by Mary Jaine
"Well, I guess the Oscars are sewn-up this year..." she mused, watching the young man's improbably large cock slide into the woman's mouth and down her throat. Events proceeded and before long he was slamming that thing into the woman's pussy while squeezing her suspiciously solid tits. Izzy had seen porn movies before, and there was nothing to make this one a stand-out, nor the next one, nor indeed the next one. As she flicked through them, though, something began ringing a 'Dead-Slow' bell in her mind, and, a suspicion forming, she quickly skimmed through all the other supposed 'mom/son' movies. Then it came to her; all the women looked like her mother!
Izzy sat back, her mind singing with triumph. Yess! Ollie was wanking to bone-strokers of what looked like their mother getting poked unmercifully in every single orifice. The thought gave her a warm glow; now she had him; now he had no escape, and he was going to help her get Mum off her back forever, because if he didn't, then all this was going in front of their mother, and then they'd see how long Ollie remained king of the house! Izzy had no real desire to get her hot older brother in Dutch with their mother, but this was war, and right now he was her best weapon.
After debating with herself over whether to drop Ollie in it, and weighing-up, on a probable scale of one to ten, how mad he was likely to get, she set her jaw and emailed the most incriminating videos she could find to herself, and grinned happily; there, let him delete them all, she had an email, from him to her, with the video clips attached, and a little note saying "Hey Iz, don't you think these look like Mum? I wonder if she likes this kind of stuff?"
Not that she was going to, of course; even Izzy, with all her anger at her mother's unreasonable behaviour, wasn't crazy enough to alienate the one male on the planet she thought was absolutely perfect; if she had to, she'd sort of, kind of, maybe hint that she was going to use them, but she knew, if push came to shove, having Ollie on-side and liking her was still more important than fixing her mother and her moods.
As an afterthought, she skimmed through the brother/sister incest files, and once again an eerie feeling stole over her; the girls in all those videos looked eerily similar; in fact, wait a mo, what the Hell, they looked like her! She leaned back in shock, a happy, secret smile on her lips; Ollie was yanking his crank over her as well? About fucking time, too!
After a moment, she looked again, watching as every possible sex act was carried out, and, try as she might to resist the notion, Izzy began imagining it really was her, not just some porn-starlet who looked like her, and all the big-cocked, studly fuck-muffins on-screen were Ollie.
Izzy had to admit, Ollie had chosen well when he'd picked out a lookalike for her; when it came to hair, general build, long slim legs, and facial features, they were all practically indistinguishable from each other, or from her, except for their tits. They all seemed to have inflated, giant, economy-size California Silicon-Tits. A sudden thought struck; was that what he wanted? Because if it was, she was sunk; all she had something that could really only be charitably called adequate; not bee-stings, or two fried eggs on a plate, thankfully, but definitely not yahbos or fun-bags, either, and all those girls on screen had a luscious set she couldn't possibly compete with.
As she sat and watched her avatars hump, pump, squirt, suck and fuck, she could feel her own panties becoming damp, and there was a definite tenderness between her legs, an itching and crawling sensation she knew well.
"Oh my God, Izzy Bartlett, are you getting horny?" she asked herself, but she already knew the answer; seeing endless versions of herself being speared, stretched, pounded and pile-drivered mercilessly was having its own effect. She longed to slip her hand into her panties, and give herself a comforting rub, but she knew where that would lead. Did she really want to be caught in Ollie's room, by him, with hard-core sister-porn on-screen and her fingers in her fuzzy?
So she held off, and held off, while the itch, and the urge to scratch that itch, built and built, until finally she couldn't stand it any longer. Almost reluctantly, she slipped her fingers into her panties, to rub at her sopping wet, shaven snatch, and almost fainted as her palm rubbed lightly over her engorged clitoris, jags of pleasure shooting through her at the sensation.
Izzy knew she was close; watching hot porn of yourself (well, almost...) being pounded can do that, and it just took a few well-chosen strokes of her fingers over her wet and slippery pussy for orgasm to slam into her, making her clench her teeth and whine softly with the effort of not screaming at the power of her release.
She slumped back in the chair, her body trembling, mewing through her clenched teeth, while her heart pounded with the aftermath of her amazing orgasm; she'd never come like that before, but then she'd never had a visual like that before, with the knowledge ringing around in her mind that possibly, maybe, Oh please God make it so, Ollie could be tempted by her, and if she played it right, she could maybe have him too. Her eyes closed as a sweet, blissful daydream of Ollie taking her and making her his danced and scurried around in her mind, and then she was shocked back to reality.
"That sounded like a good one; was it fun, Izzy?" came a voice, and Izzy spun around in horror, to look into the face of her older brother, who grinned at the sight of her minuscule panties pulled down her thighs, and her bare, pink little pussy glistening wetly in the light from the desk lamp.
Ollie leered at her, his smile of happy lechery stretching almost from ear to ear.
"This is a first for me, Iz; my hottie-totty sister stuffin' her muffin in my bedroom! You put on quite a show, popsy; fancy getting them off and going for Round Two?"
With that he grabbed his crotch suggestively and gave a squeeze and jiggle, à la Michael Jackson, with a lascivious wink thrown-in for good measure.
That jarred Izzy back to life in a hurry; all she could think of was that the best defence was a good offence; this was not how it should be, and fright, embarrassment, and annoyance that her pleasant fantasy had been so jarringly shocked out of her put her hackles up.
"Get lost, you fucking goblin; if you ever fuck me it's because I'm dead and can't stop you!" she retorted, shame at her Ollie seeing her like that making her retort hotter and angrier than she'd meant to be, while pulling her meagre little panties back up and wriggling them into place, something she couldn't help noticing made that distinct bulge in the front of his jeans twitch. Ollie saw the direction of her gaze, and smiled knowingly, then closed his eyes and sniffed theatrically.
"Yum, love that smell, sis; any idea what it is?" he taunted, strolling towards her. Izzy ignored him, and instead pushed herself away from the desk, the chair rolling several feet, but Ollie didn't take any notice; rather, he clicked on 'Sleep' mode and waited for the screen to cycle off before turning to her.
She shrank back into the seat as he leaned down and rested his hands on the armrests so he could look into her eyes.
"So tell, me, Izzy; why are you in my room, nosing about in my computer, and wanking in my chair? You have a really nice laptop in your room. Why aren't you wanking in there? And don't bother to deny it; I'm surprised you don't wake Mum up, the way you go at it!"
Izzy just glared at him, her original reason for coming in here forgotten, wiped away by that lecherous smirk on his face; how she longed to wipe it off him! Of course, the part of her that was watching and listening couldn't help but watch his dreamy eyes, his sexy cheekbones, the way his hair, with his habitual buzz-cut growing out, formed a perfect wave on his smooth, classical forehead, or the way his soft, mobile, kissable lips moved as he talked, and his white, even teeth flashed; for one mad instant she had the urge to grab him and jam her lips against his, no matter how mortified and angry she was, but she shoved it back down; something told her that, right here and now, it might be a very bad idea indeed.
For a couple of seconds Ollie seemed to catch the turmoil inside her, his brow knitted in puzzlement as he saw something that gave him pause, but then he straightened-up and sauntered away, his hands in his pockets, obviously enjoying every second o
f his power over her.
"So what shall we do with you, naughty little Izzy-Wizzy, what shall we do, eh? We could just forget all about this..." Izzy's heart leaped, then sank as she realised he was just toying with her, playing 'cat-and-mouse' with her emotions.
"Or, you could pay me a forfeit for intruding into my personal life; personally, I'm in favour of you paying a forfeit; now, let me see, what shall it be, hmmm?" he mused, a phony frown of contemplation on his face.
Izzy thought she knew exactly where he was going with this, and after a few seconds of silence, she couldn't stand it any longer.
"I know where this is going, don't you even think about it! You try anything on me, and I swear to God, I will come in here one night and jam a corkscrew up your cock, do you hear me?" she hissed, anger and humiliation again warring for dominance in her, but there was something else, something that puzzled Ollie.
Usually, in his squabbles with Izzy, she verbally out-pointed him every time, but now...now something had changed, and he could tell her heart wasn't really in it; she was mad, mostly because of the embarrassment that went with being caught 'in flagrante' but she wasn't in a steaming fury, and he wondered why.
Ollie clapped his hands together with a sound like a gunshot in the confined space, and his face split into a wide, genuine grin, his grey eyes flashing with mirth.
"That's my girl, well done, Iz! For a second there, I really thought you were just going to hand it over! Did you really think I was going to blackmail you into bed? God, what must you think of me? Just remember one thing, and paste it into that pointy little pin-head skull and behind low forehead of yours; not all us guys are like those pox-jockeys you call boyfriends!"
Izzy's eyes flashed with anger as she leapt to her feet.
"You mean you ...you did all...you let me think...you fucking...I hate you!"
But she didn't...
Ollie grinned at her outburst, infuriating her even more.
"Siddown, you skanky tart!" he grinned, just to watch the outraged expression on her face, reflecting that she most definitely wasn't a skank, not with a body and face like that.
Being totally objective and honest with himself, he had to admit, his kid sister was a serious babe. Izzy was almost angelically pretty, and sexy, very sexy indeed, a true hottie; she could do so much better than those brain-dead fuckwit losers she seemed so attracted to. He waited while she stalked around the room, fuming at him for really scaring her, calling him increasingly unlikely names all the while.
Ollie was always fascinated, with a tinge of casual arousal, at how much like their mother Izzy looked: the same huge, warm chocolate-brown eyes, the same light, tawny-brown hair sprinkled with golden highlights, the same high, arching eyebrows and sweet, rosebud-pink lips with the smile quirks at the corners, the same delicate nose with that adorable little tilt at the end, and the same pale, translucent skin. They even shared the same svelte, willowy figure, with the same delicious, round, biteable bottoms.
Except for Carol's tits, he conceded; in the boobage stakes, Carol's splendid knockers had Izzy beaten hollow; Izzy may have had a cute pair of cuddly puppies, but their mother was blessed with a delicious pair of wolfhound snouts; to Ollie, they looked like two Zeppelins coming in for a photo-finish...
Other than that, they looked like big sister and little sister, in other words, prime totty, and hugely fuckable. That was just one of the reasons why both of them cavorted so nakedly through his innermost fantasies; given the opportunity, Ollie knew he'd fuck his sister; he wanted her so badly it was a major effort just keeping his hands off her. God alone knew what kind of shit-storm would rain down on him if he even made a move, but he just knew it would be bad, very, very bad. It didn't stop him fantasising about her though; Izzy was the hottest girl in this part of London, and he wanted her; hell, he'd fight off a horde of rampaging trolls if it meant he got to plug her properly, and as for his mother…
Ollie looked nothing like his sister. People usually didn't believe they were big brother and kid sister, with only a year between them. He had pale, steel-grey eyes to her liquid brown, and dark, almost black, curly hair to her gold-shot, caramel brunette, and no facial features in common with either his mother or his sister. All he shared with his sister was the charmingly quizzical expression that was such a family trait.
He was at least six feet tall, with a lean, defined, powerfully athletic build honed by years of competitive swimming, weight-training, and now his latest sporting obsessions, Muay Thai and Mixed Martial Arts. Izzy was about six inches shorter than he was, almost exactly the same height as their mother; when Carol Bartlett walked down the street with her daughter, people who didn't know them would have sworn they were sisters, once they tore their eyes and thoughts away from those elegant figures and the mouth-watering feast of taut, quivering buttocks, that is, and yanked their brains back up past their belt-buckles.
Part 2: If you want my help, convince me:
As he watched her, secretly admiring her long, smooth legs in her short skirt as she stalked up and down the room, Izzy cooled down, having worked her way through the alphabet to dredge up names she could call her older brother. Ollie waited patiently for her to run out of things to call him and get to the reason for her being there, although he suspected he already knew. Unless she wanted something, Izzy usually steered clear of him; she knew only too well what he thought of her friends, and her taste in men, and so avoided confrontations with him.
Ollie had, meanwhile, pretty much given up on trying to convince his sister that the latest flavour of the month was usually a sweet-talking, rancid scumbag, and had defaulted to his backup position: when she inevitably found out what a clingy, wannabe bad-guy piece of human effluent her latest boyfriend was, she'd come to Ollie to get him off her back, he and his MMA pals would make said scumbag and his friends regret the day they'd been born, and then the cycle would repeat.
He mourned the fact that she never seemed to learn, and it hurt him, because he knew what she was going through, and it was all so unnecessary; if there was some way that he could make her see him and what she meant to him, she'd never have to go through what she continually put herself ever again, because he'd always be there to protect her, love her, and make it right for her.
But Izzy didn't know, or didn't swing that way, or just didn't care enough to work it out, and so he waited glumly to see what had happened this time; for her to be here meant she had something on her mind, and eventually the single cog in her head she seemed to use for rational thinking out of that whole sharp, finely-tuned mind he knew she had, would remember its job, mesh itself once more, and clue him in.
So he waited, his face impassive, while she hurled increasingly lurid and unlikely, yet oddly half-hearted, accusations at him as she slowly ran out of steam.
"OK Skanky, are we all done now?" he enquired, raising an eyebrow at her quick flash of anger at the name.
"Don't call me that, you body-waxed man-shagger!" she retorted hotly, and with that, honour was satisfied, hostilities were over, and the truce had been signalled. Izzy sat down on the bed, and Ollie took the chair, raising a "Really?" eyebrow at the damp patch, and getting a weak, embarrassed grin in return.
"Now, tell me, Iz; just why did you feel the need to come in here and rub one out? I'm sure you have more than enough wanking-space in your own room?"
Izzy frowned at him.
"It wasn't like that, and stop saying that! You're just saying that to make me feel embarrassed, so cut it out!"
Ollie inclined his head slightly and raised an eyebrow at her, his invitation to keep going, so she plunged on.
"I came in here to ask for your help. Yes, I know, I must be crazy, or ill, but there it is; I need your help, OK, are you happy now?" she pouted, her lip thrust out in a manner Ollie found almost unbearably sexy; for a brief second he toyed with the idea of just grabbing her and kissing her, biting that adorable lip, and playing it by ear from there, but Mr. Rational rescued him, telling him
that would be a stupendously bad idea; if he tried it, he knew Izzy would probably scream the house down like a fucking banshee, and he'd be kicked out of the house forever.
So he leaned back in the chair instead, staring at the ceiling, anything to take his gaze off the vision perched on the end of his bed with that unbearably sexy expression on her face.
"What do you want from me this time, Iz? More of the same? Because your little favours have a way of turning into bloody great big problems."
Izzy opened her mouth to object, but Ollie held his hand up for silence.
"Please Iz, before you bother to deny it, cast your mind back to those psychos you dated; let's see now, first there was 'Greggie'; I had to beat the shit out of him just for being Greggie. Then there was 'Brucie'. What a fun-filled, psychotic bag of Aussie-outback serial-killer charm he was; throwing him through a shop window and down that escalator was a public service."
He rested his elbows on the armrests and steepled his finger in front of him, looking away into the distance.
"Then there was Glenroy, such an all-round, mum-loving, church-going nice guy he was, according to you, but then he and his wannabe-Yardie pals slipped you a roofie and had you all set up for a gangbang snuff movie when we found you. He's lucky he's still alive after Moxie finished with him; as I recall, he smashed his throat and scalped him when he ripped that stupid Afro weave off his head; I hear he had to have his trachea rebuilt, and they had to use skin off his arse to graft onto his head; word on the street is he looked like a cross between an old alligator handbag and a failed lab experiment when they'd finished with him!"
Ollie grinned mirthlessly.
"Last I heard, when they deported him, Jamaica turned around and re-deported him to Angola; seems he lied to everyone about where he was really from, and now he's in jail in Luanda having his arsehole stretched every day by, well, just about everyone, actually; apparently, smack-heads and drug-pushers are fair game there..."