TABOO TALES(erotica)

I guess I’d never given much thought as to how my sister was in bed, but it was clear that Chelsea knew how to eat cock. She held my shaft lightly with one hand, just a finger and thumb near the base so that she could control the direction and angle as it entered her mouth, using pressure and cadence to give me pleasure. To begin with she only worked at the head, holding it in her mouth by clamping her lips over the shaft just below the glans, her head remaining motionless as her tongue worked on me. She used the tip of her tongue to drill into the eye, drawing out the strands of lubricant I released; then reverted to a soft, undulating motion, flicking her tongue against the frenulum, curving it slightly around the contours of my cockhead to maximize my pleasure. Sometimes she sucked, drawing the insides of her cheeks together so they rubbed against me, her head bobbing gently to increase the sensation. And all the time she watched me, her grey eyes steady on my face, using my expression and the sound of my pleasure to judge how she should move.

As the sensations built she began to take me deeper into her throat, her lips sliding down the shaft, slick and shiny from her spit. As I slid into her I could feel the tight, narrow confines of her throat pressing against me until every millimetre of the shaft was embedded into her; and then she would bring her head up, tilting it slightly so that the glans rubbed against the warm, soft inside of her cheeks as it emerged, her tongue fluttering against it and the pressure of her lips increasing until they locked around the rim.

I could feel the inexorable rise of my cum, the pressure building in my guts in a long low spiral that threatened to engulf me. She sensed it and drew me out, playing me like an instrument, squeezing the base of the shaft to control me, slowing the languorous lapping of her tongue so that the pleasure built more slowly. Sometimes she would stop, allowing the shining purple head of my cock to slip from her mouth: and she would smile at me, her lips glistening with my juices and her slender white hand around the shaft wet with spit and discharge. And then, when the tsunami of my impending orgasm retreated, she would bend to her task again.

Towards the end I was begging her for release, my voice desperate, my hands on her head to try and hurry her on. And finally she relented, moving her head faster, long deep strokes into the very back of her throat, her spit running freely down the shaft, her mouth pursed so that my glans was rubbing against the exquisitely soft inside of her lips and cheeks as it journeyed into her. My consciousness narrowed, my whole being focused only on my cock and the slender young girl whose mouth I was fucking. My orgasm built rapidly, roaring through my body like a tornado, plucking me up like a mote of dust to sweep me higher and higher, tumbling upwards to the very brink of the stratosphere where the air was thin so that I had to gasp for breath. For timeless seconds I trembled on the brink of an abyss, spirals of white starlight bursting in my brain, my cock swelling impossibly harder inside her mouth like an overinflated tyre until it seemed that it might burst; and I felt the semen in my heavy, swollen balls growl and sizzle like boiling lava, until the dam burst and it raced up the shaft towards her hungry, waiting mouth.

With a mortal cry of anguish I came. An impossibly long jet of boiling hot jism erupted out of me to spray against the back of her throat. My hands were on her head, holding her tightly, and my cock jolted and pulsed and twitched inside her mouth as I pumped. It seemed to go on and on, long ribbons of hot milky seed drawn from my aching balls, racing along the thick shaft to burst out of me, each one drawing a primeval groan of pleasure as it splattered deep into her throat.

And in my trembling ecstasy I saw my sister’s face, her eyes calm and steady as she weathered the storm of my cum. She had tightened the grip of her mouth a little so that the boiling ribbons of my seed were trapped inside her; and then, as I watched, she loosened the seal of her lips to allow it to escape, thick white strands bubbling and dribbling over her lips, streaming down the shaft of my cock, drooling over her hand and wrist to finally pool on my heaving belly in sliver puddles of living juice.

At length the whirlwind subsided, and I released my grip on her head. She sat up and smiled into my face, her lips wet with my discharge. A thick cord of my cum hung from her chin, bobbing there for a moment before dropping onto her breast, looping around one nipple. She released my shaft and brought her hand to her mouth, her little pink tongue lapping at the sperm caught between her fingers, drawing it greedily into her mouth where it congealed, thick and white and glistening.

In the gathering darkness of that little room we lay in each other’s arms facing one another, feeling the slow drip of sweat and juices; kissing lightly, each savoring taste of the other, hearing our quiet murmurs of contentment. I was struck by the improbability of the whole thing – this was my sister lying naked in my arms, a crust of my sperm on her face and her soaking wet pussy pressed against me.

I thought about when she was growing up, her skinny frame and braces on her teeth, pubescent breasts against her school blouses, awkward and self-conscious. And then, in just a few short months, she changed – her body filled out and curves appeared, and the front of her dresses were suddenly full, and sometimes you could see the press of her nipples against the material, hard and dark. I’d changed too, going from total indifference to what she said or did, to wanting to see her – sneaking peeks when she was not looking, fingering the filmy thin underwear that started appearing in the bathroom, ogling down the front of her dress when she bent over. It was all part of growing up, I thought. I’d never dreamed that we would lie naked together, my sperm drying on her lips and my cock pressed against her vulva.

She raised one thigh, looping the calf over my waist, pulling me in towards her so that my shaft was pressed harder against the soft, golden curls of her pudenda. I slid my hand over her leg, dipping down to the soft, wet entrance to her body. I touched her lightly, my fingers brushing over the swollen lips of her sex, gathering some of the moisture that still oozed out of her body, then smearing it lightly over the crinkled portal of her anus. It twitched as I touched it, the sphincter tightening momentarily then relaxing, nibbling at my fingertips like a little mouth. I moved back to her vulva, dipping into her with two fingers. She moaned in pleasure, her eyes shut and her bottom lip held between her little white teeth, and her hand grasped my shoulder tightly as she writhed under my touch.

I thought she was ready – that there was no impediment to my mounting her and plunging my thick, swollen cock into her willing body. I started to move, but she opened her eyes and looked into my face.

“Ben – no, please. Don’t go any further.”

“I need to be inside you.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I just – can’t.”

“I don’t understand. You want it as much as me.”

She lifted her hand from my shoulder and touched my face. “Yes, I do, but -” she sighed. “I owe you an explanation, I know. Can we stop for a while? If I don’t go and have a pee I’ll wet the bed.” She leaned forward and kissed me, her lips soft on mine, and then she pushed herself up, and smiled down at me. “Don’t look so miserable. This isn’t a brush off, Ben – but we need to talk.”Exclusive content from NôvelDrama.Org.

“OK.” I looked down at my cock. It was still massively hard, with a strand of silver lubricant dribbling out of it. “He’ll be pretty disappointed though.”

She reached over and ran her fingers over it, grasping the shaft tightly before releasing it. “He’ll be fine – I’m sure we can find something to keep him happy.” She swung her legs over the bed and stood up. “I’m going for a shower,” she said. “Can you find something to eat? I haven’t had anything since last night and I’m starving.”

The meal was simple – a fluffy cheese omelet and salad, and some left over fried rice from yesterday’s Chinese takeaway. I found a tablecloth and a couple of candles, and a bottle of red wine and I tidied up the room whilst she was in the bathroom.

She appeared in the kitchen, wearing her dressing gown and her hair still damp from the shower. “Wow, this looks good Ben.” She watched me cooking, turning the omelet and then lifting it from the pan. “I hadn’t realised how hungry I was.”

“Can you light the candles and pour us a drink? It’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

She obliged and I watched her move about the room, small and neat, her face scrubbed of make up so that she looked younger. “Do you want a drink?”

I nodded, and she poured me a glass, the heavy red swirling up in the glass as she splashed a liberal helping. I busied myself finishing off the omelets, folding them onto the plates, garnishing them with a little parsley I had found, and I brought them over to the table, turning off the kitchen light so that we were illuminated only in soft candlelight and the flicker of the gas fire in the corner of the room.

She looked at her plate. “This is lovely, Ben. So how come you don’t do it at home?”

“I only cook for really special people.”

“Does that mean I haven’t been special enough?” Her eyes were mischievous.

“Absolutely. But you are now.”

“Perhaps not for long -” she was pensive for a moment, and then shook herself out of it and raised her glass, her voice brightening. “Here’s to you, Ben. Thank you for the meal and thank you for understanding.”

“Here’s to us, Chelsea.” We touched glasses.

We chatted about this and that whilst we ate, demolishing the main course and then some ice cream and tinned fruit I found in the cupboard. The level in the wine bottle dropped and the candle burned lower; and she became expansive, her voice a little louder and her eyes brighter. She had been telling me a story about how she met some girl when we were last here who turned out to be a total loser, when suddenly she stopped and looked at me.

“Ben, how well did you know Will?”

The question caught me by surprise. “What? Oh – well, pretty well, I suppose. As much as one knows anything about a brother.”

“Did you knock about together as kids?”