turning from side to side to find a way out, but she had cornered him and there was nowhere to go. “Do you think to threaten us, you worthless little prick?” she said, and her words filled his head like a dentist’s drill. “What were you going to do, Dirk, blackmail us?”

His back touched the corner of the kitchen units and he stopped. She was in front of him now, her finger thrusting towards him, punctuating her words as they hammered into his ears. He stared at her, his heart pounding. His limbs felt helpless under the onslaught of her rage and hatred, and he knew that it was finished. His mind shut down the onslaught, the sound of her voice dimming so there was only her image, her face red and twisted in rage, and her mouth opening and closing as she advanced. And in that moment the image of her in wild orgasm entered Dirk’s mind: her lips drawn back in the same way as they were now, and her mouth twisted in the same rictus – ecstasy and rage juxtaposed one upon the other so they were indistinguishable. His fear fell away and he saw her as he wanted to – an unprotected female ripe for plucking, caught in a maelstrom of sexual desire rather than anger.

Dirk straightened up, his body uncurling like a leopard. For a moment they stared at one another, their roles reversed. A small smile curled his lips and his eyes flared with the joy of a hunter at the kill, and Chelsea suddenly realised the danger she was in. She spun on her heels, her body fast and lithe, but he lunged forward and seized her by her hair, snatching her head back and encircling her throat with his arm.

“Well, well, little sister,” he murmured. “Just as I was thinking about you.”

She struggled, her shrill scream cut off suddenly by the crushing pressure of his arm, and her heels drummed on the floor as he lifted her by the throat. He dragged her backwards and she fought him, her arms flailing, her elbows striking him in the torso and her legs kicking. Her hands clawed up and scratched his face, raking the flesh around his eyes, and her body thrashed in his grip. She jackknifed off the workbench, their bodies spinning around in a dreadful parody of a dance and they crashed against the far wall of the kitchen, his head striking the sharp edge of the overhead cupboards. It burst open and several glass tumblers fell out, shattering on the floor. For a moment he relaxed his grip and she twisted free, flinging open the nearby drawer to find a weapon, seizing a rolling pin.

For a moment they regarded one another and then she flung herself forward, her weapon raised. Dirk snatched a knife off the magnetic rack behind him and held it low, the blade angled upwards, and Chelsea ran onto it. He felt the shock of it in his wrist, the slide of the steel into her body and the suck of her living flesh on the blade. For a moment they were pinned together, her weight resting against him and her face very close to his. Her body was rigid, her lips bared in a snarl of rage and hatred, and then the strength went out of her. He heard the clatter of the rolling pin falling, and she sagged against him, her arms reaching out to hold him and the blood draining from her face. Dirk released his grip on the knife and she slid down his body and slumped to the floor.

He stared down at her, his fear and anger evaporating. She was lying on her back and the handle of the knife protruded from her belly, moving back and forth with the labour of her breath. Her dress was stained crimson and she was very pale, her eyes pools of shock and pain in the white mask of her face. She raised her head for a moment and stared at the knife, and then sank back to the floor. Her hands fluttered at her side like birds, the fingers red from the growing pool of blood, thick and dark as treacle.

“Oh Dirk,” she whispered. “What have you done?” She looked up at him, her gaze begging for help, but her strength and vitality were fading. She closed her eyes and her lips moved for a moment, and then she sighed softly and lay still. Dirk stared down at her, at the broken body and the white face and the snaking blood over the tiles and the broken glass. His mind flew back to the dust and the mud and the blood of that country lane, to the moment he had stood over the shattered body of his father and listened to his final words. “Dirk,” he said, “What has she done?”

The fabric of reason tore like a fragile curtain in his mind and he turned and ran, bursting out of the door and clattering down the stairs. Ben was there, running towards him, and Dirk thrust him aside. He flung himself into the street, his mind a maelstrom of pain and fear and terror, and he was a little boy again, running from the bullies in the school, running for his life. He turned to look and he could see them chasing, their faces red and angry, and he screamed with fear and helplessness, and he ran into the road.

He never saw the car. It struck him squarely and lifted his body upwards, his limbs windmilling as he tumbled and his body bent backwards, for his back was already broken. He struck the road like a doll, and Dirk heard the thump of his impact like a side of beef dropped in a butcher’s shop, and he saw him roll two or three times before he stopped. Ben reached him then and looked down. Dirk’s limbs were splayed out and his head was twisted, and his yellow eyes were fixed on Ben’s face. For a moment they were alive, flaring with the same fierce hatred that had hounded him to his death, and then the light left them and they turned flat and cold and empty, and his hair stirred idly in the morning breeze.

EPILOGUE

The old warehouse had been stripped out and converted to six apartments overlooking the Yarra River. The original framework had been retained with its massive hardwood supports that held the structure together, and a blend of fine timber and glass and steel had been skillfully interwoven between them to give secluded luxury with the solidarity of history.

Ben stood in the lounge on one of the upper units and regarded the view beyond the polished full-length windows. The river curved to the north towards Flemington racecourse, the site of the Melbourne Cup next week, reminding him that nearly a year had passed since he moved here. The river was busy, as always, with a procession of small boats and recreational craft plying its muddy waters, taking tourists back and forth through the suburbs of the city.

He heard a door close downstairs and turned as Cielle entered the room, carrying a shopping bag. She set the keys down on the polished table and embraced him lightly, her lips cool on his cheek.

Her voice was soft. “Hi Ben…. everything all right?”

He nodded. “Sure is, Charlie.” The family called her that, an abbreviation of her name in the phonetic alphabet – Charlie Lima, or CL, and he had taken to using it too. He watched as she opened the shopping bag, her eyes bright and her skin glowing with the lustre of health and youth. It had taken a long time but she was over the nightmare now, and could sleep through the night without waking in terror. She had tied her hair back with a bright piece of ribbon that matched the colourful top she was wearing, and she looked young and very beautiful.

“I heard from Sarah this morning,” she said, glancing at him. “She’s doing so well, Ben, at the special school. She’s looking forward to coming to see us.”

Ben smiled. He liked it when Sarah stayed. He liked to see how much she had moved on, progressing from the soft vacant vessel he had first met to a young girl full of life and hope. They had said she would never get past the mental age of eight, but here she was on the brink of a bright future. “When is she coming, Charlie?”

“At the end of the month. Mum says that she’ll bring her down, but she can’t stay. She’s off to Thailand with Jim.”Exclusive content © by Nô(v)el/Dr/ama.Org.

“And how are the two old lovebirds?”

She laughed. “Still in love. The police finally quit bothering him, and they seem to spend a lot of time traveling now.”

“And how are you, Cielle?” he asked quietly, “I never seem to ask that question, although I often mean to… I mean, really, how are you doing?”

She stopped and looked at him. “I’m doing well, Ben… really I am. Moving to Melbourne has done wonders for me, and when I move into my flat next week I’ll be just fine – honestly.” She laughed. “Sometimes I think Dirk did me a favour, you know – if he hadn’t done what he did I’d still be in Sydney, wondering what to do with my life. It’s funny how something good can come from so much evil.”

He nodded, recalling the funeral. There had been few tears as Dirk was lowered into the ground next to his father, and the healing process had been rapid for most of them, for that aspect at least. The fact that Cielle could even mention his name now was testament to the powers of healing.

Ben turned as the door to the study opened and a girl appeared, filling the room with a presence that not been there before, as if the lounge had suddenly been suffused with extra light and colour and warmth. He watched her slim figure moving towards him, with her clear grey eyes and the soft, smiling lips, and the familiar ponytail that shone in the morning sun. She was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a white top, and she looked beautiful.

Chelsea moved quickly to him and they embraced, her arms around his waist and her face pressed against his neck. “They’re here, Ben,” she said. “The adoption papers. We’ve been cleared!”

Ben hugged her. They had been trying for a while for a baby, but nothing had happened. He knew that Chelsea was worried about the genetics of their situation, and perhaps that had something to do with their lack of success. It had been fun practicing, though, in the big soft king size bed upstairs. Now the new identities that they had adopted had passed the test, and they would be able to adopt – a baby girl, perhaps, who could take them on the next wondrous chapter of their life together.

Cielle watched them from where she stood by the window. She could see Chelsea’s face above Ben’s shoulder, her lips pressed to his neck, her expression filled with joy and love at seeing him again – even though they had only been apart for an hour or two. Cielle felt a tightness in her chest as she always did when she saw them together, for their love was transparent, transcending the taboo of their relationship to be something pure and bright and good. They were the only couple she knew who could fill a whole room with their happiness just by being there, making everyone around them feel better too. She hoped that one day she might experience the same, but she doubted if she would – the chances of finding such a perfect unity were slim.

She remembered the past year: the dreadful trauma of Chelsea’s wound and the paramedics that had saved her life. She recalled how Ben had stayed with her every minute of her fight for life, his face haggard and his body somehow shrinking with despair as she teetered on the edge of blackness before the long, slow recovery. It was in the hospital room, as she slowly regained her strength, that they had decided to move away, and the process of finding the new home and settling in had done more for her recovery than anything else could have done.

Ben looked down at the top of his sister’s head and felt a great contentment. It was as if life up to that point had been a journey – some over smooth roads and some over rough, but leading only to this point of time. He pressed his face against her and smelled the crisp apple and cinnamon fragrance of her hair, and he knew peace.