It’s so wrong. If he raises his head, he’ll see them. He’ll see his brother and his niece and he’ll know he has to stop. She’s so fucking tight and so fucking wet and he can lose himself in the smell of her. Of sex and roses. So he keeps his face against her neck, keeps one hand on the wall and the other on her tit, and he doesn’t let himself hear Bill cooing to their daughter or the answering giggles of Victoire.
‘arder, Charlie. Faster. ‘e does not know what I need, but you do. Eet ees what you want, too. Make it ‘urt.
The words drive him on. Make him forget who she is, who he is, where they are. She’s scratching his back, ripping his t-shirt, biting his neck, and he fucks her harder, bruising her, marking her. He doesn’t care if it hurts her. Wants it to hurt her. Wants it to hurt both of them. Needs to hurt both of them. So they’ll stop. Not do it again.
I don’t know what’s wrong, Charles. Since she had Victoire, she doesn’t seem to want me to touch her. Doesn’t look at me the same way all the time. Mum says it can happen, after a baby, but it kills me.
Fleur whimpers as he squeezes her tit, wanting her to suffer like she’s making Bill suffer. It’s been months of visits. Months of listening to his brother, of wanting to help but not knowing how, of wanting to resist what Fleur does to him, what she makes him want. Of wanting what he shouldn't have. He moves his hand from the wall, reaching down to cup her arse as he fucks her harder.
Stop it, Fleur. He’s my brother. I love him. I can’t. I can’t do this. Oh fuck. I can’t. I can’t. Don’t. Don’t stop.
When it’s over, he’ll hate himself. He’ll see her sated and smug smile, hear her thank him as if he’s a pet who has performed a new trick, watch her clean up and dress before going to Bill and looking at him in that way. And Charlie will be alone, inside looking out, watching the happy family pretend that’s nothing wrong, that everything’s the same. He’ll get dressed and join them, lie to Bill and hate her for making him turn into someone he can no longer recognize.
Then he’ll go home and vow to refuse next time Bill owls him to come visit because he needs to talk. At night, he’ll lie in bed wanking to thoughts of his sister-in-law, of how hot and wet her cunt is and how she moans when she comes. And he’ll hate himself for wanting her, for being so fucking weak and pathetic, for accepting the next invitation when it arrives. Just like he always does.
Wrong
Story Notes:
December 25, 2007