TABOO TALES(erotica)

“Not really. He was much older than us, remember – well, nine years. That’s a lot when you are growing up. I wasn’t even at high school by the time he had started work. It was more a case of him tolerating me, I guess.”

She was silent for a few moments, fiddling with the stem of her wine glass. “Is there any more wine?”

“No – there’s some Port -”

She nodded. “Can you get me one?”NôvelDrama.Org holds this content.

I rummaged in the cupboard and found the bottle, and I poured a shot each. She sipped at it, staring at the amber liquid in her glass.

“Did he ever hit you?”

“Yeah – I suppose. Siblings always fight…. I probably deserved it, anyway. What’s this about, Chelsea?”

“Have you ever wondered why he left home so suddenly? Why he never keeps in touch?” Her eyes flickered to mine and then slid away guiltily, back down to her glass.

A sense of foreboding came over me, the portent of bad news. “Not really.”

She didn’t speak for a minute or two and I waited, giving her time to draw her thoughts together, watching her as she fiddled nervously, her little face set.

“Tell me you won’t hate me, Ben,” she said, softly. “I don’t think I could bear it.”

I reached over and squeezed her arm. “There’s nothing that you can say or do to change how I feel about you.”

She looked at my face for a moment her eyes searching mine, and then she nodded two or three times. “I think you mean that.” She suddenly lifted her glass and drained it, and then stood up. “Let’s go and sit down on a comfortable chair.” She moved into the little sitting room and curled up at one end of the old leather sofa, patting patted the seat next to her, waiting until I was settled.

“Will was very different from you and me – I guess because he was the oldest. Have you ever noticed that he and Dad didn’t get on? And how she doesn’t ever speak of her previous life before she met Dad? Can you think of two more different people?” she watched me shake my head. “Sometimes I wonder if he was his father’s son. Will didn’t speak of his childhood either – not once. I think it must have been difficult for him… not like ours.” She laughed nervously. “Wow – it sounds like I’m making excuses for him – but I’m not. It does explain why he was like he was, though -”

I interrupted. “How was he?”

“Moody, introspective, sometimes violent – but also capable of great warmth and charm. I was very close to him, and towards the end became obsessed by him.” She laughed, but it was ugly, without humour. “God – what did I know. I was only a kid. I started flirting with him in that last year he was here, thinking I was ever-so sophisticated… little things at first, like wearing short skirts when I knew he would be around, bending over when no one else was looking so he could see my pants or my cleavage. I thought it was harmless, a bit of fun. I even thought I was helping him… he had that air of sadness, like he had the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I figured I’d be the one to bring him out of it.”

She shifted her legs trying to get comfortable, and was silent for a few moments thinking back to whatever had happened. Her voice was quiet and I had to strain to hear as she continued. “He didn’t respond. Not once. Sure, he’d talk to me, just like anyone else in the family, but as far as my advances were concerned it was as if I was invisible. I felt… rejected. The more he ignored me, the more I became infatuated by the thought that I could make him care – Heaven knows what I expected… he was my brother for God’s sake.”

I reached over and put my hand on her arm, and she grasped my hand, her fingers cold. “One night I got back to the house – Mum and Dad had a University meeting and you were out doing something or other. The house was quiet. I went upstairs and as I passed by his room I looked in. He was there, lying on his bed, just staring at the ceiling. I went in and stood next to him. I’d been playing tennis and I was wearing a white blouse and a short skirt with little white knickers on underneath. I went right up to the bed and I stood there, with my legs slightly apart so that he could see under my skirt from where he lay, and I asked him what he was doing.”

She shuddered, living the memory. “He didn’t reply at first, then he turned his head and looked at me, and he said ‘Thinking of you, Chelsea,’ and he held up a pair of my pants that he’d been holding in his hands. The crotch was folded outwards and I could see a streak of silver on it. ‘You did this, didn’t you,’ he said, ‘your hot little cunt, thinking of me.’ I just stood there, trying to get over the shock of his words and the way he had said them. There was no passion in his voice – it was flat, without expression, and his face was utterly without emotion. And whilst I stood there, he suddenly reached out and grabbed my arm and he pulled me down onto the bed.”

I interrupted her. “Chelsea, you don’t have to tell me -”

She looked at me, her eyes like pools in her face and her voice was husky with emotion. “I need to, Ben. I’ve never told a living soul before.” She paused for a moment to collect herself, and then went on, her voice stronger.

“I guess I was surprised at first, and then I remember a feeling of triumph… you know, he’d finally taken notice of me. I fell across him as he pulled me down, but I wriggled up the bed so that I was lying next to him, and I put my hand on his chest, leaning forward to kiss him. He wasn’t interested in that, though. He only wanted one thing. He put his hands under my pants, trying to get them off, trying to push his fingers into me.”

“Did he hurt you?” my voice was outraged.

She shook her head. “Not at first. Don’t get me wrong…. it wasn’t rape. I wanted him, but it was all too sudden. Up to then it had been a bit of fun for me, you know, trying to get him interested – and then suddenly his fingers were in my pants. There was no foreplay; he didn’t even speak. It went from nothing to everything.”

I imagined the scene that she was describing – the cold, silent house, the two of them in his bedroom – together, on his bed, desperately moving in silence – he trying to get into her pants and she squirming, confused, wanting to find some tenderness but only finding lust, trying to make the best of what was happening.

“Did you do it?”

She nodded. “I even helped him. I undid my blouse and I slipped off my skirt and pants. He unzipped his jeans and he rolled on top of me. I asked him to be gentle, to spend a little time on me first, but he ignored me. He just thrust into me. I screamed … I’d never had anyone…. you know, he was the first. I wasn’t ready and it felt like he was splitting me open. He didn’t care… he just pounded into me, as hard as he could, and all the time his eyes were on my face, watching my expression as he fucked me.” She shivered. “It was awful. I’d expected something much better – you know, some sort of romance – a bit of tenderness. It wasn’t too much to ask for your first time, but he didn’t even speak. And then he came, spurting into me. I was burning inside… really hurting, but I could still feel him pumping into me and I could feel how much there was.”

She broke off and there was silence in the room for a few moments. She had her eyes closed, thinking about that evening, and then she continued, her voice flat. “After he came he rolled off me and got to his feet. I was on my back, my legs still open and blood on my thighs and his sperm was trickling out of me. He looked down at me and said ‘get dressed, you slut’ and he flung my clothes at me. And then he walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I was crying. I felt…. so abused – betrayed, I suppose. He was my brother, and although I shouldn’t have wanted him so much he could have shown me a little respect, at least.”

I squeezed her hand. “Did he ever say sorry?”

She shook her head and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “He never spoke of it again – in fact he treated me with disgust after that, but I’d sometimes catch him looking at me with a weird expression on his face. A few weeks afterwards I found I was pregnant and I told him. He laughed at me – said that it wasn’t his, and that I’d have a hard time working out whose it was.”

My heart went out to her. She’d had to deal with this alone. “Chelsea – I’m so sorry. How could I have missed it? I was there…. it must have happened right under my nose! Why didn’t you tell me – I could have helped -”

She shook her head again. “How could I tell anyone? It was my fault – I’d been the one trying to seduce him – my own brother. You would have hated me.”

“So what happened to -”

“To the baby? I miscarried before I was big enough for people to notice. It happened at school – I pretended it was period pain, and they didn’t know enough to tell the difference.” She was crying, the tears trickling down her face and dripping off her chin, and her voice was husky with emotion. “It’s amazing how strong you can be when you need to – and how stupid. You know, I still loved him, but he was so unpredictable. One day he bailed me up in the hallway, pressing me up against the wall and he put his fingers in my pants. He told me that he was having friends over and he wanted me to be there – to be nice to them. I figured he wanted me to fuck them. I told him that if he or his friends touched me I’d go to the police. Not long after that he had his car accident.” She shuddered. “I’ve often wondered if it really was an accident. I guess we’ll never know.”

I held her hand tightly. “Chelsea – whatever happened, it wasn’t your fault. None of it was your fault.”

She nodded but said nothing, staring at the fire. I could see that her mind was filled with thoughts of what might have been, and then she shook herself lightly and wiped her eyes again.

“So that brings us to today – different time, different brother – but you can understand why I was so reluctant to go with you. I must be a sucker for punishment.”

“It’s not the same. I’m not the same as him.”

“No, you’re not, Ben. I know that. But he was my brother and so are you. They say that you revisit the sins that you commit.”

“Would you go with me if I wasn’t your brother?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”