Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 Title: The Beach House


Summary: A project brings love to a brother and sister.


Keywords: inc,fic



   The Beach House

   It was mid afternoon when I turned towards home.  I'd been out in the
boat for an hour or two but the fish weren't biting and now I was on the
way back, motoring slowly across the bay towards the little harbour hidden
around the next headland.

   I remember the day with extraordinary clarity, for reasons that will
become obvious.  I'd chugged out to Castle Rock and moored under its sombre
shadow, dropping a line to try and lure one of the big groupers that I knew
lived there...  but today wasn't my lucky day.  And so I'd wound in the
lines and climbed ashore, scrambling up the steep slope to the very top
where the view stretched almost as far as Torbess.  A mild southerly change
had come through bringing clear air and a thin layer of cloud that obscured
the sun without diminishing the clarity and brilliance of the light, and I
was glad I'd brought my camera for the scenery was spectacular.  The sea
was a curious slate blue with none of the sparkle that direct sunlight
usually brings and it contrasted nicely with the dark obsidian of the rocky
shoreline and the reds and golds of the trees on the opposite headland. 
The fields up towards Murphy's farm had been harvested and presented a
patchwork of yellows and browns, each field a different shade separated by
grey stone walls and the darker greens of the hedgerows.  It was stunningly
beautiful and I sat there for a while, just soaking it all in.

   And now as I made my way back I was struck by the fact that there wasn't
another living soul in sight.  No other boats disturbed the tranquil
surface of the bay and the little country lane that threaded its way up
over the hill towards Thirlemere was empty of cars.  It was as if I was the
only living person in the world...  a single soul under the cathedral of
that pale slate sky with all the colour and detail of that astonishing
landscape etched out just for me.  And as I watched, a single beam of
sunlight pierced the cloud and painted the headland to my left in a soft
gold, and I caught a glimpse of the old Beach House hidden behind the trees
that grew down to the water's edge.

   We call it that, but it's really nothing more than a half wrecked
cottage towards the end of Brinsley's Head, separated from the mainland by
a narrow channel of turbulent water.  It's on our land, but we seldom come
here.  Rumour had it that a wealthy local landowner built it not long after
the turn of the last century to escape from his shrill wife and eight kids,
and if that is true he couldn't have found a better spot.  It's hidden by a
little fold in the coast and obscured from casual view by the weathered
trees that cover that part of the island...  a perfect little hideaway. 
I'd not been there in years but the shaft of sunlight seemed to beckon me
and on the spur of the moment I swung the tiller over and headed towards
the little spur of rock that serves as a natural harbour.  I had my camera
with me and I wanted to capture a little of what I could see.

   As I turned behind the spur I saw an old wooden boat there, its
paintwork faded and the wood dark with age, but the painter that secured it
was bright and the outboard motor on the transom was almost new.  I cut the
engine and coasted towards it, tying up alongside and hopping over to the
rocky outcrop ashore.  It was quiet: not a sound other than the lap of the
little waves from the wake of my boat and the occasional cry of a seagull
from the bluff.  I considered calling out, but something restrained me and
so I set off towards the cottage quietly, moving carefully over the rough
path and peering ahead.  The stone walls of the little ruin gradually grew
closer, stained by salt and bird droppings, with the empty window holes
gaping like missing teeth in a derelict's face.

   The last time I'd seen the cottage it was uninhabitable as most of the
roof had collapsed leaving the stone floor open to the weather.  Someone
had been here, though: one part of the roof had been patched and the
windows at that end repaired - rough carpentry, to be sure, but enough to
keep out the wind and rain.  The door was secured, too, and the front step
was clear of the debris that had cluttered it for so many years.  It looked
as if someone had decided to live here without our permission, and I
resolved to find out who it was and what they thought they were doing.

   The front door was shut and so I moved along the tumbledown fence
overgrown with weeds and nettles to the back of the cottage, picking
carefully through the shattered beams and blocks of stone scattered on the
ground.  The bushes were thicker here too, providing enough cover to allow
me to approach the back wall undetected, and I stood for a moment
listening. A low murmur came from within - too low to hear what was being
said, but it was clear there was more than one person inside.  For a moment
I thought about leaving but my curiosity was aroused and so I stooped
beside the shutters and peered inside.

   A shaft of pale sunshine penetrated the room and illuminated a scene
that I'll never forget.  A naked woman was kneeling on the floor, her
buttocks toward me.  Her face was turned away but I could tell she was
young by the shape of her body and the lustre of her skin: not a sag or a
wrinkle marred its glossy perfection.  Her elbows were on the floor and her
breasts were hanging down - full and ripe, the dark nipples just touching
the rug on which she knelt.  Her ass was elevated, suspended by the
delicious curve of her hips and the long, golden thighs were set apart. 
Her legs were askew like the awkward stance of a young foal: and between
them her sex peeped out, gleaming in the soft light like a piece of
luscious fruit - pink and moist and open, begging to be devoured.

   All that took a second to register, and I was so astonished that I took
a step back.  It was like discovering a cache of gold bullion under your
bed, something so completely unexpected that my mind recoiled and the
breath caught in my chest.  I remember standing there with my mind
whirling, the image of her kneeling figure stamped on my brain like the
vivid imprint of a strobe in a dark room.  Part of me wanted to leave, to
turn away and afford this mysterious young woman the privacy she had come
to find, but the other was compelled to watch: to discover who was with her
and to crouch in the shadows to see what she was doing.

   And as I stood there I heard the voices again - a murmur of
conversation, pitched low and full of longing and desire, and I stooped
again to the chink in the shutters and watched.  A second figure appeared
in my view - another woman.  She was petite, perhaps no more than five two,
and was slender and blonde.  Her hair curled around her ears to leave her
long, graceful neck exposed.  Her face was turned away, but I saw the curve
of her waist and the swell of her little tight buttocks as she moved toward
the figure crouching at her feet, and I heard the words between them.

   'Hurry Baby!  Do it!'

   'I will, I will.'

   The kneeling woman turned her face toward the approaching figure and her
voice was husky with passion 'Stretch open my pussy.  Fuck me with it.'

   'I will.  I'll open you wide.'

   'Hurry.  I need you inside me.'

   The blonde crouched beside the kneeling woman close to the satin orbs of
her buttocks and rested one hand on the small of her back.  She drew the
other between the woman's legs, her small fingers brushing over the
glistening wet flesh, and I heard a low groan of pleasure.

   'Ah...ah.  Inside...ah, push inside.'

   In the soft light I saw the blonde's fingers on the other's labia, her
nail varnish a brief splash of vivid colour against the swollen pink flesh;
and then they disappeared as she pressed her hand forward.  I watched the
woman's vulva stretch open to allow all four fingers to enter and I heard
her low gasp of pleasure as her back arched with the delicious sensation of
being filled.

   'God, yes.  Ah, yes...that's good!  Deeper.  Burrow deeper.'

   The blond bent her head forward to closely observe as she applied more
pressure.  Her face was close to the woman's vulva, watching as her fingers
slid into the warm oily flesh past the first knuckles.  She teased her
exposed thumb over the puckered anus and wriggled her hand.  Little bubbles
of juice oozed around her buried fingers and the kneeling woman groaned
again.

   'More, Baby.' She shifted her knees apart, exposing herself more.  'Go
deeper.'

   The girl withdrew her fingers a little and I watched her curl her thumb
across her palm before she slid her hand forward again.  The woman's vulva
expanded around her knuckles, seizing the invading hand tightly to stop
further progress.  'It won't go, Lucy,' the girl whispered.

   'Push.  Push hard.'

   I watched with baited breath as she pushed, her fingers jammed in Lucy's
sex.  For a few moments nothing happened and I heard her grunting softly -
and then the resistance suddenly melted and her whole hand sank into the
woman's body.  I could see her wrist encircled by the thick, wet lips of
the woman's vulva and I heard her panting softly from arousal.

   'I'm inside you, Luce,' she whispered.  'My whole hand is in your
pussy.'

   'Ah, God, yes.  I feel it.  Fuck, that's tight!'

   'Do you want me to take it out?'

   The woman shook her head, her body prostrate.  'No, no.  Move your hand
- ah!  Gently.  Fuck me gently.'

   I watched as she began to flex her arm, moving it slowly inside the
kneeling figure.  The movement broke the tight seal around her wrist and a
few strands of silver fluid escaped and trickled down her forearm.  Above
her wrist the puckered hole of Lucy's anus flexed too, giving glimpses of
the firm pink flesh of her bowels.

   'Harder now...go deeper.'

   The blonde pushed again and her arm sank into the woman's body a little
more.  From where I stood Lucy's vulva seemed almost half way up her
forearm and the girl rested her forehead on Lucy's buttocks, her eyes
fastened on the flexing anus and the fleshy ring of her vulva only a few
inches away.

   'Now...fuck me.  Fuck me deep.'

   The blonde began to pump her arm forward and back.  With each withdrawal
her knuckles were revealed, wet and shining with the woman's juices, and
then her hand slid back into the deep cavity eliciting a little grunt from
the prostrate, wriggling figure.  Every thrust forward seemed to bury her
arm deeper.

   I was pressed to the wall, my eye glued to the little chink in the
shutters as I watched the action before me.  The two women were joined
together, one inside the other and both of them grunting and moaning.  Long
streaks of Lucy's juice dripped from her friend's arm to lie in glistening
drops on the rumpled rug beneath her, and I could hear her sighs as she
buried her arm inside Lucy's snatch and the soft wet slurping of her vulva
as it stretched and slackened.  God it was hot!  My cock was like a log in
my pants and my breath panted in my chest as I watched the two girls
fucking, their pale bodies swaying in a bizarre choreographed dance.  I
remembered my camera and raised it to the window, watching the two through
the viewfinder, zooming in to fill the image with the blonde girl's head.
Her face was still obscured but I could see it in quarter profile: the
curve of one cheek and a little button nose and the swell of her soft lips.
Her mouth was close to Lucy and I watched as her tongue darted out,
brushing against the cleft between the woman's trembling buttocks, dabbing
against the soft white skin and then sliding down to flicker briefly over
the tight, puckered ring of her anus.

   With fumbling fingers I zoomed in further until the pale alabaster shape
of Lucy's buttocks filled the screen: and the blonde's head too - left hand
drawing aside the left buttock as she serviced her wriggling friend, her
mouth busy.  Her little pink tongue dabbing, dabbing against the brown
puckered flesh - thrusting like a little pointed arrow, the tip teasing the
twitching orifice, easing the tight ring of her sphincter until it expanded
to accommodate this new assault.  Bubbles of spit trickled down Lucy's
crack to where they were joined, mixing with the strands of silver love
juice streaming out of her body, churning to a soft wet froth at the rim of
her cunt.

   And as I watched Lucy reached the pinnacle.  Her body tensed and her
hands grasped the blanket, the knuckles white in a paroxysm of pleasure. 
For a moment she was rigid, every muscle in her body locked as she teetered
on the edge of her ecstasy, her cunt bulging with he friend's fist and her
asshole grasping and quivering like a little mouth around the invading
tongue - and then with a scream of pleasure she came.  A a sudden spray of
juice burst from the quivering lips of her cunt to splatter over the
blonde's arm in a fine silver mist, and her voice rose in a shriek of
ecstasy.

   'Ah, God, Baby, I'm coming, I'm coming!  Aarrgh, fuck, fuck!  Fuck me
deeper...ah, Christ!' Her body writhing around the thick arm of her friend,
her tits crushed against the rug and her head thrashing from side to side.
"Oh, Jesus!  Oh, fuck - yes, oh yes."

   The blonde's hand was deeper than ever before, and her mouth slid over
the quivering, twitching flesh.  She was riding out the storm, listening to
the cries and shrieks of her friend.  From my vantage point it looked as if
her whole arm was thrust inside the writhing woman and the strands of
silver juice dripped and dribbled from her elbow.  I'd never thought an
orgasm could last that long - it just seemed to go on and on with her body
jerking and the screams and moans bursting from her lips as she gyrated
around the living flesh embedded deep inside her.  And then at last it
diminished and I watched as her body gradually relaxed and she was still.

   For a long moment the two figures were frozen in that extraordinary
pose. I could see the muscles in the blonde's arm moving, almost as if she
were struggling to release herself, and I imagined that Lucy's vaginal
muscles had seized her friend and they were irrevocably joined together. 
But at last the blonde withdrew, her body rotating slightly as she
retrieved her arm.  Lucy's vulva gripped her hand tightly still - almost as
if it were clinging to it.  I could see the ring bulging as the heel of the
girl's hand reached it, and hear the wet suck of her flesh; and as she
turned, her face was revealed to me for the first time.

   In that moment I pressed the shutter and took the photographs that would
change everything.  I'd forgotten I'd set the camera to motor drive and
instead of a single frame it took a string of them: the blonde's hand
breaking free from her friend, the vulva still open and the last dribbles
of her juice oozing free; the blonde girl's face turning towards the
window, alerted by the sound of the camera; her image filling the
viewfinder, her eyes wide with curiosity and her mouth open.  A face of
extraordinary beauty: framed by a curtain of ash blonde hair with grey
wide-set eyes and a little button nose and soft, luscious lips.

   A face that I knew so well.

   My sister's face.

   *

   Afterwards I wondered how I hadn't recognised her.  Sarah, my little
sister.  Nineteen years old and as pretty as a picture.  I'd known her all
my life and yet I hadn't comprehended that it was the back of her head in
the viewfinder, and her voice whispering, whispering as she burrowed her
whole fucking arm into her friend's body.  But then again, why should I
have?  I'd not seen her face until the very end, and the last thing I'd
imagined was that my baby sister was a lesbian.  She'd had girlfriends, to
be sure, but I'd thought they were just mates...and besides, she'd had
boyfriends, too.  So what did that make her?  Bi?  Sex crazy?

   All this passed through my mind as I ran back to the boat and headed
home.  A jumble of images and thoughts - the juxtaposition of what I'd seen
and what I now knew.  Little Sarah, quiet and shy - virginal was a word
that came to mind.  Happier staying in her room to read a book than to go
out on the town.  Sarah, sweet as honey pie with seldom a bad word to say
to anyone.  How the hell did that equate to the Sarah I'd just seen with
her arm in someone's cunt, scooping the spit and juice from the crinkled
little anus with her little wriggling tongue and whispering words of lust
as she fucked another woman?  Christ!  If someone had told me Mother Teresa
was a hooker I would have believed it before I believed what I'd just seen.

   And had she seen me?  I remembered her face in the camera's lens,
turning towards me as she heard the clash of the shutter's mirror and the
whine of the drive.  Grey eyes, seeking me out, holding my gaze for a
single horrified moment before I staggered back from the window and ran. 
Had she followed me?  Had she watched as I flung myself into the boat and
fled?  Had she recognised it?  And why had I taken the photographs, anyway?
It was bad enough spying on her, but to take pictures for fuck's sake!

   It took me forty minutes to get back.  I half expected to see her boat
behind me, but the bay remained empty and at last I turned the final
headland and entered the little harbour.  I secured the painter and drove
home, determined to delete the photographs and think no more about it.  I
guess I was embarrassed and ashamed - but I was aroused too, and that
disturbed me.  I'd never thought of Sarah in that way and the image of her
pale, naked body as she bent over her friend had not only shown me what she
had, but given me a whole new perspective on her sexuality as well.  There
was no doubt that it was her who had fixed up the Beach House, and for one
purpose only.  So how many times had she been up there, fucking?  I
wondered if it was always the same girl, too - or whether she'd taken
others to lie on that same rug.  Did they do to her what she'd done to
Lucy, or was it more conventional?  And was it only girls?

   As I rounded the drive into the house I found myself wondering what it
would be like to be with her, to lie next to that amazing body and touch
it: to hear her soft voice urging me on, to feel her responding as my
fingers moved over her skin - touching, touching.  Dipping into the tight
wet crease of her pussy.  My prick swelled up again at the image, and that
made me ashamed too -- God, she was my sister!  But I couldn't help myself,
and I went to my room with a cock like a logjam in my pants and the image
of her body in my mind.

   I plugged the camera into my computer waited for the images to load.  It
didn't take long.  There were half a dozen - most of them grainy from the
lack of light, but clear enough to see.  Sarah, bent over the girl's back
with her hand still buried inside the tight, stretched vagina; Sarah's arm
coming free, shining wet.  Sarah turning with an expression of surprise on
her beautiful face and then a close up of the window-sill as I turned to
run.

   But it was the last one that was truly amazing, and I studied it
closely. The background to the shabby little room was indistinct - a
patchwork of grey and black shadow but that only served to highlight the
two central figures.  The kneeling woman had her hands on her buttocks to
draw them apart, her fingers pressed hard against the warm plasticity of
her flesh.  She too had turned: but not towards the window as Sarah had:
rather, she was looking back, gazing up at Sarah's face.  Her soft, wet
lips were slightly apart with a glimpse of her little white teeth behind
them, and her dark hair tumbled around her face in disarray, damp with
sweat and tangled in passion.  But it was the expression in her eyes that
was arresting - a mixture of pain and pleasure, which would be expected...
but also one of triumph that left no doubt who the dominant partner was.

   Sarah was behind her and to one side.  She had turned her head and was
regarding the lens with an expression of surprise on her face.  One
shoulder was towards the camera and her arm was stretched out, her hand
buried in the woman's body.  A single breast was visible in profile, creamy
white and surprisingly large, capped with a nipple dark with the hue of
arousal, and below it the soft curve of her hip and the satin columns of
her thighs folded beneath her as she crouched.  The camera had captured the
instant that her knuckles emerged from her lover's vulva, and the smear of
juices on her hand gleamed wetly in the light: and above it was the
crinkled portal of Lucy's anus, still dribbling saliva and slightly open,
as if Sarah's tongue had only just emerged.

   I sat in my room and gazed at the photograph, transfixed by it.  An
extraordinary image, for sure.  But it was more than just a dirty picture,
for it had somehow captured the raw sensuality of that moment: you could
almost smell the sharp aroma of Lucy's cunt and the softer perfume of
Sarah; hear the sweetness of their breath as it panted though their soft,
open lips and savor the pungent taste the juice scattered on the rug like
drops of liquid glass.  And it had transcended even that, for it revealed
too the emotional bond between the two figures - the lust and a sense of
desperation in Sarah's face, and a hint of contempt in the eyes of the
other.

   For the second time that day I found myself wondering if Sarah enjoyed
fisting, too, and if so what her pussy would look like stretched around a
lover's hand, and whether she tasted as good as she looked.  The image was
too powerful to ignore and I released my swollen cock from my pants and
stroked it, imagining her beneath me, her breasts pressed against my chest
and the fragrance of her skin and her hair as I fucked her.  Yesterday she
was only my sister and now she was the subject of lust.  The spiral of my
pleasure rose quickly, fuelled by the images of her pale body under mine,
until with a little cry I released my cum in thick creamy ropes over my
hand and shirt and pants.  And, God help me, I imagined it was in her, my
sister: painting her insides as she wriggled and gasped; filling her up as
she squealed in wild orgasm underneath me.
And as my cum subsided I understood that it was just a fantasy -- that
the chances of fucking her were smaller than a bee's dick; that the taboos

were too strong and besides, her sexuality lay in other directions.

   But I realised too that I was hooked, and that no matter what the risk I
had to watch her again.

   *****

   'I need to speak to you, Michael.' Sarah's voice was soft and she
plucked at my sleeve with nervous fingers.

   It was a week since that afternoon and although I'd waited in
anticipation she'd said nothing to me.  If anything she'd avoided me,
although I had to admit that we'd both been busy during the week.

   'Sure, Sarah.  What, now?'

   She nodded and led me outside across the lawn to the little gazebo
overlooking the sea.  I could see Brinsley's Head in the distance and it
reminded me yet again of what had happened.  As if I needed reminding - it
had filled my head every waking moment and I longed for the next
opportunity to watch.  The difficulty was finding out when she was going,
and then arranging to be there before her.  After the last experience she'd
be doubly careful to be alone with her friend.

   She sat down and patted the seat next to her.  I saw that she'd put on a
clean dress and a little make up, and her hair was pulled back in a pony
tail that shone like spun gold in the sun.

   'What can I do for you?'

   She was silent for a moment, thinking, and then she turned to me.  'Do
you remember the old cottage on Brinsley's?'

   I nodded, my heart pounding in my chest.  This was it - the
confrontation.  The accusations of watching her, the anger and the tears to
follow, and then the shame.

   I dragged my eyes to her face.  'The old wrecked one?' I said, as
casually as possible.  'There's not much left from what I remember.'

   She nodded.  'I want to repair it.'

   I regarded her with astonishment.  This wasn't what I expected at all.
This wasn't an accusation of voyeurism - it was a plea for help, and what
was even more amazing was that she was asking me to collaborate on her
secret hide-away -- the place she had found to take her lover where she
thought it was safe.  That made it a secret no longer, which meant that
she'd have to find somewhere else - and the chance of watching her again
had suddenly gone.

   'What the hell for?  It's derelict!' I guess my voice was harsh,
reflecting my disappointment.

   Sarah blinked at the intensity of my response.  'Well,' she said
timidly. 'I just thought it would be nice to fix it up a bit.  You know, so
we could go over and sleep there -- us, or perhaps our friends.  We could
share it, you know -- you have your mates and I have mine -'

   'But it's wrecked!  No water, no electricity, no roof -"

   She shook her head.  'I've done a bit of work already.  Not much, but it
showed me what could be done.' She rested her hand on my arm and I felt the
warmth of her touch though my sleeve.  'I need your help though.  I'm not
talking about making it into a Taj Mahal...it would just be a rough sleep
out...you know, with oil lamps and cooking on a fire.  There's water in a
stream up there -- we could put in a tank and rough plumbing, fix the roof
and windows.' Her grey eyes were on my face.  'It would be fun, to sleep
over.'

   'If you start putting things in the house they'd be stolen.'

   She nodded.  'I know.  That's why we'd fix the doors and windows.  There
used to be a fence there too.  We could repair that as well to stop people
getting close and we could put signs up to keep people away.'

   I stared at her, suddenly aware of what she was doing.  Sarah wasn't
really offering to share the cottage with me -- she was asking my help to
make it secure.  Safer for her and her friend to play, without fear of
interruption.  I realised too that it would put me in an ideal position
because I'd have a key and I'd know where the peepholes were...hell, I
could even build some in, if I wanted.  Not only that, but I'd know when
she was going to be there because we'd run a booking system.  The prospect
of spying on my sexy little sister suddenly seemed a lot closer.

   'What about the folks?  What did they say?'

   Sarah shrugged.  'You know what they're like.  Mum just said 'that's
nice dear' and Dad agreed provided it didn't involve any work for him.' She
laughed.  'I did get him to give me some money though.'

   'Really?  How much?'

   'Two thousand.  And I reckon he's good for more if he thinks we're doing
a good job.'

   I thought about it.  Winter was coming up which was always quiet, and
the thought of being close to Sarah for a few weeks to work together on the
project was very attractive.  And at the end of it I'd have the chance to
watch her again - as many times as I wanted.  The vision of her crouching
on the floor of the cottage suddenly appeared in my mind: the warm
plasticity of her body, lean and hard, and how her breasts had looked with
their erect pink nipples.  Those same breasts were peeping from her dress
now, and I felt my cock twitch in my pants at the thought of seeing them
naked.

   'So do you have a plan?' I asked.

   She nodded, her eyes bright.  Her hand was still on my arm and I felt
her fingers moving slightly.  'We need to take a bunch of stuff over --
timber and cement and tiles for the roof.  You could get your mates -'

   'No.'

   She regarded me with surprise.  'Why not?  We'd need help.'

   'This is just you and me, Sarah.  We do the work, we use the cottage. 
No one else.  Nobody else will know.'

   'Why, Michael?'

   I shrugged.  'Because that's my terms.  I don't want others to do
this...it's a fantastic project and you and I can do it, and the less
people who know the safer it will be when we're done.'

   She nodded slowly.  'Would we be able do all the work though?'

   I smiled.  'We'll head over there tomorrow and have a look, and I'll
tell you then.'

   *

   It was strange going back, climbing up the path where I'd been only a
week ago.  That time I'd crept there like a thief but now I followed Sarah,
watching the roll of her tight little buttocks in her stretch pants and
listening as she talked.

   We stopped in front of the structure and she pointed out what she'd
done. I could see the rough patching she'd made on the windows and the
door, and how she'd nailed an old tarp to the roofing timbers on the
northern end.  She took me inside and showed me the single room she'd
cleared.  The rug was nowhere to be seen.

   'So what do you think?' she asked, when I'd seen it all.

   'Technically, its not difficult.  We take the old roof off and replace
the trusses.  The old anchor points to the walls are probably still OK and
we'll use colorbond steel for the roof covering itself.  I reckon a month
for the roof once we've got the materials here...which is the hard part.'

   'What about the rest?'

   'New frames for all the windows and the door.  We can fit stock windows
once they're in which will save some time.  Another month.'

   'And then what?  How long?'

   'As long as you want, Sarah, depending on what you do.  Plumbing,
electrics, painting, fixing, cleaning.  Perhaps even a new floor.' I
laughed.  'Another month or another year.  Just depends how flash you want
it.'

   She laughed with me, infected by my enthusiasm.  'So what's the hard
part?'

   'Getting the materials here.  There's hundreds of kilos of stuff --
timber, metal, cement - '

   'So how do we get them here?'

   'Same way as we did, and we lug them up the hill by hand.'

   'Christ!' Sarah looked doubtful for the first time.  'Can we do that?'

   'Sure -- in small loads.  But it will be hard work.  Are you sure you
want to do this?  Once we start I won't let you quit.'

   She turned and looked out over the bay, her face thoughtful.  'This is a
special place,' she said at length.  'I realised that when I tried to fix
it, but I couldn't do it myself.  I needed help.' Her grey eyes moved to
mine.  'I want it, Michael, more than anything.  I won't quit.'

   'And what's the deal when it's done?'

   She regarded me.  'What do you mean?'

   'Suppose we both want to use it at the same time?'

   'We'll have a booking system.  First come, first served.  If there's a
conflict then we'll work it out.'

   'So you won't ever want to share it -- both here together?'

   'Maybe -- but there'll be times when I want it for me and my friends
too.' She smiled to rob her words of any offense.  'And we'll have plenty
of time together in the next few months.'

   I nodded.  The prospect of watching her with her friends and also being
with her was very appealing.

   That night my dreams were full of Sarah, kneeling on the cold stone
floor of the Beach House.

   I enter the room on silent feet and stand behind her, and I see both her
hands in the body of the woman lying before her, the fingers and wrists
held tight together to slide into the tight greasy flesh of her vagina. 
Ah, Sarah, my dirty little sister!  What are you doing?

   The woman's eyes following me, watching as my cock rears cobra-headed
from my thighs until it stands like a baseball bat, red and oozing.  I can
see my lust mirrored in the dark windows of her eyes as she understands
what is to be done.

   'Fuck her, Michael,' the woman whispers.  'Fuck your little sister,' and
I see the ripple of her muscles and the sudden grip of her vulva on Sarah's
forearms, clamping down like a steel vice to trap her, forcing her elbows
to the floor.  I hear my sister cry out like a trapped animal as she is
held there.

   With trembling hands I seize her hips and she whimpers at my touch, a
little sound of fear and helplessness as she feels the bulbous shape of my
knob pressing into her like a ripe Satsuma plum.  The woman laughs, a low
sound of malice and glee, and her voice is as jagged as a broken bottle.

   'Fuck the little slut,' she whispers, and she holds the slender wrists
in a grip of iron.

   My shaft plunges into the depths of my sister's body though the narrow
portal of her cunt, pressing aside the tight wet flesh to bury itself deep
in her innards like a Samurai's sword.  I hold apart her buttocks to watch,
to see the ring of her vulva stretched as tight as piano wire around me,
and I marvel at the heat and plasticity of her body.

   'Fuck her,' the woman whispers, and she laughs a low, throaty sound as I
began to pump.

   Sunlight streams in through gaps in the roof to cast a dappled spectrum
of light and dark over my sister's slender body.  She rests her face in the
woman's pudenda and her hair falls like a golden curtain across the
sun-browned thighs and belly.  I imagine her tongue flicking, flicking like
a lizard into the steaming wet recess of Lucy's cunt, lapping at the ring
of flesh gripping her, scooping the beads of silver and pearl juice into
her hungry mouth: and all the time I fuck her -- long, glorious strokes
into the tight harbour of her cunt, a rim of white at its lips and my shaft
stiffer and longer than ever before.

   'Fuck her,' the woman moans.  'Fill her hungry cunt with her brother's
seed.a'

   And I bear my weight down on her, pumping down into the hungry maw
through the narrow pelvic girdle, feeling the head of my cock battering her
cervix and hearing her moans though the onslaught.  So far inside her, so
far inside.  Ah!  Ah!  My dirty sister.  My little cunt-eating slut.  This
is what you want, isn't it?  Take what I have, Sarah!  Enjoy what your
brother can give you.

   The tempest of my cum expanding in my brain, seizing control of every
sense until there is nothing except the three of us.  The woman's face on
mine, smiling as she sees the rising storm, laughter on her lips and malice
in her heart.

   'Fill her,' she shrieks.  'Fill your little sister's belly!

   My sperm bursting into you, Sarah, and your eyes are on mine, grey and
wide and filled with fear as you feel my seed spurting in your belly.  A
geyser of steaming hot sperm spraying, spraying, filling you up --
dribbling from the lips of your cunt as I pump, drooling and splattering
over the dusty stone floor to lie in shining puddles in the sunlight.

   So much sperm for my little sister, so much sperm for a dirty little
slut.

   *

   The next day I started planning, drawing up the lists and ordering the
timber and the steel and the cement and figuring out how we'd get it there.
Sarah had a final assignment to finish and so I didn't see much of her
during the day but at night she'd ask how I was going and I'd show her the
drawings and we'd talk briefly before she'd go upstairs.  We didn't say
much -- she seemed shy and reserved and my brain was filled with the images
I'd seen.  And after she'd gone I'd turn on the computer and stare at the
pictures I'd taken, and I would stroke my rising cock and dare to dream. 
It was fantasy, of course, but it seemed to me that she was a lost soul and
that I was in control-- and that somehow, if I played my cards right,
anything was possible.

   I guess my perception of Sarah had changed.  She was beautiful and
bright, to be sure, but now I knew that beneath the perfect smile and the
impeccable manners she was a slut - after all, I'd seen it, hadn't I?  Nice
girls didn't put their arms in someone else's cunt and so she couldn't be a
nice girl at all.  She was a slut, plain and simple, and that made it just
fine for me to think of as I liked.  I looked forward to when the work was
finished and I could sneak up to the cottage to watch her.  Perhaps I'd get
more photographs, too.  Perhaps one day...

   We started the work a week later.  We took a metal shed to the island
and assembled it in the back garden, hidden beneath the trees, and that
saved us carting the tools and the generator back and forth.  In the first
week we pulled down the remains of the roof, stacking the slate and the old
timber on the side and cleaning up the stonework to accept the anchor
points for the roofing trusses.  It was cold in the early morning but by
lunch-time the sun reached us and we worked in jeans and tee shirts.  This
part of the work required both of us and so we were close, balanced on
ladders together or on the rough stone walls, lifting and clearing and
chipping.  To begin with Sarah couldn't keep up and I could see she was
suffering each morning, but after a couple of weeks the pain and stiffness
past and her arms were burnished brown by the sun.  She looked fit too: her
waist even trimmer and her arms smoothly muscled under the satin gloss of
her skin.

   I watched her -- God, how I watched her!  In the boat as she sat in the
bow, her face alight with excitement and her enthusiasm for the day
bubbling like a cauldron; and as she worked, her lithe body moving around
me, lifting and carrying, bringing me things that I needed with a ready
smile and a laugh.  Her shyness seemed to diminish and she began to talk,
and I watched her as she sat beside me during the breaks we took, listening
to her talking and the way she moved her hands with her long slim fingers
and her slender wrists, and the tilt of her head as she laughed at
something I'd said; and then at night I'd steal up to my bedroom to look at
the pictures of her, and I'd touch her naked image with my fingertips and
try to relate the experiences of the day to the raw sexuality exposed in
the grainy images that flickered on the computer's screen.

   And as time went by I found it harder and harder to relate the two.  She
was bright and funny and smart, and a hard worker.  She never complained
nor gave up if she couldn't do a task I'd given her: and I found she was
clever too.  I taught her about building: the purlins and rafters and ridge
caps and spans, and she learned quickly and thought on her feet so that she
could soon do many things as well as me, and sometimes better.  But more
than that she had a generous spirit, not just with me but with everyone she
spoke about, and it's hard not to like someone like that.

   One morning we were sitting on the edge of the wall, eating our
sandwiches and looking out over the bay.  One leg was curled under the
other and I let my eyes roam over her whilst she was looking away.  Her
breasts were perky under the singlet and I could see a few stray hairs
peeping out from the leg of her cut-off shorts.

   'You know,' she said, turning back to me suddenly.  'I never really
thanked you for doing this.'

   I hastily looked elsewhere, but not before she'd caught me looking.  'No
you didn't,' I replied, 'but I'm sure I'll think of a way you can.'

   She glanced down to see what I'd been looking at and a faint flush of
embarrassment stained her cheeks.  She moved her leg and adjusted herself
without speaking, and the silence stretched empty for a minute or two.

   'I'm sorry,' she said at length.  'I should have worn
something...longer.'

   I shook my head.  'No, you shouldn't.  I - like what you have on.  I
like looking at you.'

   'Really?' She laughed self-consciously and her hands moved briefly to
her hair to touch and smooth it, as women do.  'I must look like a wreck.'

   'No.  You look lovely.  I love the way you look.'

   'Well -- thank you, Michael.' Her grey eyes were on my face.

   'You're welcome.'

   'I never really knew you, you know,' she said shyly.  'Do you feel the
same?' She laughed nervously.  'I mean, you're my brother, but I didn't
really know you.  Somehow I feel that's changing now.'

   'It's the same for me, Sarah.' It was, too.  Over the past few weeks
she'd gradually opened up, talking of things that we had never shared
before -- what she thought of her friends and our parents, the struggles
she'd had at school and even a bit about me.  She had a quirky sense of
humour and I found myself looking forward each day keen to being with her
-- to see her slow smile and watch her trim young body working, her grey
eyes serious as she did some task I'd given her.  I'd grown to love her
little idiosyncrasies too -- the way she brushed her forehead with the back
of one hand to keep the hair from her eyes, and how her little pink tongue
peeped from between her lips when she was concentrating.

   'No matter where our lives take us I'll always think of these days,' I
told her.  'I think they will be hard to beat.'

   She glanced at me with soft eyes and put her hand in mine.  She didn't
say anything but for the first time I knew she felt the same...I could feel
it in the warmth of her touch in this first intimacy between us.  We sat in
silence for a while, gazing out over the bay, watching the fishing boats
heading out from Torbess and the smoke from the chimneys of cottages
scattered along the foreshore.

   'It's beautiful,' she said at last.  'Just like our cottage.  Who will
you bring here, when its finished, Michael?'

   I thought about it.  The truth was that the Beach House had come to mean
something special -- its psyche irreversibly locked into the girl sitting
beside me.  When we'd started the project I'd thought she was a slut but
now I realised I'd been wrong.  It was difficult to reconcile what I'd seen
with the person that I'd got to know, and I found myself wondering how her
time with Lucy had happened.  Perhaps it had been just that once -- some
sort of aberration, a little experiment.

   And in that moment I realised that my feelings for her had changed.  I
guess I'd built up a dream where she and I would live here together, shut
away from the rest of the world -- just her and me.  It was stupid, I know:
first the sexual obsession and now something much deeper -- the need to be
with her, to share more than just a few hours each day.  It was an
impossible dream, I knew, but I couldn't help myself even though she hadn't
shown the slightest interest in me beyond a sibling friendship.

   I felt her eyes on my face, waiting for my answer.  'I don't know,
Sarah...I hadn't thought of it.' I said.  I glanced at her, at those
beautiful grey eyes.  'But I think it would be you.'

   'Me?  Surely you have other friends -- it will be...well, a quiet place.
You'll not be disturbed here.' I could see she was picking her words, but
the meaning was clear.  You can bring your friends here to fuck, and I'll
bring mine.  If only she knew.

   'I think it's a special place...you know, our place.  Yours and mine.' I
explained.  'We've made it special, Sarah, and we've put a bunch of
memories into it.' I looked at her.  She was still regarding me, the sun on
her face and her lips soft and wet.  Sarah -- my Sarah.  How the hell had I
never realised how amazing she was -- how beautiful and talented, how funny
and hard working.  If only she was mine!  I had a sudden vision of her
kneeling naked on the rough stone floor with the dark haired woman, and I
found my scorn had transcended to jealousy.

   'I think we should be very careful not to invite anyone who might
threaten that,' I continued.

   'Well, who's an old romantic!' She squeezed my hand.  'We'll keep it for
special people, then.  Now, we need to start again, lazybones.'

   She went to release my hand and get up but I held her fingers to stop
her going.  'Do you have anyone special, Sarah?'

   Her eyes were suddenly watchful.  'Maybe,' she said carefully.

   'Well -- do you or don't you?'

   'Maybe.  I'm just not sure if -' she broke off and shook her head, her
eyes on my face.  'Why do you want to know?'

   'Just asking.  You've never told me.'

   'Why should I, Michael?' she asked gently.  'Can't I have secrets too?'
She released her fingers from mine and stood up, balancing on the wall and
looking down at me.  'We've been close these last few weeks,' she said,
'and I love that.  But we are each our own person too.  I have my secrets
and you have yours, and it's best we don't go there.'

   She climbed down the ladder and I watched her go, picking through the
rubble below to finish the task I'd set her.  Her hair shone in the morning
sun and she was beautiful, and I thought my heart would break.

   *

   Three weeks later we finished the roof and Sarah and I had a little
celebration, just the two of us.  Nothing much -- a bottle of champagne and
some chicken and salad.  She'd cleared a little area to the front of the
house and she called me to join her.  She was sitting on a rug with her
legs folded underneath her in that amazing double-jointed way that women
have, looking back at the cottage as I approached.

   I sat down and she passed me a drink, lifting her glass to mine.  'To
us,' she said simply.  'And what we've achieved.'

   We sat and sipped our drinks and looked at the cottage.  The new roof
was pitched steeper than the old one and it had given it a completely new
character.  I saw that the shape and balance was right, and its colour too.
What had been a derelict wreck was suddenly an inviting dwelling, even
though the windows and doors weren't fitted yet.  It would be amazing when
it was done.

   'So what's next' Sarah asked.

   'Doors and windows, then repoint the mortar.  Then we can start on the
inside.'

   'How long before it's finished, do you think?'

   'If you continue to work like you have been, perhaps three months.' I
didn't want this to end.

   'Then we can really celebrate.'

   I nodded.  'I've been thinking about that, Sarah.  Why don't you and I
be the first visitors?  Just us -- no one else.  We'll come over on the
Friday and spend the weekend together, or longer, if you like.'

   She nodded.  'Sounds great to me.'

   'And we should work to a deadline now,' I continued.  'Aim to have it
finished by your birthday.'

   'Right.' She picked up a chicken leg and nibbled at it, her little white
teeth tearing at the flesh.  'I need to speak to you about having a break,
though.  I'm going away for a few days.'

   I stared at her, my heart sinking.  I suddenly knew where she was going.
'Going away?'

   She nodded, her eyes on my face.  'I need a break, Michael.  I've got
a...friend, and she's invited me to stay for a couple of days -- well, a
week actually.  It's only a week.'

   'When?'

   'Tomorrow.'

   'But I was going to do the windows next week.  I need you here to help
with that.'

   She shook her head.  'They can wait a few days, and I'll help when I get
back.  A few days won't matter.' She regarded me.  'I have to go.'

   I remembered the dark haired woman and the way she moved, and I
remembered Sarah's hand sliding into the secret cavity of her body.  Lucy.
I imagined them together again and what they would do to each other, their
pale bodies entwined and their lips slick from eating each other.  My
Sarah. It should be with me, not her.

   'Is she more important than me, then?' The words were out of my mouth
before I could stop them, my voice harsh.  'Aren't I special too?  I
thought you cared about this -' I waved my hand at the cottage.  'And about
me.'

   Sarah stared at me in surprise.  I could see a smear of grease on her
lips from the chicken and it reinforced the image of her face painted with
Lucy's juices.  I could see the colour rising in her cheeks, too.

   'Of course I care, Michael!' she said.  'I care about this and about you
-- but I have to go.' She put her hand on my arm.  'Don't make it more
difficult...I have to go,' she repeated.

   'So what's so urgent?'

   She shook her head.  'I can't tell you that.  Believe me, Michael, I
wouldn't go if I didn't have to.'

   'You could have given me a little more notice.'

   'She only called me last night.'

   'So it's a woman!'

   Sarah stared at me.  'What do you mean by that?'

   'Nothing.'

   'Yes you do.  Tell me!'

   I felt the anger leech out of me.  'Nothing...I meant nothing, Sarah.' I
could see her eyes on my face.  'I just don't want to lose you, just as we
were getting on so well.'

   'You won't lose me,' she said.  'This isn't some sort of contest, right?
I've just got to go and sort out a few things and then I'll be back.'

   'Where will you be?'

   She glared at me.  'I told you -- with her.  Where she lives is none of
your business.'

   'It is whilst I'm running this project!'

   Sarah laughed.  She didn't get upset often but I could see a burning
anger in her eyes.  'Fuck that!' she said.  'I don't mind you telling me
what to do when were working, Michael, but you don't own me.' She leaned
forward, her face close to mine.  'Get this, buster -- I'm heading off for
a few days and you can't stop me.  I'll help when I get back, if I feel
like it.  And I'll go away again if I feel like it.  And stop being so
damned possessive!' She tipped the rest of her drink on the ground and
stood up, looking down at me.  'And I'm heading home right now so you'd
better get moving if you don't want to be stuck here without the boat for a
week!'

   We headed back in silence, Sarah sitting in the bow with her back to me
stiff with anger and disapproval.  Her hair was blowing in the wind and I
could see the glossy skin at the nape of her neck and the curve of her
shoulder.  I tried to speak to her but she remained staring out over the
bay until we arrived at the little harbour when she skipped ashore and
strutted off, leaving me to carry everything back home.

   The next morning she was gone.  I'd half expected her to leave a note or
something, but there was nothing and so our argument stayed like a cancer
between us, thick and dark and malignant.  I moped around the house for a
few days trying to keep busy, trying not to think of her and what she was
doing.  It was better during the day but in the long dark nights my mind
was filled with her -- Sarah laughing, her teeth white in a sun-browned
face and her eyes sparkling; Sarah smiling, pleased with something she'd
just finished; and then Sarah in wild orgasm with her face screwed up in a
rictus of pleasure and Lucy's tongue inside her.  Perhaps they talked
together afterwards, Sarah whispring about her besotted brother and how he
wanted her, and they would laugh together at how stupid men were and they
would turn to each other again with hungry eyes.

   I couldn't get the thought out of my mind and I tossed and turned in my
tangled sheets half out of my mind with jealousy.  I went over our argument
in my mind a million times, wishing I'd handled it better, wishing I'd
somehow persuaded her to stay -- and then with a sudden slide of despair
I'd realise that there was nothing I could have done to keep her, that she
was her own person and that my dreams were nothing more than wild
imaginings with no hope of ever coming true.

   That night I dreamed of Sarah again.

   I was on a rocky shore and the stones around me were black, shining wet
under a malignant grey sky; and the sea was decked with a silver cloak of
spume.  And as I watched she appeared before me, walking on the water in a
lustrous gown of shimmering white, and her hair streamed behind her like a
golden banner in the spiteful little wind.

   And behind her I beheld a tempest, tearing the water to a frothing
inferno as wild as the mind of a madman, and I knew that she was in mortal
danger.

   'Sarah!' I screamed, and my voice was flung away like a speck of dirt
into the darkening sky.  'Sarah, my love!  To me!  Come to me!'

   But she could not hear me for she was deaf to all but one, and her eyes
were blinded by the love of another.  And as I screamed her name the water
reached up and took her like a hungry shark, and there was only a single
scream of terror and then nothing but the empty, churning sea on that
desolate, windswept shore.

   *

   On the fifth day I went out to the Beach House.  The good weather of the
last few days had gone and a spiteful little wind swept over the bay,
bending the trees on the foreshore and whipping up little whitecaps on the
long easterly swell.  It was well past noon by the time I arrived and I
walked up the path to the house with none of the enthusiasm or interest I
usually had.  The house looked forlorn too, almost as if it understood it
had been abandoned.  Its empty window sockets stared at the troubled sea
with a blind man's gaze and the wind had plucked at the leaves and litter
of the foreshore and piled them against its old stained walls like flotsam
on a beach.

   It was quite dark inside and I reached up to the little shelf above the
empty hearth to where Sarah had put candles and matches in case we were
ever caught out.  The shelf was empty, and so I found the flashlight in my
toolbox and used that instead.  I shone the beam around the room and saw
the candles in little saucers on the floor and on the windowsill.  Their
wicks were blackened and they had wept pale translucent pools of wax onto
the dusty stone, and beside them were empty wine glasses and a cigarette
butt.  Someone had been here.  I stooped and picked up the butt and I saw
the crimson smear of lipstick on it, and I knew.  Sarah and Lucy.  I
imagined them stealing up to the cottage holding hands and their giggles
and kisses and their soft whispers of love and seduction.  In my mind's eye
I saw them lying there on the little blanket, their pale naked bodies
entwined and their mouths joined.  It should have been me.  The longing was
palpable, a gut-wrenching desire to possess her -- to dare to dream that
she would choose me rather than her.  I imagined the expression she would
have had in her clear grey eyes as she reached up to pull me down beside
her, and the soft sigh of love and fulfillment as I penetrated the heat of
her tight little body.

   I don't know how long I stood there, my eyes on the clues of her
betrayal.  I recall trying to work out when she'd been there but there was
no way to know.  Perhaps they had been there every day: a pilgrimage to
this quiet, secluded place where they could satisfy their basic urges
without fear of discovery.  And gradually the pain and disappointment was
replaced by a growing sense of anger -- that she could prefer her whore
over me, and that she should bring her to our special place in spite of the
promise she had made.

   At length I headed back to the boat and turned towards home, my sense of
anger and outrage growing by the minute.  God knows, I wasn't thinking
straight.  In truth Sarah was her own woman and she owed me nothing, but my
disappointment and outrage coloured my reason and it somehow became her
fault, and I was the victim.

   The house was empty when I got home, and I dropped my things off in the
garage and made my way to her room.  The curtains were drawn and I turned
on the table lamp and sat on the bed and looked around.  The pillows were
pink with frilly edges and on impulse I pressed my face to them, breathing
deeply to detect her essence.  It was there: the fragrance of her perfume
and her hair and her skin, lingering like a distant memory in the weave of
the fabric.  Her nightie was there too and I pressed it to my face,
imagining how it looked on her, imagining the plasticity of her body inside
it with its warm curves and secret valleys, and my anger and sense of
betrayal grew sharper in my mind.

   The drawer to her desk was locked and I picked it with a paperclip and I
lifted her journal out and opened it, my eyes flicking over the lines that
filled every page with her neat, sloping writing.  Thoughts of school, of
her friends, of things she had done.  Some of them were childish, girly
thoughts, but there were insights too -- of hopes and dreams, of plans for
the future and schemes to move herself forward.  Her intellect and capacity
for thought shone through and I found myself immersed in the daily business
of her life and the vision for where she wanted it to go.  There were no
references to Lucy -- or any other sexual partner, for that matter.  She
mentioned names of other girls who 'were doing it' and how she didn't want
to be like them, and she talked of who her closest friends were...but
nothing about sex.

   And then on a day in April Lucy came into her life.  It was innocent
enough to begin with -- she recounted how she'd seen her in a café and
started chatting, how friendly she seemed.  Almost immediately afterwards
she'd gone to Torbess with her and the pages were suddenly filled with
Lucy's name: how beautiful she was, and how clever, and how Sarah wished
she could be like her.

   And as I read the pages I began to understand her confusion and her
anguish, and the picture of what had happened became clear, and I for the
first time I knew what I was up against.

   Twelve Months Earlier - Lucy

   Lucille Carter-Bayliss, thirty five years old and a predatory lesbian,
sat in the little café on the main street of Thruxton and waited.  Her real
name was Fran Bayliss, born to a working class couple in Basingstoke, and
she found early in life that what you couldn't buy you took and what you
didn't know you made up.  She'd added Carter to her surname to give a sense
of class and invested in a wardrobe of expensive clothes, and lies lay
thick and easy upon her heart.

   Despite her looks and her self assurance she probably wouldn't have got
far but at eighteen she became the beneficiary of a generous endowment from
an aunt and that, together with a cover job as a freelance writer for a gay
women's magazine, gave her enough to successfully forage for new girls to
share her bed.  The old bedstead she used at home had dozens of notches
carved in a discrete place, testament to her success: but there were always
new conquests to be had, and Lucy was voracious.

   For weeks she had been watching the high school girls coming out of
school, noting who was collected by their parents and who made their own
way home, narrowing her field down to five or six.  Unsurprisingly they all
looked similar -- young, of course, and mostly slim, with open faces of
guileless innocence that she found highly provocative.  She followed each
one home, checking on their movements, watching who they met and the way
they moved and spoke and acted; and by the middle of April she'd settled on
two likely targets.

   There was one in particular who interested her -- a fair haired girl of
about eighteen who lived in Croxton Street and who walked home each day. 
Lucy had seen her meet her friends in the local café from time to time and
so she sat there every day for a week, waiting for her chance.

   It was a Thursday afternoon when she finally spotted the girl entering
the café.  It was a cold day and she saw the colour in the girl's cheeks
and the brightness of her eyes.  She'd pulled her hair back in a pony tail
and Lucy observed the way she held her head and the long, graceful column
of her neck.  She wore no make up or jewelry, for that was against school
rules, but her natural beauty shone through and Lucy felt a tightening of
her gut as she regarded the girl.  God, she's gorgeous, she thought.  Let
her be the one.

   The girl sat down and fiddled with her phone for a few moments.  Lucy
watched her, delighting in her innocence and beauty.  She saw how she held
herself, erect and confident, and the sense of awareness she had of herself
and what was happening around her.  She watched the dexterity of the girl's
long, slim fingers as they moved over the phone, her nails pale pink and
polished and the gold wristwatch on her slender wrist, and she watched her
face: the brightness of her grey eyes and the curve of her full, pink lips.
It was evident that she was waiting for someone.
Lucy waited until the girl finished fiddling with her phone, and then

she leaned forward and spoke to her.

   'Excuse me...would you have the time, please?'

   The girl glanced up.  She had seen the woman waiting there, but hadn't
taken much notice.  'Um, twenty past four.'

   'Thank you.' She smiled at the girl.  'Were you waiting for someone?'

   'Yes.'

   'And they're late?'

   'Not really.  It's only Sharon, and she'll come when she's ready.'

   Lucy nodded in understanding.  'Well, perhaps you could help me while
you're waiting.  You see, I'm new here and I'm looking for a real estate
agent in the village.  I was going to ask the café owner but you might be
able to help.'

   The girl shook her head.  'There isn't one here.  You'd have to go to
Torbess.  They cover this area.' She regarded the woman with interest. 
'Would you be looking to buy, or just rent?'

   Lucy smiled again.  'Just rent, to begin with.  I work in London
usually, but I'm on assignment here, looking around.' She rose quickly and
crossed to the girl's table, holding out her hand.  'Lucille
Carter-Bayliss.'

   The girl took her hand, her fingers warm in the other's grip.  'Sarah
Ryan.'

   Lucy sat in the vacant chair opposite Sarah.  'So I'd have to go to
Torbess?'

   Sarah shrugged.  'That's probably best.  They have listings of all
properties around here.'

   'Would there be somewhere to stay here overnight?  I really don't have
time to drive anywhere tonight.'

   'I guess you could try the local pub.  I think they have rooms.'

   'And where is that?'

   'At the end of the street, on the right.  You can't miss it.'

   Lucy regarded her for a moment, wondering if she would frighten her off
if she moved too quickly.  The girl looked confident, though, with a
self-assurance that was rare for one so young.  She decided to take a
chance.  'Do you have a few minutes to talk to me, Sarah?  It won't take
long and you might find it interesting.'

   The girl glanced at her watch, then nodded.  'I need to be home by half
five,' she said, 'but if Sharon turns up I'll have to go earlier.'

   'Of course.  Can I buy you a coffee, or something?' She watched the girl
shake her head and thought again how beautiful she was.  It wasn't just her
looks -- there was something more: a directness of gaze that suggested she
was comfortable in her own skin, that she could make decisions.  Lucy
thought she would not be subservient in a sexual liaison, and the notion
pleased her.  She liked aggressive partners.

   'I mentioned I was here to look around, Sarah, which might seem a bit
vague.' Eye contact was important so she leaned forward slightly, making
sure the girl looked at her whilst she was speaking.  'I work for an agency
-- I'm here to find girls who I think have the looks and the personality to
be groomed for a modeling career.' She smiled and touched Sarah's arm. 
'You might have what it takes.'

   Sarah stared at her.  'You don't know anything about me,' she said. 
'You've only been here a few minutes.  How could you think that?'

   'Why don't you call me Lucy,' the woman said smoothly.  She regarded the
girl for a moment.  'Sometimes a few minutes is all it takes,' Lucy
explained.  'Sometimes -- not very often -- you see someone who just ticks
all the right boxes.' Her fingers were still resting lightly on Sarah's arm
and she could feel the warmth and texture of her skin.  'Look -- I'm not
offering you anything.  I'm just saying that my initial instinct is that
you have the potential if you are interested in modeling as a career.'

   'So what does that mean?  What would I have to do?'

   Lucy released the girl's arm reluctantly and sat back in her seat,
thinking for a moment how to make her story sound convincing.  'Most young
people think that modeling is just about the looks, Sarah, but it's not. 
Sure you have to be appealing -- but your character is just as
important...you know, how well you deal with stress or with disappointment;
whether you can fit into routines, how you get on with people.' She laughed
lightly.  'Girls that tell you that modeling is glamorous are lying...most
of it is waiting around for clients or on the sets for the shoot, or
dealing with designers who think the sun shines out of their arses.  I've
spent whole days hanging around a set for jobs that lasted less than
fifteen minutes.' She stopped and regarded the girl for a moment.  'Not
everyone can do that,' she continued, 'so character is very important.'

   'So what would I have to do?' Sarah asked again.

   'Not much, really.  I'd need to know a bit more about you so you'd have
to spend a few hours with me.'

   Sarah looked at her doubtfully.  'Would it be during school hours?'

   'Oh no.  I'd aim to make it as easy as I could.  Evenings would be
fine.'

   'And how long would it take?'

   Lucy smiled at her earnestness.  'A couple of evenings to begin with. 
Just you and me.' She noticed the girl's expression.  'On your turf, if you
like,' she added hastily.  'Nothing tense, I promise you.  Just spending
time to get to know each other a little more.'

   'Well...I don't know -'

   Despite the girl's words Lucy could see she was interested.  She placed
her hand on the Sarah's arm again and squeezed it gently, her fingertips
moving lightly on the glossy skin.  'Please,' she said.  'Not everyone gets
this chance, Sarah.  I think you'd regret it if you didn't even try.  You
can back out at any time...really, there's no obligation.'

   'I'll have to speak to my parents.'

   'Of course.' Lucy smiled.  'I could arrange to meet them, but only if
they wanted to.  The main thing is that you and I spend some time
together.'

   Sarah looked into Lucy's eyes and felt herself being drawn into their
liquid brown depths.  She was aware of the woman's touch but surprisingly,
she was not offended.  There was something about her that invoked trust,
and she felt at ease.  Surely a couple of evenings talking would not be a
problem?

   'All right,' she said.  'I'll ask Mum, but I'm sure she won't mind.'

   Lucy smiled and squeezed her arm again.  'Good.  I'm so pleased, Sarah.
Shall I pick you up here at five tomorrow, then?  Tell your Mum you'll be
home by eleven.'

   She saw the girl nod and she felt a sudden surge of triumph.  Not much
of what she had told the girl was true, but that didn't trouble her.  She
waited as Sarah left the café and watched her walking away, her long legs
striding confidently and the pony tail swinging about her shoulders.

   That went well, she thought.  Now for the tricky bit.

   *

   That night Sarah thought about what had happened.  She was a happy girl,
content with her life and with the friends and the family she had.  She'd
never really thought too much about what the future might hold -- that was
something you did after university.  The idea of modeling had never
occurred to her -- she simply hadn't associated herself with the glamorous
stick insects that strutted on the catwalks in the glossy magazines she
sometimes read.  She walked to the mirror on the wardrobe door and regarded
herself critically.  My nose is not straight, she thought, and my breasts
are too big: but other than that she was pleased with what she saw.  Her
eyes were her best feature: big and grey, fringed with thick lashes and
full of light and expression.

   Sarah was not a virgin.  She'd lost her cherry at a party at a friend's
house a couple of years earlier: a sordid fifteen minutes in a back bedroom
with a boy whose name she could hardly remember, lying on the coats and
jackets of other guests, frantic with haste in case someone came into the
room to claim one.  She'd spent the entire brief episode listening for
footsteps outside, wondering whether they would be caught -- only vaguely
aware of the initial pain of his penetration and of his sticky kisses and
hot breath in her ear.  He'd cum quickly and rolled off her, and she'd
mopped up in the little upstairs bathroom and then rejoined the party.

   She was smart enough to realise that sex could be so much better, and
quickies and one-night stands were not for her.  She realised too that the
boys she knew were quite happy with head jobs instead, and it became her
favoured way of dealing with them when sex was expected.

   She regarded herself in the mirror and remembered last weekend.  She'd
knelt here, in this very spot, and taken her new boyfriend's cock into her
mouth for the first time, working her lips around it and watching herself
in the mirror.  She remembered how her hair had swung back and forth with
her movement, obscuring the image, and how she'd pulled back from him and
looked up.

   'Hold my hair,' she'd said.  'I want to watch.'

   He'd gathered her hair up and held it, both of them looking at the
reflection.  She recalled his stance: legs slightly apart with his loins
thrust forward, both hands on her head.  To begin with he'd been content to
stand still, letting her do the work, and she'd watched as her head bobbed
back and forth.  The reflection in the mirror had seemed disconnected: as
if she was watching a pornographic actress as she pleasured a stud: the
image of a blond girl with her long graceful neck and steady grey eyes --
so young and innocent, kneeling in supplication as her mouth was violated
by the turgid flesh of the young man's shaft.  She'd marveled at its length
and rigidity, at the size of the great knob as it appeared from between her
lips.  She remembered how the shining silver trail of his love juice
smeared against the purple hue of his arousal, and how it had gathered at
the point of their union to ease the long slippery slide of his shaft back
into her throat.

   She'd used the mirror to learn: to watch his face to see what caused the
most pleasure: loosening her mouth as she drew back to allow the soft wet
inside of her lips to slither over his flesh until the thick purple knob
popped free, his juice and her spit stringing between them in shining
strands of gossamer silver; and tightening them as he slid forward, drawing
in her cheeks to rub the soft inside of her mouth against his sensitive
flesh.  Her hands had looked small as they grasped the root of his cock,
her fingers pale against the engorged meat, and her lips were stretched
wide as her mouth touched them.

   Sarah remembered how he'd started thrusting and how she'd kept still as
he pistoned into her mouth.  His hands were twisted in her hair, holding
her, and his pendulous balls swung back and forth, bumping against her chin
as he buried himself deep.  His lubricant trickled over her tongue, coating
the inside of her mouth and pooling in her throat until she was forced to
swallow it in slippery lumps, and her spit dribbled from the seal of her
lips around the shaft.  He was gazing down at her, watching as he fucked
her mouth with his eyes like shining pebbles and his mouth slack with
pleasure, and he began to talk, the words broken and disjointed as his
climax approached.

   'Ah, fuck, Sarah...fuck, fuck,' he said.  'That's so good, baby...ugh!
Can you see it?  Watch...ah, watch me spurt...ah, fuck -- here it
comes....ugh....here it comes, baby.'

   With a convulsive thrust he buried himself deep into her face and Sarah
watched in the mirror, seeing his shaft throb and pulse as he spurted.  She
felt the hot cream of his jism splatter into her mouth, rich and pungent as
it bathed her taste buds.  The sheer volume was surprising -- so much more
than other boys, and instinctively she'd tilted her head forward to avoid
choking, watching with hooded eyes as beads of pearl appeared at the
corners of her mouth.

   And then he was done and he withdrew his shaft, the great purple head
popping free.  She recalled how she'd loosened her lips to allow the
strands of his sperm to fall free: watching as it dribbled over her chin to
hang in shining, slippery threads.  A seemingly endless stream, oozing from
her mouth like clotted cream, falling from her face to coat her breasts and
to loop over her swollen nipples like strands of exotic jewelry.  She
touched it with her fingers, feeling its warmth and its texture, smearing
it over her skin so it gleamed silver in the pale evening light and she
inhaled its pungent aroma, her brain suffused with lust at what she had
done.

   And later that night she'd played with herself, her fingers buried in
the wet clasping flesh of her pussy as she remembered how he had fucked her
mouth and how the hot jets of sperm had felt and tasted, and how it had
looked as it oozed from between her shining wet lips.

   *

   Sarah turned away from the mirror and thought about the woman in the
café.  Lucy.  Was she really talent spotting girls for modeling?  It seemed
too good to be true -- and yet it was happening.  In a couple of hours
she'd see her again and they would talk, and she would get to know the
woman a little better too.  She realised that she was looking forward to
it, for nothing exciting happened in her little village and it was nice to
think that someone so beautiful and sophisticated thought she was special.
Lucy.  A pretty name.  She wondered if she was married, and whether she was
still modeling, and whether she would be her friend even if it all came to
nothing.

   She opened the wardrobe door and she began to hum a little tune as her
eyes moved over her dresses, looking for something special.  Lucy, she
thought.  I can do it, Lucy.  I can be beautiful and sophisticated and self
assured too, but I need someone to show me.  Someone like you.  I'll learn,
Lucy, if you'll teach me.  I'll be your friend.

   *

   Lucy Carter-Bayliss watched Sarah as she stood outside the café.  She
saw her little red dress and her long golden legs, and how she had brushed
her hair into a shining curtain that curled softly on her shoulders.  She
was struck again by her beauty: not just her face, but the way she held
herself -- the set of her shoulders and the tilt of her head, and the lithe
sensuousness of her body.  She saw her matching red shoes and the gold lamé
evening bag and the thin gold chain around her neck and she understood that
this was the very best that the girl owned, and that she was wearing it for
her.  For a moment she experienced a surge of unexpected tenderness, but
that was quickly replaced by the cold practicality of what had to be done.
She opened the car door and called out.

   'Sarah.'

   The girl walked towards her, her heels clicking crisply on the pavement.
'Hi Lucy,' she said.  Her voice was breathless, as if she had been running
or perhaps because she was nervous.  'I expected you to be inside.'

   'I thought we might go to Torbess instead, ' Lucy said.  She watched as
Sarah climbed in beside her, the flash of her golden thighs as the dress
rode up her legs.  'There's a lovely little restaurant there, if you like.
You haven't eaten, have you?'

   'Uh, no.  I thought we would have a sandwich or something.'

   The woman smiled.  'Oh, I think we can do a little better than that. 
What time do you have to be home?'

   The girl smiled.  'I told Mum eleven, like you said.'

   'That's fine.' She waited until the girl had fastened her seat belt and
then leaned over and kissed her softly on the cheek.  'Thank you for
coming, Sarah.  I'm sure you'll have a good time tonight.  Now, are you all
ready?'

   Lucy watched the girl nod, and saw that she was nervous.  She put the
car into gear and moved off.  'I know you don't know me very well Sarah,
but I think we can be friends,' she said.  'Would you like to know a bit
about me so you can feel more at ease?'

   'Sure.'

   'Well, I live in London.  I'm twenty-six and single -- I guess you could
say I'm between relationships.  I'm a professional model.  I like cooking,
dancing, photography and travel.  I don't do drugs but I like good wine and
the occasional shot.  I think integrity and loyalty are the best of all
values.  I like shopping for clothes and music that has decent lyrics.' She
paused for a moment.  'Oh, and I have a good sense of humour and people
tell me I'm good at listening.' She laughed.  'And that's about it...my
life in one paragraph.'

   Sarah laughed with her.  'I'm sure there's more than that.  Tell me how
you got into the modeling business.'

   Lucy explained as she drove, recounting her story about a photographer
who had spotted her and how it had developed into a career.  She remembered
to include a few funny stories she had heard from a part time model once
and was pleased when the girl laughed.  Before they knew it she drew up
outside the restaurant.

   Sarah peered through the car window.  'Oh, wow!  We're not going in
there, are we?'

   'That's what I had in mind.'

   'But I know this place and it's really expensive!  I can't afford -'

   Lucy waved her hand dismissively.  'Don't worry about it.  You're on
company time now.'

   Their table was in a secluded corner of the restaurant, tucked away from
prying eyes.  The Ma"tre d' escorted them to their table and Lucy waited
until the menus had been delivered.  She scanned the wine list and turned
to the girl.  'Will you have wine, Sarah, or would you prefer something
else?'

   'Just a glass of white wine, thank you.' Sarah didn't normally drink but
she felt it would be childish to ask for a soft drink.

   Lucy ordered the wine and then sat back and regarded the girl.  She
guessed that the family didn't have much money, or at least didn't go out
much, and she understood that the surroundings might be a little
uncomfortable for her.  Perhaps she should have chosen a less expensive
place - but she wanted to impress her.

   Sarah regarded the softly lit room with its crisp white tablecloths and
the fine Riedel glasses and the bright polished cutlery.  'This is very
posh, Lucy,' she whispered and she laughed self-consciously.  'I had no
idea we would be coming here.  I would have worn something different.'

   'You look stunning, Sarah.  I don't think any other dress would have
been better.'

   'Do you really think so?'

   'I know it.' She rested her hand on the girl's arm.  'You know, if you
do become a model you'll be going to a lot of exclusive and expensive
places.  But underneath all the glitter and shine they're really no
different.  The only thing that makes them special is the prices.'

   'And the people.' Sarah looked around.  'They're all rich and important,
I'm sure.'

   Lucy shrugged.  'Probably not.  Most of them are only legends in their
own minds.' She inclined her head at a table across the room.  'Tell me
what you think about them.'

   The girl regarded the couple for a moment.  The man was in his mid
forties, dressed in a heavy suit and with a swarthy complexion and thinning
hair.  He was leaning forward to engage the younger woman opposite him -- a
slight girl with dark hair and thin arms.

   'I'd say he was a stockbroker or something like that, with a younger
wife.'

   Lucy laughed.  'Maybe.  More likely a manager of a local business.  He's
brought his secretary out for a night.  He's worrying about how to how to
hide the bill from his wife and whether he'll get his end away with her.'

   Sarah regarded them with interest.  'You think so?'

   'Sure.  Most of the people here are frauds, I bet -- pretending to be
something they are not, or richer than they are.' She realised her words
described herself perfectly, and she smiled at the irony.  'You and I are
probably the only normal people here.'

   'You're not normal,' the girl said.

   'Pardon?'

   'I mean, you live such a glamorous life -- travelling, doing modeling,
meeting people all the time.  I'd love to be like that,' she said shyly. 
She looked down at Lucy's hand, still resting on her arm.  'And you make
people feel welcome,' she added.  'You make them feel at ease, even if they
are not as sophisticated as you.'

   Lucy withdrew her hand.  'Sorry.  I'm a sort of touchy feely person.'

   'I don't mind at all,' Sarah said.  'Our family is like that, so I'm
used to it.' She broke off as the waiter appeared and they both ordered
their food.

   'So tell me about yourself,' Lucy said when he had gone.  'Your family,
what you do and what you'd like to do.'

   The girl considered for a moment.  'My Dad's an engineer -- well, a
consultant now.  He gets work from time to time and heads off to wherever
it is.  Last time it was Dubai.  Mum's a housewife -- she loves socializing
though...you know, Bridge parties and Pilates classes twice a week, that
sort of thing.'

   'Do you have any brothers or sisters?'

   Sarah nodded.  'One brother.  Michael.  He's two years older than me --
a carpenter.' She grimaced briefly.  'Dad thinks that blue collar trades
are beneath our station.  He wanted his son to be an engineer and is still
disappointed, but it's an honest profession, I think, being able to make
stuff with your hands.' She paused for a moment, thinking about her
brother. 'He was really busy until the GFC,' she continued, 'but now he
only gets work on and off, so he's living at home again.'

   'Do you get on well together?'

   'Sure, as much as any brothers and sisters do.  I really don't know
him.'

   'And you live at home, too?'

   'Oh yes.  This is my last year at school, and then university if I do
well enough.  I'd like to study Veterinary Science.'

   'What about a boyfriend?'

   The girl grimaced briefly.  'No one special.  The local boys are mostly
farmer's lads which is great if you want to talk about sheep drenching or
cattle bloat.'

   Lucy laughed.  'Wouldn't that be interesting to a potential Vet?'

   Sarah smiled and shook her head.  'Not when you're trying to socialise.
I went out with one guy who spent the entire evening talking about
parasitic worms.'

   'Perhaps he was one.' Lucy said drily, 'or had one.' She could see that
the girl was more comfortable now, talking about herself.  'What about
girlfriends, then?' she asked casually.

   'Oh, the usual gang -- you know, girls that I've been through my whole
school life with.  I have two best friends, though -- Sharon and Judith. 
We've been together since we were little.'

   'And where are they now?'

   'Sharon's doing her final year with me.  You'd like her, Lucy -- she has
this amazing ability to get on with anybody.  She wants to be a flight test
engineer.'

   'What about Judith?'

   'She dropped out last year,' Sarah said, 'but she lives down the road so
I still get to see her.'

   'So why did she drop out?'

   The girl sighed.  'There was gossip about her having it off with another
chick.  These days you'd think that was all right, but she started being
bullied and her Mum took her out of school.'

   Lucy smiled sympathetically.  'How sad.  Did it bother you?'

   'What?  Her being a lesbian?' She shook her head.  'Not really.  I don't
even know if it was true -- she never tried it on with me.'

   'Would it have upset you if she had?'

   Sarah regarded the older woman.  'I don't know,' she answered at length.
'Jude is very pretty -- she could have anyone she wanted, so I guess I'd
have been flattered if she'd hit on me.  I just never thought about it, to
be honest.' She glanced around the room.  'Do you know where the loo is?  I
need to go.'

   Lucy nodded towards the far corner of the room.  'Just over there.' She
waited until the girl disappeared and after a furtive glance around the
room she opened her purse and extracted a small bottle of clear liquid that
she deftly poured into Sarah's glass.  So far the evening was going well,
she thought, but a little insurance wouldn't hurt.

   Sarah reappeared and they chatted lightly, sipping their drinks.  Lucy
recharged their glasses.

   'So are you happy living where you do?' she asked.

   'I guess.' We've never really lived anywhere else, at least not since I
was old enough to remember, so it's OK.'

   'But not very exciting, I think.'

   The girl smiled.  'No, not really, but I don't mind...I'm not really a
party girl.'

   The waiter appeared with their main course and Lucy waited until he had
finished serving and moved away.  They chatted throughout the meal and she
watched as Sarah grew even more relaxed, her grey eyes dilated by the drug
and her laughter a little louder and more frequent.

   'Talking about lesbians,' Lucy said, 'I remember when I first started
modeling.  I was pretty naïve...first job out of school, never lived away
from home.  There was one of the girls who was a bit older than the rest of
us and she befriended me -- you know, took me under her wing and showed me
the ropes, made sure I was being looked after -- that sort of thing.' She
laughed.  'I thought she was just being nice, but one day she invited me to
her place for a few drinks after work.  She said that a few of the girls
would be there, but when I turned up there was just her and me.  She'd set
up the works: candlelit dinner, soft lighting, mood music.' She paused to
eat a forkful of food and sip at her wine.  'Even then it took me a while
before the penny dropped.'

   Sarah giggled.  'So how did you figure it out?'

   'When she came up behind me at the end of the meal and started kissing
my neck.'

   'Wow!  I guess that would give it away.  What did you do?'

   'I figured I'd give it a go.'

   'You didn't!'

   Lucy shrugged.  'I was a bit younger then, and more adventurous.  I saw
it as an opportunity rather than a threat.'

   'But surely...I mean, well, didn't you have to do things that, um - that
you're not wired for?  You know, well -'

   'I didn't have to do anything, as it turned out.  She did it all, and I
have to say it was lovely.'

   Sarah regarded her with some confusion.  'So does that mean -'

   Lucy smiled.  'It doesn't mean anything, Sarah, other than I had an open
mind about having a new experience.  It made her happy and it gave me
pleasure, and afterwards I understood a whole lot better why some girls
prefer it.' She gripped the girl's hand, holding her fingers tightly. 
'Some people think you have to be gay or straight and there's nothing in
between, but life isn't like that.  You don't have to be one or the other.'

   'I don't know if I'd have the courage to do that,' the girl said. 
'Suppose you found out half way through you hated it?'

   'It's no different to making out with a guy -- if he does something that
you don't like then you ask him to stop.' She squeezed Sarah's fingers, and
looked directly into her eyes.  'My advice would be to try it some time, if
you have the opportunity...and very soon.'

   Sarah knew she had drunk more than she usually did but it seemed to have
heightened her senses rather than dulled them.  Her brain felt like a great
diamond set in her skull, brightening the colours and images around her and
bringing a sense of perception she'd never experienced before.  She glanced
down at the woman's hand in hers -- the frequent touching had seemed so
innocent but she realised that Lucy was gripping her in a different way,
somehow, as if they were...together.  She glanced at the woman's face and
saw the glittering brightness of her eyes, like those of a predator, and
her words and the way she had said them rang in her ears: '...try it
sometime, if you have the opportunity...and very soon'.

   And suddenly it all made sense: the meeting in the café with Lucy
dressed to kill and her conversation as smooth as buttered silk.  The
expensive restaurant, the wine and the flattery and the skillful way the
conversation had been turned towards sex.  Lucy's eyes were still on hers,
drilling into her with a strange intensity and in a moment of absolute
clarity Sarah understood that her instincts were right, and that she was
being asked to do something that she had never, in all her years,
contemplated before.

   For a moment the audacity of the suggestion robbed her of speech.  She
could feel her pulse rising, the blood coursing through her body faster
than before.  The lights of the restaurant seemed to recede, somehow, and
the noise and bustle of the people around them to leach away until there
was only the two of them sitting together in a sudden awareness of intimacy
like the crackle of static electricity flowing between them.  Sarah's eyes
focused on the woman's mouth: the delicious curve of her lips and the soft
shade of her lipstick and she imagined pressing her own lips to it, tasting
the sweetness of the wine she had drunk, probing with her tongue to draw
the woman's essence into her own body.  A sudden seep of moisture bloomed
between her legs and she drew in her breath sharply at the unexpected surge
of lust and longing that it brought.

   'So you...um, you -' she stuttered.

   Lucy smiled.  'Want you?  Of course I do.  You're delectable.'

   'But I'm not -- I mean, I don't know how -'

   'Then I'll teach you,' Lucy said softly, 'there is so much I can teach
you.'

   Lucy's room was close to the restaurant and they walked quickly, the
older woman gripping Sarah's arm to steady her as she staggered slightly in
the cool evening air.  Sarah's mouth was dry and her heart was racing and
her mind was in turmoil.  She could feel her nipples pressing like hard
pebbles against her bra and the soft wet warmth of her vulva in the wet
constraint of her pants; she knew she should stop and take a deep breath
and ask to go home but somehow her mind and her limbs were disconnected and
she was powerless to resist.  The clarity of her thought had gone like a
wraith of mist in the morning sun, but she knew that every step took her
closer to this extraordinary woman's bed and that nothing, nothing would
ever be the same again.

   The sheets on the bed were crisp and she lay naked upon them, her
clothes scattered like confetti around the room.  She stared up at Lucy as
she undressed.  The woman's breasts were larger than her own but they
rested firm upon her ribcage and the nipples were erect with desire.  Her
eyes roamed over the tight curve of Lucy's waist and the flat white plain
of her belly; and as the woman bent to strip away her panties she saw the
perfect symmetry of her buttocks and the dark shadow of promise between
them.  Sarah's heart was beating fast -- not with fear but with nervousness
and anticipation, and she could feel the seep of moisture trickling between
her legs.

   Lucy knelt between her open thighs and touched her gently, her
fingertips brushing against her skin as lightly as a shadow.  There was a
small tattoo of a Chinese character below the girl's bikini line, and a
stubble of pale golden hair over her mound where she had once shaved.  The
lips of her sex were swollen, the pale pink flesh puffy and moist, and Lucy
could see the gleam of juice between them like the delicious wet flesh of
an oyster.  She brought her hands between the girl's legs and held them
either side of her opening, drawing the lips apart to reveal the inner core
of her sex, and she marveled at the tight symmetry of what she was about to
take.

   'You're beautiful, Sarah,' she whispered, as she bent her head forward,
'so beautiful.'

   The touch of Lucy's tongue was like an electric shock, sizzling in its
impact.  Sarah felt her body jolt and tiny goosebumps of pleasure sprout on
her arms.  She arched her back and groaned, her fingers grasping the sheets
either side of her body.  'Ah, ah...' she whispered.  'Ah, God -- just
there...yes!'

   Lucy penetrated the girl with the very tip of her tongue.  Every girl
she had eaten seemed to taste a little different and Lucy was delicious. 
She lapped at her briefly, curling her tongue to transfer more of Sarah's
juices into her mouth where she could savor it as it oozed over her taste
buds.  Across the plain of the girl's belly and the jutting mounds of her
breasts she watched her expression, each stroke drawing a grimace of
pleasure and a low groan from her throat, and her heart was singing in her
chest.

   Another one, she thought.  But she is so young and pretty.  I can play
with this one for years before I ever let her go.

   With growing excitement she pressed her fingers into Sarah's body,
watching with hooded eyes as the girl's sex juice oozed between her fingers
and she smiled at the thought of what the coming hours would bring.

   *

   To begin with the entries in Sarah's diary were frequent, each entry
filled with words about how beautiful Lucy was and how clever and how their
time together was so wonderful.  I sat at her desk and I read the words and
I felt their emotion as keenly as if I had written them: words of hope and
longing and expectation; words of sadness and despair when a meeting was
cancelled.  But within the scribbled entries there was a dark undertone
that I would never have picked if I had not come to know her so well.  It
was as if her joy was brittle: driven not by love or even friendship, but
by an obsession.  It was as if Lucy held a fatal attraction that had drawn
her into a web from which she could not escape, and within the scrawled
lines was a sense almost of desperation.  And as the months went by the
meetings grew less frequent and her anxiety seemed more palpable, the
entries scribbled in greater haste as she poured out her fear of rejection
and her need to see Lucy again -- and then, when she did, a desperate calm
returned for a few days until the cycle started again.

   There were other entries too -- mostly about the Beach House and what we
were doing to it.  For the first time I was featured too: how I was helping
her, and how much she enjoyed my company.  Those entries had changed over
the weeks we had worked together too, painting a picture of increasing
comfort in my company and how she was coming to rely on my friendship.  And
so I read through the diary page by page, engrossed by the drama within it,
hoping to discover the secret of her obsession but finding none; until at
last I reached the final entry.  It had been written the night before we
argued, and it said a little about how we had finished the roof and the
picnic we were to have the next day; and beneath it were three words
scrawled like a scream: 'Lucy called.  Tomorrow.'

   I turned the page to see if she had said anything more -- perhaps about
us and the angry words we had shared, but there was no entry for that day
-- only an empty page that seemed to me to be as eloquent as a thousand
words: a blank page, like the cold empty eyes of a lover who has forsaken
you and moved on with nothing to say that could ease your aching heart.
And so I closed the book softly and placed it back in her desk and I
went to my room in that dark, empty house and lay on my bed to think.  Part
of me yearned for her, understanding now that she was lost to a much
greater force than I; but there was anger at her duplicity, too.  How well
she had hidden all of this from me as we worked together!  In my mind I
remembered how she smiled, her face turned toward me and her eyes crinkled
in humour; and how she would sometimes reach out to touch me to say thank
you or to share a moment of intimacy without words.  I recalled the musical
notes of her laughter and the way she screwed up her nose to express
distaste, and the way the little pink tip of her tongue peeped from between
her lips when she was concentrating.  Nothing in any of those things had
every given any hint to the dark turmoil in her life: it was as if she was

two separate beings.

   It was past eight o'clock when I heard my parents arrive home and by
then there was nothing more to think about.  Sarah was coming home
tomorrow, and life would go on.  I knew then that I could never have her in
the way I wanted, and I knew that the best thing would be to put our
project on hold and give us both some space; but the thought of not having
her beside me was more than I could bear, and so in the end I resolved to
do nothing.  Perhaps one day she would be free of Lucy and her life might
return to a balance -- but until then I would be there for her.

   *

   The next morning my mother was still at breakfast when I went
downstairs, which was unusual.  When Dad is away she likes to be at out and
about early.  I kissed her proffered cheek and she set aside her newspaper
and smiled at me as I sat down.

   'How are you, Michael?' she asked.  'We haven't seen much of you these
last few weeks.'

   'I'm good, Mum.  Busy, though.'

   'But not with work, I suppose.'

   'There isn't much around.' I leaned over and helped myself to some
fruit. 'But old man Murphy seems to think the Beresford Vale development
might go ahead in the summer.'

   'Would you be offered work then?'

   'Sure.  Murphy knows me and likes my work.'

   My mother nodded.  'And what about Sarah?' she said carefully.  'We
don't see much of her either.'

   'She's good too.  Been away for a week but I think she's back today.'

   'That's right.  The three o'clock train, I heard.  Would you be able to
collect her?'

   I shook my head.  'Not really -- I'll be out at Brinsley's Head.  The
window frames have arrived and I wanted to see if I could fit them before
Sarah came home.  I guess I could leave my car at the station for her, if
that helps.'

   'I'm sure it would.  Can you tell her?' She regarded me for a moment. 
'Do you know where she's been, Michael?' she asked.

   'Not really.  With some friend, I heard.' I smiled at her.  'A woman, in
case you're worried.'

   'Yes, but it's all been a bit mysterious.'

   'Really?  Why?'

   She sighed.  'Oh, I don't know -- it's just that, well, she must be a
good friend to spend a week with, but she never says anything about her. 
She's very secretive.'

   'Perhaps she's a really boring friend.'

   'Well, even so -- I'd like to know more about where she is and who this
person is.'

   I thought about the diary upstairs and wondered how she would feel if
she read it too.  For a fleeting instant I was tempted to tell her the
truth.  To blurt it out in brutal little words that would damage the
mother-daughter relationship for ever.  Your beautiful daughter is a little
slit-licker, Mum, and she's been with her lover for a week.  What do you
think about that?  But I knew I wouldn't.  That was for Sarah to tell her,
if she ever could.

   'Do you think she's happy, Michael?' my mother asked.

   'Who?'

   'Sarah.  I worry that she's not happy.  You've been with her on the
island for a while now -- what do you think?'

   'She looks happy to me.'

   'I hope so...but there's something -'.  She gazed at me for a moment,
the words unsaid.  A mother's intuition was seeing more than the rest of us
had.  Perhaps she was right.  Perhaps Sarah really was unhappy, which would
leave me -

   'God!' she said suddenly.  'Is that the time?  I'm meeting Judy at nine,
so I'd better go.' She set her napkin on the table and stood up.

   'Drive carefully, Mum,' I said.  'And don't worry about supper...I'll
get a take-away.'

   'Right.  There's money on the sideboard...and be careful out on the bay
today - there's some weather coming.  Check the forecast before you go.'
She pushed the paper towards me.  'Page 15.'

   I laughed.  Only Mum would remember what page a weather forecast was on.
'Go,' I said, 'or you'll be late.  I'll check it.'

   'Promise?'

   'I promise.'

   'All right.  And keep an eye on Sarah.  Be a big brother to her.' She
bent to kiss me lightly on the cheek and a moment later I was alone.

   *

   It was lunchtime before I had loaded the window assemblies into the boat
and another two before the last of them were safely inside the Beach House.
The sky to the east was dark and I thought we might get rain later, but the
sea was choppy rather than rough and the wind really carried no strength.
I'd tried to call Sarah a few times but she didn't answer and so I sent her
a message telling her about the car and that I'd be out at the Beach House
and looked forward to seeing her later.

   Once I'd carried the casements up the hill I couldn't resist fitting the
two front ones.  I wanted the cottage to look a little better than when
Sarah had last seen it, I guess, and I knew that windows would give an
immediate impression of progress.  The stone around the apertures was as
hard as granite and it took a while to drill anchor points with the diamond
tipped bits, but at length it was done and I lifted the first frame into
place and secured it.  The fitting was perfect and I stood back to admire
the work for a moment before turning to the second one.

   I guess I lost track of time as I worked.  I'd drilled the holes into
the second window and secured the frame and I was busy sealing the gaps
with caulking before I became aware of the noise.  It was a sort of
growling rumble, half like thunder and half like a train, and it grew
louder as I worked until it drowned out even the noise of the little
electric generator beside me.  I looked to the south but there was nothing
but the empty expanse of the bay, the water darker than it had been earlier
and with little whitecaps sprinkled here and there - but nothing to betray
the source of that roaring, grumbling sound.  And so I set down my tools
and walked down the path a little way to where there was an unobstructed
view to see what it was.

   The sky to the west was a bruised indigo, a sullen colour that somehow
brought it closer to the earth as if God had squashed the two together, and
the spit of water between the island and Brinsley's head was a seething
mass of confused and broken waves as the tidal rip roared though the narrow
gap.  There was no direct sunlight but instead a strange luminosity
pervaded the landscape accentuating the greens and yellows of the fields
and hedgerows and painting them in stark relief against that dark,
malicious sky.  Apart from the water the scene was quite still, as it if
was holding its breath before an onslaught: and then, as I watched, the
trees on the far headland suddenly bent in unison as if seized by an
invisible hand -- bent far over, almost at ninety degrees, their upper
branches thrashing under the burden of a howling gale that seemed to have
roared in from nowhere.  And almost immediately the trees on the island
reacted too, their upper branches suddenly flung over and the air around
them filled with dust and branches and flying debris.

   A moment later the storm cell was upon me.  It sort of sucked the air
upwards for an instant as if a vacuum had been applied to a glass jar and I
felt my lungs empty and leaves and twigs suddenly sprang upwards from the
ground before spinning away in tumbling specks of brown and black.  In an
instant I was enveloped in it too: the wind seized me and drove me off the
path in stumbling, drunken steps and I was flung forward and would have
fallen except for a nearby tree.  I threw my arms around it and clung for
dear life while the earth went mad around me -- a shrieking, thrumming
cacophony of sound of wind and tortured timber and breaking branches. 
Chunks of wood and leaves and sticks whirled past me and I could hear the
trunk of tree I was clinging to groaning and cracking as if its living
fibres were being torn asunder.  My face was pressed hard against the rough
bark but the wind was behind me and at least I could see.  Below me was the
little natural harbour and beyond that the bay to the south, the water
almost black as the cloud of dust and debris sucked the light out of the
air.  I could see my boat too, thrashing like a living thing as the wind
seized it, the mooring lanyard slack in one moment and stretched tight in
another: and as I watched it parted like a thread of cotton and the wind
drove my boat like a child's toy against the rocks.
And beyond it something else caught my attention, too: a flash of colour
further out to sea, perhaps a quarter mile beyond the harbour.  It was
there for just an instant: a bright glimpse of yellow against that black
malevolent water and then the windstorm tore up the sea in between us and I
lost sight of whatever it was.  The wind and dust filled my eyes with tears
and I wiped them away hurriedly, scanning the turbulent, twisting water to
see what it had been but there was nothing but the beat of the wind on the
frothing white water.  And then for just a fleeting moment the curtain was
torn aside and I saw it again: a small boat, its prow high in the water and
a single figure huddled in the stern, hunched low over the tiller.  There
was the flash of a pale, white face and a glimpse of golden hair streaming
behind it and I knew, without a shadow of doubt, that it was Sarah.  And
then the wind lashed the sea again and she was lost to sight in a maelstrom

of driving, wild water.

   With a cry of dismay I released the tree and bounded down the pathway to
the water's edge.  Christ knows what I intended, for my boat was half
submerged and there was no way I could go out to her.  The wind was behind
me and it thrust me forward in giant, leaping steps that flung me finally
against a pile of rocks at the water's edge.  For a moment I lay huddled
there, my body wracked with pain with the force of the impact, but I was
driven by fear and so I scrambled over the little spit of rocks and wedged
myself there, staring out to sea - desperate to catch a glimpse of her
again.  I was lower here and it was harder to see: the wind had picked up a
spindrift of white spray that reduced visibility even further and I racked
my eyes, wiping away the stinging salt and dust with trembling fingers, my
heart thudding in my chest with terror.

   For a full minute there was nothing.  The wind thrummed and howled
around me and I stared out, but there was nothing except a frenzy of white,
roaring water: and then, just as I had given up hope the prow of her boat
appeared not twenty yards offshore.  It was high in the water, thrust
upwards by the weight in the stern and the roaring wind, and it crabbed
sideways against the buffeting of the confused, heaving sea as Sarah
struggled to keep course.  I could see her clearly now, one hand on the
tiller and the other shielding her eyes against the spray, her face a white
mask of terror.  God knows what she was thinking -- she didn't even have a
lifejacket on and was dressed only in jeans and a thin top that clung to
her body like wet paint.

   'Sarah!' I screamed, but the wind snatched my words away and flung them
into the sky.  'Sarah!  To me!  Come to me.'

   But she couldn't hear me, and I watched helplessly as the drama
unfolded. She had the tiller far over to the right in an effort to steer
the boat to the harbour mouth but the weight of the wind was turning the
bow, forcing it away until the little craft was beam on to the waves.  It
began to roll then, a sickening, swinging motion that whipped it from side
to side while she clung helplessly to the stern thwart, and I knew it was
only a moment before it broached.

   'Sarah!' I screamed again.  She was only a dozen yards away but the boat
was moving rapidly away, skidding sideways under the weight of the wind. 
'Jump, Sarah, jump!'

   She heard me then, and for a moment our eyes met and I saw a glimmer of
hope leap into her face: and then the wind took the windward side and
flipped the boat over as if it were a scrap of kindling.  Sarah was flung
clear and I heard her thin scream as she went, her arms wind-milling and
her hair blowing in a streaming cloud about her head before she was
snatched from my horrified gaze.

   And in that instant I imagined her dead -- the pale limbs still and grey
and her eyes glazed and staring, and I knew I couldn't live without her.  I
flung myself into the sea and struck out through the maelstrom, reaching
the upturned boat in a few short strokes but there was no sign of her.  I
dived under the wreck and surfaced on the other side, gasping against the
sting of the driven salt spray and I found her there, scrabbling with
frantic hands to grasp the slick, slippery hull.

   'Sarah!' I screamed, and she turned to me.  'Sarah!'

   She released the boat and a second later she was there, clinging to me
like a limpet.  I could feel the cold flesh of her cheek pressed against
mine and hear the rasping of her breath as she gasped into my ear.  'Oh,
God, Michael...Jesus, God!' she said.  'Save me, save me.' Her arms were
tight around me and I couldn't move, couldn't swim.  'Save me,' she said
again.

   'I will,' I screamed.  'Listen to me!  Work with me.  Let go, let go! 
Hold my shirt and swim with me.'

   For a moment I thought she wouldn't, or couldn't, but then she nodded,
bless her, and I felt her arms release me.  She grasped my shirt and we
trod water for a few moments to gather breath.  I knew we could never make
the harbour, for the waves were pushing us back, and so I struck out
parallel to the shore, heading for a spot about fifty yards further on
where I'd often seen flotsam gathered amongst the rocks.

   To this day I don't know how we made it -- for every stroke we pushed
forward the wind and waves seemed to carry us back two, but the current
helped and we found a piece of wood to cling to and that helped.  We kicked
forward with our legs and eventually reached a relatively sheltered little
cove of black pebbles where we lay like landed fish while the sea sucked at
our legs and the wind howled overhead.  She was curled against me, one leg
hooked under my body and my face wedged in the curve of her shoulder, and
we clung to each other as she sobbed with fear and relief.

   It would have been so easy to lie there but I knew it wasn't over, and
so I struggled to my feet and pulled her up and we staggered like drunks
over the rocks, past the little harbour and then up the path to the
cottage. I wondered if the roof would be gone but it was still intact and
so we stumbled through the door and knelt on the rough stone facing each
other, our arms wrapped around each other and our faces buried in each
other's necks.  The thick stone walls muffled the sound of the wind out and
I heard the little noises she made; the sobs and whimpers, and I hugged her
and whispered words of comfort into her ear.

   'It's all right, Sarah.  You're safe, my love.  You're safe now.'

   'I thought I was gone,' she whispered back, and her voice was broken and
gusty.  'I thought I'd never see you again.'

   'I'm here.  We're together, we're safe.'

   She pulled back and gazed into my face, her eyes still full of fear. 
She was shivering from cold and shock and I knew I had to warm her.  'What
are we going to do?' she whispered.

   I stood up and pulled her to her feet and we went into the little back
room where the kitchen had been.  There were logs and kindling already set
out in the hearth and I bent down and lit the fire, watching for a moment
in case the chimney didn't draw -- but it caught quickly within a minute or
two the flames were crackling and flickering shadows jumped on the walls
from the cheery orange glow.  She leaned forward and warmed her hands over
the flames.

   'Wait here,' I said.  'I'll go to the shed and see what we can use
tonight.'

   One of the trees next to the shed had come down but I was able to
squeeze through the tangle of branches to the door, still open from my
earlier work.  There wasn't much there -- tools, mostly, and building
materials like cement and paint -- but I found a couple of old blankets
that the generator had been wrapped in and some cardboard cartons.  There
was a first aid kit, too, and a little box with some food in it that Sarah
had brought in case we ever got hungry.  I took it all back to the kitchen.
The wind was still blowing hard but nothing like before, and I wondered
briefly what had caused such a catastrophic and brief savagery -- a
microburst, perhaps.

   Sarah was still crouching by the fire and I put a blanket on the floor
next to her.  'Get out of your clothes,' I said.  'We can dry them by the
fire.  I'll wait in the other room.'

   She nodded wordlessly and I left her there.  It was very dark now and I
realised that the generator had stopped working, but we didn't need it. 
There was plenty of wood for the fire and there were a couple of torches in
my tool box.  I stood for a moment looking out of one of the new windows,
thinking about what had happened.  The right side of my chest was starting
to hurt and I lifted my wet shirt and peered at the skin, but it was too
dark to see much.  Through the salt splattered window I could see the
twinkling of lights on the other side of the bay and I knew they would come
looking for us in the morning, so I wasn't worried -- not about that.  It
was Sarah who concerned me: she'd been so close to drowning and I didn't
like the look of the pallor of her skin or the dilated eyes.  She was in
shock, and I needed to watch her.

   I turned back towards the kitchen without even thinking, and stopped
dead in my tracks.  Sarah was framed by the open door, standing before the
fireplace with her back to me.  She'd stripped off her wet blouse and bra
and was peeling her jeans off.  Her back was as smooth as alabaster,
tapering from her shoulders to the narrow curve of her waist and her arms
were smooth and well muscled.  The fire painted her skin a golden orange,
flickering as the flames leapt and danced, and there were pools of dark
shadow in the secret crevices of her body.  She still had her panties on:
small and white, not much more than a gee string really, with the delicious
curve of each buttock framed by the narrow strip of material disappearing
between each cheek, and her legs were long and golden.

   I knew I should turn away but I just couldn't, so I stood and stared at
her, my heart suddenly racing in my chest and my mouth dry.  She was so
beautiful...so perfect -- a body sculptured in velvet, carved from ivory by
a master craftsman.  And while I stood there she hooked her thumbs either
side of her panties and slid them down over the smooth golden skin of her
thighs before dropping them into a little puddle of wet material on the
floor.  I remember staring at the little cleft where the swell of each
perfect buttock started, and I regarded the exquisite shape of each cheek
defined by the smooth curve of her hips.  She bent down then to pick up the
blanket and for a heart stopping moment her cheeks parted to reveal the
cleft of her pussy with its soft wet lips and a wisp of golden hair that
shone briefly in the firelight, and above it the tight crinkled orifice of
her anus.

   I must have made a little sound then: perhaps a gasp of breath or even
the thudding of my heart, for she turned slightly and saw me.  For a long
moment we gazed at one another, her body still, balanced on one leg with
the curve of her hip thrust outwards and the profile of her right breast
exposed to my hungry gaze.  It was exactly as I remembered it: a perfect
globe of warm, living flesh capped by a nipple as rosy as a ripe strawberry
-- and as I watched it stiffened, hardening in shape and texture to stand
proud of the creamy flesh of her breast.

   I tore my gaze away from her body and looked into her face, expecting
anger or scorn or perhaps embarrassment, but there was none of those.  Her
mouth was open slightly, her lips soft and pink with the gleam of her teeth
behind them, and her hair hung in a tangled mass around the slender column
of her neck and I thought she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.
And still she didn't move: she simply looked at me, as still as a doe in
the headlights of a car and in her eyes I saw a gathering awareness of what
she read in my face.

   For long moments our eyes were locked across that flickering, firelit
little room: a wordless exchange as intimate as if we had whispered the
deepest secrets of our souls to one another.  I knew that in my eyes she
had seen the secret of an impossible, aching love that filled my brimming
heart until it might burst in my chest; of hope for something so hopeless
it could never be, and dread that she might despise me for even thinking
that way.  And in her dark eyes I saw the sense of innocence lost; of a
girl out of her depth, struggling with all her might to find her way back
to the light and ashamed of what she had become.

   And in those fleeting moments I understood how vulnerable she was.  It
was as if everything that she had been though had stripped away her
confidence and left her naked and alone and in desperate need of comfort.

   In a few steps I was with her and we clung to each other, her body
against me and her mouth pressed to mine.  I could taste the salt on her
skin and smell it in her hair, and her lips were as soft as gossamer.  God,
how I wanted her!  My cock reared up, pressing hard against my wet jeans
and she felt it.

   'Take off your things, Michael,' she whispered.  'Lay here beside me.'

   We flung the cardboard on the floor and draped it with blankets and she
lay down, staring up at me as I peeled off my clothes.  There were shadows
in her eyes still, but she smiled at me as I stood naked and she reached up
and took my hand and pulled me down beside her.

   'Tonight we are just you and me,' she said, and her voice was husky with
passion.  'Friends, Michael, not siblings.' She touched my face, her
fingertips tracing the line of my lips.  'Take me...  just for tonight, and
then never again,' and she put her mouth on mine and kissed me.

   I'll never forget that night for as long as I live.  She had been
unobtainable and suddenly she was not, lying naked on the floor with her
arms around me and her mouth on mine.  The firelight flickered on her skin,
painting it amber, and the dark shadows flickered and jumped in the corners
of the room.  She was sheathed in velvet and decked in gold, and she was
mine.

   She lay on the floor and I painted her body with kisses: onto the soft
white skin below her ear in the hollows of her neck and across to the
glorious mounds of her breasts.  Her nipples were like ripe gooseberries in
my mouth and I teased them with my lips, tugging on them until she giggled
and pushed my head gently down.  And so I moved to the flat plain of her
belly, dipping my tongue into the little crescent of her naval and tasting
the salt there; and then further again until my lips touched the soft
gossamer hair at the little triangle between her thighs.

   Her legs were closed and I drew them gently apart.  Her sex was swollen
with desire, the flesh a pale translucent pink and open like a rare exotic
flower.  Between the thick outer lips lay the inner sanctum, the flesh a
darker hue and gleaming wetly in the flickering light, and at their apex a
tiny seed lay like a glistening pearl in the soft wet bed of an oyster.

   'Touch me, Michael' she whispered and I bent my head and brushed my
tongue against the hot wet flesh, hearing the sharp intake of her breath
and feeling her twitch as I touched her most sensitive spot.  She tasted of
sea salt and the oily flavour of arousal, and I lapped at her gently,
little strokes of my tongue across the fleshy opening to her body; dipping
down to scoop her juices into my mouth and then flattening to tease and
tickle the hard little nub of her clit.  She was delicious: a meal fit for
a king, and so I ate her with all the skill I could muster - - lifting her
long, golden legs up to her chest so her sex pushed outwards; clasping the
warm plasticity of her buttocks and drawing them apart until she was
totally open to me, the lips of her sex stretched open and an ooze of
pearl-coloured juice between them like the cream in a delicious éclair.

   For a moment I regarded the prize.  My sister's cunt...  the opening to
her body, oozing wet and open - waiting for me to take it however I liked.
To be sucked and fucked and filled as many times as I wanted; to take my
seething sperm far into its mysterious depths somewhere beneath the warm
satin skin of her flat little belly.

   And so I ate her, wriggling my tongue into the warmth of her body,
lapping, lapping, long langorous strokes from the tight crinkled little
orifice between the pale crescents of her buttocks to the golden fuzz of
her mound.  Teasing her with my lips; scooping out her warm thick cream
with the tip of my tongue so it lay like custard on my taste buds -- my
sister's cream oozing from her body to paint my mouth and cheeks and chin,
splattering like drops of confetti onto the blanket beneath us.  My
sister's cunt juice.

   I could have stayed there all night but she stopped me with her hands on
my head and her eyes on my face.  'Enough, enough,' she whispered.  'Put it
into me,' and she pulled me gently upwards.

   It isn't often you get to fuck your sister.  I wanted to see it as well
as feel it: to have the picture of that first time --to watch as the
swollen head of my rigid cock pressing into her; to see the lips of her
cunt opening to take me and the juice oozing around the shaft as I sank
into her liquid depths.  But I watched her face instead.  She held my shaft
against her with trembling fingers and I watched her expression as I sank
into that beautiful golden body: the flare of her eyes as she felt the
length of her brother's cock penetrating her.  Wincing at the tightness of
her cunt -- stretching, stretching, trying to take the turgid shaft
pressing inexorably into her.  The tightening of her lips and the gasp of
wonder, and the softness of her eyes as I bottomed out and she gazed at me.

   'You're inside me, Michael' she whispered.  'Oh God!  You're right
inside me.'

   'Am I hurting you?'

   She shook her head.  'No -- no.  It's wonderful.  I...I can feel you so
deep.'

   She crossed her legs over my back and her hands fluttered softly on my
skin.  'Fuck me now,' she whispered.  'I want you to fuck me.'

   The long withdrawal, slippery and tight, her cunt grasping at me like a
frantic mouth, trying to keep me in.  Ah, Jesus!  Sarah, Sarah.  The
exquisite suck of her flesh until at last my knob broke free and rested for
a moment on her trembling wet lips.  The sense of loss in her eyes as she
felt me leave the harbour of her body; the fluttering of her hands,
grasping me, pulling me in - and then the delicious cloying grip of her
cunt as I slid into her again -- the, clasping, amazing incredible feeling
of fucking my little sister.

   I pushed myself up and watched as I slid into her: watched the gleaming
shaft as it appeared and disappeared, and in the little room I could hear
the wet suck of her flesh above the crackle of the fire.  'Do you hear
that, Sarah?' I whispered.

   'Yes, yes -- the sound of fucking!'

   'Tell me what you feel.'

   She gathered her thoughts.  'I feel the ridge of your cock as you push
in.  It feels...tight.  And I feel my toes curl when you're in deep.' She
chuckled.  'You must be pushing against something connected to my toes.'

   'I am, I am.' I slid into her again, rolling her hips upward to allow
deeper penetration.  My bulbous head was buried inside her, somewhere up
behind her belly.  'Did your toes curl then?'

   'Christ, yes.' She reached up and touched my face with the tips of her
fingers, and her eyes gleamed soft in the flickering light.  'Cum into me,
Michael, when you're ready.  I want you to cum into me.'

   'Are you safe?'

   'I don't care.  Cum into my body.'

   But I wasn't ready to cum.  I knew this might be the only time I ever
made love to my sister and I wanted it to last.  I suppose I wanted it to
be special to her, too: perhaps to show that I was better than Lucy with
her painted lips and greedy, grasping ways.  And I wanted to watch her cum
first -- to see the expression of agony and ecstasy on her face as she
tumbled through time and space with me inside her.

   And so I fucked her with all of my patience and skill: long, delicious
strokes into her hot little body as she writhed under me: my balls bashing
against the crack in her arse and the sound of wet slapping flesh loud in
our ears.  I licked her breasts and sucked her hard, swollen nipples and
bit her neck lightly.  I varied the length and timing of my strokes,
teasing the nub of her clit with the slippery head of my cock and then
burrowing it deep into her body.  And then I turned her over and fucked her
doggie, marveling how her vulva gripped me, reveling in the sight of my
gleaming piston disappearing into that tight crevice, hearing her sighs and
moans as she climbed the road towards her first orgasm.  Three times she
gasped that she was cumming and each time I held her still until the moment
had passed, and each time she begged me for release.

   The fourth time there was no holding her.  She rested her head on the
makeshift bed and her fingers went to her pussy, touching the point of our
union, gathering the froth that rimmed her, the fingertips thrumming
against her clit.  'I'm going to cum, Michael,' she whispered, and her
voice was filled with wonder.  'Ah, fuck...fuck.  Ah, that's good.  Christ,
it's coming.'

   I drew her buttocks apart and my fingers brushed between them, touching
the tight ring of her anus, smearing the silvery juice from her cunt over
the crinkled flesh.  'Cum for me, baby', I whispered.  'Cum for your big
brother.'

   'Ah, yes...here it comes!  Here it comes...ah, ah!  Yes, oh God -' her
voice was shrill and urgent, rising quickly as the blinding white hot wave
reached up to seize her.  I pressed my fingers into her ass and it sucked
at me like a tiny mouth, the ring crimping my finger with a desperate grip
as it slid into her bowels.

   'Oh, God...oh yessssss-'

   Her cunt seized me in a grip of iron and she writhed and bucked in the
throes of her cum, grunting and moaning, her head thrashing from side to
side and her moans filling the room.  And in that moment I suddenly
realised what I was doing...I mean, I knew it was Sarah, of course, and I
knew she was my sister and that I was inside her, and I guess I'd sort of
rationalised that somehow.  But it was as if I had been in a dream and then
I suddenly awoke and found it all to be true.

   I really was inside Sarah.

   Sarah, my little sister; the one I'd looked after as a kid.  The little
girl with pigtails I'd read stories to as she sat on my knee.  Sarah, with
the knobbly knees and braces, growing up shy and awkward.  The one my
mother had always told me to protect because she was a girl, and so special
because she was my sister, and families always looked after each other. 
Sarah -- the amazing, beautiful, untouchable Sarah.

   And now she was keeling on the floor with her legs askew and my cock was
buried inside her - and her cunt was milking me, milking me, sucking at my
rod like a mouth on a tit, trying to draw the juices out of my balls. 
Jesus!  I really was fucking my sister, and she loved it, and I suddenly
realised that it was the Beach House that had done this.  I would never,
never, have been able to do this anywhere else -- and yet here I was buried
up to my nuts in her, feeling the clasping suck of her tight little cunt on
my swollen prick and knowing that soon I would spray my seed deep into her.

   And the image swept me up like a leaf in a storm and my orgasm burst
upon me.  With a strangled cry I unleashed the first searing jet of my
sperm to splatter against the undulating, throbbing walls of her cunt --
drenching them in my pearly fluid, painting her insides with my seed.  A
second spurt followed, and then a third -- sizzling, boiling jets of my
jism spraying into my little sister's body...filling her nooks and crannies
and bathing her cervix, filling her up, filling her up.

   Sarah cried out in wonder.  'Christ, Michael -- I feel it!  Jesus...oh,
my God!' I felt her hands gripped me, held my rod, her fingertips pressed
at the point of where we were joined.  Touched me where I went into her to
explore the ring of her cunt, so slippery with the ooze of her juice and my
sperm; and she squeezed me rhythmically to coax the last few drops into her
grasping sex.

   And at last we were done, and I slid free from her.  She lay on her side
and I joined her, our arms around each other and she touched my face with
her fingers.  'Thank you, Michael,' she whispered.  'You'll never know how
much I needed that.'

   A sudden gust of wind rattled the roof and she glanced up at the new
rafters above our head.  'Will we get out of her tomorrow, do you think?'

   'I'm sure we will.  If I can't salvage one of the boats then they'll
come looking for us anyway.'

   'So we have until morning?'

   'Yes.'

   'Can you make love again, soon?'

   'Yes.'

   'Then do it.  Tonight is ours.  Tomorrow -' A shadow crossed her face.
'Tomorrow, well -'

   I put my fingers on her lips to still the words.  I didn't want to hear
about tomorrow, to hear her say we would never do this again.  And so I
smoothed her hair and brushed my fingers over her skin and I kissed her. 
And in a little while, I entered the glorious temple of her body again.

   *

   She was quiet in the boat on the way home.  She sat in the bow and her
face was pale and there were indigo bruises under her eyes.  If I'd joked
about it I would have said she was pale because I'd pumped four loads of
sperm into her -- each time hearing her crying out my name, feeling her
arms clasping me.  The last time she'd whispered words of love too, but
then we'd slept a fitful sleep and in the morning she'd been distant.

   I moved forward and sat next to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
She turned to me with a wan smile.

   'This blanket smells of oil,' she said.

   'And other things.' I could see the white stains on it, and in a sudden
flashback I remembered my seed oozing from her vulva to lie like drops of
pearl on the rough grey fabric.

   'I never thought -' she glanced behind her but the old fisherman who had
picked us up was too far away to hear.  'I mean, I didn't think that you
and me -'

   'And are you sorry now?'

   'Sorry?' She shook her head.  'No.  But what we did makes things so much
harder for me, Michael.  I need time to think.' She was silent for a few
moments and then she glanced at me.  'I'm not on the pill, you know.'

   'Christ!  But you asked me to -'

   'I know.  I needed to feel you...you know.  It made me feel like a woman
again.  I can't tell you why.' She reached out and touched me.  It'll be
all right, I'm sure.  It's not my fertile time.'

   'And if you are?'

   'Then I'll love it, Michael.  All the more because it is yours too.'

   I regarded her.  Jesus!  A baby!  I wondered how it would feel having a
son or daughter by my sister and, bizarrely, whether it would change
anything between her and Lucy if she did have one.  Perhaps Lucy would be
put off by the idea that Sarah had had sex with a man.  I was grasping at
straws.

   'And what about us, Sarah?' I asked.  'What about you and me, now?'

   'Us?' Her eyes swept over the bay, towards the island behind us.  'We
still have the Beach House.  It's a special place, I think.  When we are
home we are brother and sister...but there -- well, nothing can touch us.'

   'Will you still help me with it?' I asked 'I'd like to finish it.'

   A small smile crossed her lips.  'God yes,' she said.  'That's our
special place, isn't it?  We need to finish it.'

   'And will you and me be the first to use it, when it's done?  Just you
and me, together?'

   'Oh, yes,' she whispered, 'no matter what happens that will be a really
special night, I promise,' and she laid her hand on my arm and turned to
look forward again, to the future.

   ***


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