Ron Taylor - Hot for brother

On the few occasions when Alex or Amy had inquired about their parents' families and early lives – and this was no common occurrence; like most young people, the Messenger twins regarded anything predating as very ancient history – they were told a simple and very touching story. A young man, bereft of both hi parents, with no other family in all the world, meeting by change a beautiful young woman only just from the Catholic orphanage where she'd been raised. Rachel, the foundling left on a doorstep in a grocery basket, and Jon – love at first sight, lasting, eternal love.

Well, Rachel thought as she entered the shower and began to pirouette beneath the spraying water, some of it was true. The part about eternal love. No question about that. But… but… oh, God, she prayed, don't ever let the kids find out the rest.

It would destroy all of us. The children, for knowing, for hating us because they knew, and Jon and me in consequence of that. Four lives ruined. If only they'd been more careful. If only it had been different. But she tried to imagine her life without him, without the twins, and there was immediately a sensation of emptiness in Rachel's breast, throbbing where her heart should have been. She felt faint and with one arm she braced herself against the wall of the shower compartment, until that spell of faintness passed. Someday, Rachel knew, she'd have to come to a decision. Tell them? That seemed impossible. Then what about the Bible? She'd have to burn it, page by page, for someday she and Jon would both be dead and one of her children might come across that book. At the moment it was securely locked in a small box in her bedroom closet, hidden beneath a stack of other items, and she had the only key to that box. Why she'd even kept the damned thing all these years was a mystery. But it was an heirloom and there had been no one else to take it after… when… NO! her mind screamed. She could not risk Amy or Alex finding that old family Bible, finding in its pages the proof that they were bastards – that they were worse than bastards…

It was a Bible like any other, printed at a Philadelphia publishing office not long before the Civil War. Not particularly, valuable except to the family that had inscribed its record of births and deaths on the blank pages at the front. A traditional American custom – family Bible records were admissible as proof of identity in most courts, and in a more religious day the practice was a demonstration of a faith in continuity which seemed alien to everything in modem American life. Rachel still knew most of the entries by heart. And as she stood, trembling beneath the warm watery spray, trembling as though ice were sheeting down upon her body, she found herself remembering, against her will, that last sheet in all its damning simplicity.

All these entries in another woman's hand, also very shaky, emotion-distorted, as if their writer trembled while inscribing them. And that was it. She still had no idea why she'd felt compelled to complete the family record, as it was convict herself on paper where the same day read and know of her shame, of her guilt. Never! It wasn't shame, it wasn't guilt! She only wished in her heart that she could tell them, that she and Jon could speak to the children in truth and frankness. But it was impossible. She knew how she felt toward Jon, how he felt toward her. Theirs was a special relationship, and so strong that they'd had no choice. How could you explain to a pair of totally normal children that their parents were not legally married because such a marriage would violate mankind's oldest, strongest taboo and the laws of every state in the nation and every nation in the world? That she and ion had chosen to live together as man and wife even though they had been born brother and sister, flesh of the same flesh, blood of the same blood? How could they ever explain that to Alex and Amy?

Once upon a time, in a castle on the banks of the Susquehanna River, there lived a queen and her two children; a prince and a princess. Their father the king was away, in a fair and distant land. Except that it wasn't a castle. It was a shabby apartment building in a drab area, Harrisburg, and Mom wasn't a queen, she worked night shift in a factory. And the King? Was Okinawa, where he slept in an unmarked grave, a fair distant land? It was distant, at least. No, Rachel thought. There was no use trying to cast a fairy-tale romantic aura over her past.

Had it been inevitable from the beginning? Possibly. The apartment was very small, and the neighborhood so rough and vicious that Mom rarely allowed her and Jon to go out in the streets. Each night, when Mom went to work, her parting instruction was a command to the children to lock the door after her and not to dare venture forth or let anyone in until her return. So many nights, the two of them alone, cast into one another's company. When she had bad dreams, which was often, she tiptoed across the few feet of floor separating them, and crawled into Jon's bed, snuggling close to his warm body for comfort.

And Mrs. Vance! How could they ever forget Mrs. Vance? She was a war widow, like Mom, and she lived in the building across the alley. But where Mom had gotten a factory job, poorly paying and on the night shift, Mrs. Vance supported herself in quite a different manner. Sometimes she brought as many as ten men to her apartment during the course of a night, and she rarely closed her curtains.

On time Jon and Rachel were playing a game they liked to call "Mrs. Vance." Neither of them knew exactly what it signified – not then – but since it involved taking off their clothes and rubbing their bodies together, they were both aware that Mom probably shouldn't be told how many times they played it during her nightly absences.

It was a funny game. She'd lie down on her back, on her bed, with knees up and widely separated, tier body completely naked. And Jon, just as naked, would crawl atop her and move himself between her legs. His penis was small then, but capable of erecting, especially when he dared to rub his hands on Rachel's body the way Mrs. Vance's customers enjoyed doing to the busty lady across the alleyway. She could still remember how strangely, mysteriously exciting it was to have his hot little tool on her bare skin, and how red his face became, the stiffer his organ grew.

His cock got red, too, especially the tip of it where the foreskin had been removed during his infancy. She liked to touch him, knowing even then that it was naughty, but there was something about the way he responded. The gratified soprano cries of pleasure he made when her fingers grew active rubbing him – the way he'd sometimes cover her hands with his own, and wrap them around her fist so that she couldn't let go of him even if she wanted to… but she didn't want to, for his thing throbbed and burned in her hand with a passion neither of them understood.

By the time their bodies had begun to change, both Jon and Rachel understood a lot more. His voice deepened, and he started to sprout hair in his armpits and around the base of his cock. And he'd grown, too. He was taller now, several inches taller, shooting up like a weed almost overnight Mom used to throw up her hands in despair, wondering how she'd ever keep the boy in clothes and shoes at that rate. And some of that growth that transmitted itself to his thing. It swelled so much more in Rachel's hands when she was permitted to fondle him, and one evening, as she stroked and petted him in the old familiar way, something very unusual happened. He made a strange, startled face, gave a gasping cry, and his cock seemed to shudder in her hands, just before it squirted out a thick, milk-colored kind of juice, all over Rachel's astonished face.

For a time she'd been too frightened to play with him again, no matter how much he implored her.