Brother, My Father
I'm a photographer now. Though I love writing, I'm a photographer. It takes a lot out of me to write stories. I don't plan on giving up at it, but I can't see myself producing stories any faster than I already am. What follows is a work of fiction and a work that contains underage sex, incest, and complex and embarrassing emotions more people on this earth are familiar with than they would admit.
***
My brother did all the woodwork for the gaudy old church down the road. I call it gaudy from spite, you see. It's the most beautiful thing in town, save for the bread when it's just been carried out from the oven to the sidewalk to be sold in the mornings. My son prays for me there - at the church. He rests his head against the top of the pew in front of him, not knowing who it was that sanded and varnished it. While he prays for my sins the men around him pray for the sins they committed with me. The priest prays, hardest of all of them, but for what I don't know. The things he does without even a blush... and then to say someone else is a sinner... They're all lost. But when their god couldn't bear to look at them, I was the one holding their heads to my breasts and stroking their hair.
A long time ago, when the economy was better, I still did what I do today. I had no child, I had a place of my own, and I had family nearby that had no idea what I did for a living. I thought they didn't, at least. Seeing as how the economy was so good and I was quite young to have left home, never having had a child, I could charge quite a bit and see maybe one man an evening and still have money to spend on extravagant gifts for myself.
I was walking through the streets one evening, half looking for something to buy and half ready to sell if someone gave the right nod, when I bumped into my brother. He was my senior by two years and already a skilled carpenter. He always looked at me with a cruel little smile when we were both home with mother in those days. I thought it was just because he had become so terribly self assured in recent years. I had no idea he could've suspected anything. So when he gave me a suggestive nod and slipped money in my pocket, I thought nothing past the fact that it was a queer way to drop off a few extra francs from mother. He suggested we go and get a coffee before heading back to my place and I simply followed him blindly.
"Do you really intend on doing this?" He said, peering over the rim of a tiny cup from which he drank a curiously strong Italian coffee.
"Do what?" I replied.
"Do you intend to... do... the things a prostitute does, I suppose."
My eyes must have looked larger than the saucers on the table, but I fought to maintain my dignity. I had always thought that when this day came I would stand my ground, defend my actions, and never say that I was sorry. The silly thing, though, was that I had long forgotten the money he slipped me and the look he gave me when he asked me out to coffee, and so we were talking about two slightly different things.
"Yes. I do. I quite intend to do every little thing a prostitute does. And I intend to do those things for a very long time. I quite imagine I couldn't be any happier with the situation. I am doing what I love, and I'm getting a little money for it as well. It puts butter and meat on the table, where mother only offers bread, and I dare say I expect never to cum so hard with any kind of 'legitimate' marriage."
He blushed hotly and dropped his coffee after the first two sentences. I continued on with my speech, but his attention was divided between myself, the little ceramic cup careening from the edge of the saucer and off onto the ground, and the waiter rushing to clean up the mess and provide another drink.
"I- I-I c-c-c-cant b-believe it..." he stammered, in the stutter I used to simply adore when we were both very young. It nearly broke my confident front to hear it.
"Well, believe it. This is what I want to do. This is what I've always wanted to do. I only wish you came to me earlier so I could've had it off my chest and gotten it over with right from the start. This day should've come the first day I thought that this was what I wanted to do - at mother's house when I was six and you were eight - I knew then and I know now!"
I put my coffee down triumphantly just as he stood, nearly throwing his chair out of the way. The waiter had just brought his new cup when he put down well over the cost of our drinks and took my hand, easily lifting me and dragging me away from the caf‚. Having just bore my soul, I was exhausted. I let him drag my body through the streets as I followed along, ears on point, tail listlessly sagging between my legs, legs taking rapid little shuffles to keep up with his purposeful stride.
"Where are you taking me?" I asked, the tips of my ears showing a rose tint of blush as the last of my passion to stand for my choices in life had drained from me for the evening.
"I'm taking you back to your house, of course." The effort with which he pulled me down the street masked some of the sound of his happiness, but it was impossible to mistake the tone of his voice. He was experiencing the purist ecstasy a man ever can - anticipation of a love he has wanted for as long as he remembers. I was completely confused.
"You aren't... angry?" I asked, pulling my hand away and standing my ground as we reached the front of the building where I rented the second story.
"Angry!? My deer sister," He took a step toward me and I stepped to the side, shrinking against the cold stucco wall, feeling it pull my dress up as I shrank down against it, "I," he placed his hands on my hips and held me up as my knees gave way - I was sure he had gone mad with hate - "I fear there is no man happier on this earth, Paris be damned!"
He pushes his lips against mine and lifted me up the wall. My ears fluttered and my tail pulled between my legs as I felt every firmness of his body pressing through his clothes and my dress to hold me up against the wall while he kissed. I remembered in a flash that he had paid me. I remembered his words at the caf‚. He was not talking about my life; he was talking about tonight - about right now. I felt his hand gather my dress and reach under it and I nearly fainted, pulling away from his lips and gasping for air.
"Brother!"
He stepped back, allowing me to open the door. He panted, ashamed and feeling childlike in his inability to restrain himself. His slacks showed unmistakable desire and his whole body seemed on point after my exclamation. I had called out to gain freedom, and to get inside, but I was unable to do so without love and sexual tension playing the word through my lips like a bow drawn across a violin. As I opened the door and tip-toed up the steps, I mouthed the letters with my tongue, wondering what I was doing. I nearly giggled at the "th", my tongue rubbing against the roof of my mouth. Thinking about him like this brought me back to feeling like a little girl, when we would play together and share our baths. I hadn't considered it. I hadn't allowed myself to consider it. But as I remembered our two bodies soaped and rinsed together in a tub behind the house - his young body bubbling with energy and love for his sister - I lifted my dress in the back, held it up with my tail to show him my panties, and ran up the stairs giggling like I was an empty headed five year old.
"Please! Please wait!" I cried.
He took a step back, but his hands still held me.
"The door isn't even closed. Just... let's take this slow."
He gave a mean little smirk, "But I paid for this already..."
I frowned and stepped out of his grasp, shutting the door and taking off my shoes. "I may be a professional, but I'm not in the habit of having sex with my brother. I imagine it's a habit one would enter into slowly. Besides," I walked away from him to get a drink of water, but mostly to avoid facing him, "I don't sleep with men that I love." My voice trailed off to a whisper, but he stood there in the middle of the room, stunned by the words. The wind seemed to fall from his sails - I saw it when I returned to him with the water.
"Oh don't pout, you paid, you'll leave happy," I said while trailing a finger down the front of his chest, growling lustily and feeling a chill down my back when I cupped his withering erection, which then sprang to life again. "I just want to talk for a bit... do you remember what it was like when we were little?" I sat him down next to me on the couch. "Do you remember life before daddy's pension?"
***
We grew up in a small one room farm house with no electricity or plumbing, deep in the countryside of France. We were always told we were descended from royalty, but that nobody in France gives a fuck for a coyote. We learned the value of money by never having any. We learned the value of others by never consorting with them. To this day we pretend to care for neither, though our actions say otherwise.
"I remember the tub," was all he could say while he sat there, desperate to see his sister naked.
In the winter we had our baths inside. Mother and father would bring us hot water and scrub our bodies. Sometimes one of them would sit in the tub with us, when we were very small. But mother had a wide frame, and though father loved it, it ensured that when father was gone we bathed as brother and sister only as soon as we were old enough to walk.
When we settled in to sleep in those winter months I would rest between my brother and mother. Father would wait until he thought we couldn't hear him and say, "I'm going to make love to momma now, if any naughty children are awake we will make a new baby to replace you and sell you to the gypsies." If either of us were awake we would giggle madly, curl up and cover our heads with the covers, and mother would begin moaning softly.
I never thought much of it. They did it nearly every night when the weather was cold, and it kept us all so warm that sometimes we'd have to pull the covers down a bit just to get to sleep. Lying next to mother, I would peak under the covers sometimes, watching what was happening. It was a long time before I realized that by the time father teased us he had already had his hand between her legs. I remember pressing my body to mother's back and breathing with her. I imagined reaching down and helping daddy, feeling his fingers moving inside her, feeling his huge cock slipping in and out. The thought of it would drive me crazy. As mother panted and bit her lip I buried my face against the middle of her back and pushed my hips to hers, wishing I could slip inside her and be where she was, feeling what she must have felt. I imagined what daddy's slippery fingers would feel like, my whole hand wrapped around just one of them. I imagined what it would be like to feel him pulsing, filling mommy, pulling out and getting the mess all over my hand. Father would breathe quickly, then mother, then silence. There would be a wet sound of withdrawal. Then, panting, I would sleep against mother's back, father on the other side, and my brother then curled up and pressed against my back. By summer every year I would be driven near to madness, wishing for nothing but to feel what daddy was doing to mommy with my own hands - to see it directly, uninhibited - to feel it inside me.
In summer we slept apart, with the blanket half off the bed. During the hottest nights one of us would flee from the bed to sleep on the cold ground, thankful that something in the world was still capable of being cold. Father never touched mother at night during the summer months. Days, sometimes weeks, would pass between mating. We knew how long it had been because the longer mother was without father inside her the more she would talk. In winter she only opened her mouth to say it was supper time, or time for a bath, or, on Christmas, to give daddy his present under the covers. In summer she would ramble. She would order around every little nuance of the day and wouldn't let a single mistake pass without drawing it out into a conversation.
But when father had enough of listening to her he'd drag the tub around to the back of the house. He'd fill it with cold water straight from the pump, leaving it there under the spigot. My brother and I would be stripped and dropped in the water to play while he went back to the house, locking us out should we feel like wandering back inside. We would have an hour or two to play naked in the water with the summer sun warming our faces. Because of the hills and the trees lining the area we had privacy, of sorts. We could be seen from the road, but there was never anybody on the road. There was a pen with two donkeys nearby, and we were close enough to the house to hear mother screaming unabashedly for more of whatever she was being given that we never saw in the winter months, but for the most part we had a great open space to play naked and feel exposed but without spectators or visitors.
It was then, in the summer months in the countryside of France that we watched the donkeys rut. We explored each other's bodies. We ran sopping wet and naked through the grass and tumbled around wrestling, only to jump back into the tub to clean off.
One day, the first time we were out that year, I remember being particularly frustrated from the winter months. I was six and my brother was eight. We sat, side by side, dripping from every strand of fur, plopped down on the hot, dry grass around the donkeys' pen. The grass was tickling and scratching me, and I remember it bothered my brother as well, as we both shuffled uncomfortably, bumping into each other, teetering this way and that without a modicum of patience. I remember watching the muscles in the male's thigh as he rose up and began finding his way into the female.
"Do you think feral animals think the same way we do?" I asked him.
"I dunno... that one thinks like daddy."
The fat flared head found its way into her. We could still hear mom and dad going at it back at the house. The muscles all clenched at once and before I knew it the length of donkey cock was buried. One flex, two, three, four; the leg muscles of the animal seemed impossible for the female to endure. I remember turning to my brother and wondering "will he do that to a girl one day?" Turning back to the donkey, staring dead silent like brother, I watched the thick veins on the shaft slipping in and out. I thought I saw the underside throbbing and a little trickle of white. I bit my lip and began panting as, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my brother licking his lips. An instant later the male climbed back and cum exploded from what had just been a union. There was a wet pop and a huge puddle of slime. The two animals walked off, content to spend the rest of their day as if it never happened.
Our curiosity was more or less innocent as we climbed through the fence and stood over the mess. It was a puddle at least the size of one of us.
"Does that happen when dad does it to mom?" he asked me, knowing that I watched them under the covers.
"Not... not so much as that."
"Does it go inside her?" he was looking closer and closer.
"Mostly... dad licks the rest from his hand." I remember blushing so hard I could feel my ears grow hot, even hotter than the sun beating down on them.
Without warning he grabbed hold of me, tackling me so that I fell dangerously close to the donkey puddle. "EWWW!" I cried out, halfheartedly, and began wrestling with him. I was so furiously pent up with ignorant six year old sexual frustration that the close contact and effort felt amazing. Perhaps I would just consider it an abundance of youthful energy and not sexual if not for what happened next. Perhaps my entire life would be different if not for what happened.
Rolling in the dry grass and having come from the tub, we were soon covered head to toe in little broken off bits of itchy grass. We had a fair coating of dust as well. He would pin me, and I would pin him. In the midst of the wrestling I could feel, from time to time, his sheath pressed against my stomach, or on my back, or under my tail or between my legs. It seemed larger each time it happened, and soon it seemed as though he was doing it on purpose. I pictured daddy's sheath, and then his member at full hardness pushing through mommy's folds. When brother pinned me next I latched onto him with arms and legs and thrust my hips against his, causing him to bark and thrust back. We rolled t hat way, kissing awkwardly, and rolled right into the mess left by the donkey. I lay there, the hot cum soaking into my back, covering every inch of my body not covered by my brother, while my brother thrust clumsily, looking for the point to it all. My mind was swimming. I felt nothing at all, but everything all at once. The heat of the sun, the ground, the cum, my brother, and suddenly the stinging heat of his cock buried inside me. He came in seconds and when he pulled out I was left with a strange heat where he had been. We looked at each other. We stared. We slowly got up and went back to the tub. When father came out to get us we had the guiltiest looks of our lives on our faces as brother was trying desperately to clean the wet donkey cum from my fur.
Father laughed and sent my brother inside to fetch soap. We almost never used it, as it was expensive for us. I cried and explained what happened while father smiles and cleaned my back. Brother cried and clung to father's arm as he nodded in agreement with everything that was said. When we had finished the story we sniffled and stopped crying; father rubbed our heads condescendingly.
"Just don't have any puppies together."
That summer, as infrequently as mother had father, I had brother; up until the beginning of fall.
***
I remember knowing what was happening in the intuitive way children often do when something is too terrible and too adult to understand. We had lived in that little house for so long with so little to think about because father had inherited a small sum of money. We lived together doing almost nothing but playing and talking and being - learning as some children did in schools from both parents being home and attentive at all times.
Father joined the military. Mother wept. We seldom touched each other in bed, even for warmth. Father left that fall, so soon after a summer so fast and passionate. Fall turned to winter and still none of us leaned against the other to stay warm. We received letters and money from father, but mother sent us out of the house so she could read them. She withered without him there. She talked incessantly but about nothing. She was never happy, but always pretended to be. We received one final letter, which mother cried for days over after reading. We were mailed money regularly, but we never got any more letters. Father had died and his pension went to mother.
We were all withdrawn and distant. The money replaced everything in the house. Father had been a war hero or had been promoted, I'm not sure which, but they seemed to give us more money than they should. When the house couldn't hold all the new things we moved to a proper town. Mother gave brother and I an allowance to live in the middle of town while she had a small cottage on the edge. She much preferred to give us the money so that she could wither and die alone.
***
"You remember the tub?" I asked, just to hear him say it again.
"I can't get the sight out of my mind. When you were covered in... in... the first time we had sex, I can't forget it. It haunts me. I don't want any other woman."
I blushed and fidgeted. "If... you wanted to take me... like you did that day..." I smiled and looked up at him, not used to feeling shame or inhibition. "I don't have any donkey cum, but you're free to take me as you please."
He sprang to his feat and began stripping clothes from his body. Before I could reach the zipper to my dress he was standing over me, over a pile of clothes, with an impressive erection. The little boy with a cute little prick that fit in the palm of your hand was gone. He was strong, with wide shoulders, though he was frightfully thin. I climbed off the couch and onto my knees with my eyes locked on it. I licked my lips and remembered father. Reaching up, I was reaching for him. Opening my mouth, I closed my eyes and received him.
It was father's shaft that I felt slide across my tongue, pressing against the back of my throat. My ears were splayed out, and I could swear I was wagging my tail like a child. Before I knew it, I was cradling it in both hands, rubbing it along the side of my face and cooing; worshiping it like it was the one and only member I'd ever seen. He was perfect. So thick and long that it took both hands to handle, but no longer and no thicker. His scent brought me back home. Pressing the underside of his tip to my nose, I breathed deep and gave a long, slow lick while breathing out with a shudder; taking him back into my mouth. I vaguely remember hearing him panting and grunting as I focused on relaxing, letting his tip pierce and pull back from my throat, over and over.
Like it was from another language, he told me to stop. He begged and pleaded, but I kept on, my mind under the covers in the little home deep in the countryside. It was late one winter evening and mother was out. Tonight it was me. I felt his claws digging into my ears and he began thrusting apart from my movements. I imagine my nose probably looked cute on some level, scrunched up to cope with being thrown over and over into my brother's stomach. As he came against my tongue I fell back into reality. I pulled back and the last stream of thick cum hit me across the cheek. I was panting loudly, a hand between my legs.
Blinking, I looked up at him. He wasn't my father, but he wasn't all that bad of a man, and I did love him.
"I thought you said I could take you like that first day," he said, trying to catch his breath, standing there awkwardly with large drops of spit and cum collecting and falling to the floor in lewd sheets of sticky fluid.
I coughed and blushed before responding, "I want you to last a little longer than you did then," in a teasing voice. I rose to my feet and removed my dress and underwear slowly, looking down and away. While I worked I made a request. "Could you... could we do it in the bed... quiet and slow, like-"
"Like a winter night?"
"Yes."
"Yes."
I stood, naked as when we were young and ready for bed, and led him back to the bedroom. It seemed wrong to be there with love involved. The room had seen only profit and thoughtless fun. I pulled back the bedding, which was far, far richer than what we had back then, as if to invite him; but in a flash I was overcome with emotion and tore the sheets and blankets from the mattress. In an old chest I hadn't opened in a long time there was a scratchy old blanket from the old house. I made the bed over, the way it used to be, bleak, grey, and uncomfortable. I climbed in, forcing him to lie on the side where father would have been.
We were on our backs, uncomfortably, the way that I imagine only politicians and the dead can sleep. I worried he would question our positions. I was worried about so many things. We held hands under the covers and continued to catch our breath from earlier. His cock was even more attractive hidden there as an obscenely large bulge dampening the fabric.
***
Before the summer was over and before I knew that father was leaving or that we were running out of his inheritance, I remember a walk we went on. It was after me and my brother had had sex a few times. We started to realize what it was, how to do it, the feelings involved, and how to do all kinds of things children shouldn't do. Mother was at home, presumably talking to my brother. We were going up the road kicking little rocks or chunks of dirt, making a one-way game of soccer out of it.
"What you are doing with your brother, do you know about it?"
"It's what you and mommy do!" I remember I answered that question so sure of myself, and so happy.
"No, little girl, what I do with your mother is make love to her. We married and we had the two of you because we are in love. What we do, we do because we love each other." He had stopped and crouched down to face me eye to eye. "You love your brother, no?"
I nodded, confused and a little sad. I wanted it to be exactly the same as what mommy and daddy did.
"You see how your brother looks at you, right? I may be old, and you may be too young... I love you, I love your brother. I love your mom and all of us love you. Everyone in this family loves everyone else. But the look in your brother's eyes is the look I have for your mother."
I felt my heart beginning to break. I was searching my father's eyes for that same look that my brother gave me or that he gave my mother and it wasn't there. His eyes were simple, and loving, but it was not... that... thing, that fucking je ne sais quoi. He didn't have it in his eyes when he looked at me and it broke my heart. I began crying. I was inconsolable, but I remember his words as he kept talking.
"What you're doing is having fun. You're exploring and enjoying. I don't know if I should let the two of you keep on, but I don't know how to stop it from happening. At least this way you learn early and I can keep an eye on you two. But you have to know that it's not the same for your brother. You may cry now but he is crying harder, I promise you. He is learning from mother that you do not share his feelings. He has to face the fact that you are just playing. To him, you are all he wants for the rest of his life. You are to him what momma is to your papa. This is just new and frightening for you, but he is having his heart broken."
I hit him as hard as I could. I was small and not particularly strong, so it didn't do anything, but it hurt my hand. I ran all the way back to the house feeling the pain in my hand where I had hit him. I didn't understand how he could see the look in my brother but he couldn't see it when I looked at him. When I got back to the house I heard my brother crying. I went around back to the tub and sat beside it, closing my eyes and heaving great big breaths of tears and exhaustion. Eventually I came to understand the situation. I came to think I understood it. It was like that day never happened, though. It was so easy to forget that it happened at the same time as that summer I spent experimenting with my brother. It was an anomaly - a little blip that never happened. The day after, we played; and it was all the same to me.
***
We lay in bed.
"This is where father would be." He said, finally. Despite the time passing he was still hard and his heart still beat quickly.
"And I'm mother." My voice was so soft and broken that they were hardly words at all.
We lay in bed.
I shifted my thighs together, still burning with desire, staring at the mound of blanket defining the edge of his member. I cleared my throat in the silence and prepared to say the same thing again, worried he hadn't heard. He interrupted me, though, speaking just as I made a sound.
"No... No you're not. You're just lying where mother would have been." He turned toward me and placed a hand between my legs, plunging his middle finger easily between my lips. I shivered and clung to him, falling away into memories again. I breathed the way mom used to - quiet, but passionate. His touch lit fires up and down my body, raging over the surface of my skin and stoking the coals of some deep, deep lust.
I gasped. I had never been so unprepared for the feelings and emotions I was experiencing. I could hear the sound of it, like I heard the sound as a child. Wet, sloppy, lewd but playful; the sound of a man's fingers dipping into and out of a woman's slit. I felt like I was floating and dissociated as he worked another finger inside me, reaching as deep as he could. I held my legs apart and pressed my chest to his, letting my panting breath fall across his face. I could feel that it was hot and I could smell that it was pungent from having him in my mouth, but it only seemed to drive him on.
He hooked his fingers and dragged them inside me, against this side then the other, teasing me and working me open. At this point, though, I was as close to the old house as possible. I was ten years ready for this moment. Mother was gone, and it was me. I reached down and held his member in my hands. I shuddered, just from the thought of it, then, using the tips of two fingers, I pushed it down until I felt it ready to enter me. I buried my face in his shoulder and thought of daddy. He thought of me. He would have paid anything to have made love to me, and I should be so lucky as to feel the physical bliss I felt that night ever again, but we were dealt two different lives and in that night we found the culmination of every half-accomplished dream we ever had. It was a lewd, loud, furious union of failure.
For hours we fucked. We called each others' names. We called out mother and father. He came in me quickly after the first entry but he just kept going. Time after time, he would pant, move me, and continue. His eyes were closed and he imagined it was me there, with my eyes open, begging him for more. I submitted to his every sexual desire except that one. I held my eyes shut and dreamt of daddy. If either of us had our eyes open, or if there were a fly on the wall, it would have been an impressive display. I could feel every pulse of his shaft. I felt it every time he came in me, and I felt every drop that fell out as he continued. I raked my claws across his back and he pulled at my hair at the height of passion.
I don't know that we stopped because we were finished or because we ran out of energy to continue.
In a terrible act of indiscretion, after it was no longer permissible by the heat of the moment, I pressed my face against his chest and panted out under my breath, "daddy, daddy I love you."
He held me close. I began crying. "No. You're only lying where mother would have. And I'm only lying where father would have." He was so cold to say it then... but he was right. I fell asleep there, with my tears rolling down his chest. I woke up and he was still there.
He left after breakfast. We kissed at the door, but just as he left he said his last words to me, and they stung sharply. "I'm not your daddy, and I never will be. I love you. Goodbye."
I continued my work. I do it to this day. He continued his, rebuilding the inside of a church as penance for his sins. He left town shortly afterward. Neither of us will ever be given the pleasure of a life spent with our first and most heartfelt love. We have memories, though, and I love his child with all my heart, even though he sits in his father's church and prays for his mother's sins, sinning for the priest and never knowing a thing about his uncle. But that's now. Now will work itself out, my story was just... about a piece of then.