A Taboo Desire: What if the one you want is the one you should stay away from?

by Stephanie Brother

  "You'd like that," I say, a grin of my own spreading. Even though Cathy's hunger for men is a well established fact, she has more than once expressed her curiosity in "the softer curves of the smarter, sexier, most bad-assed sex on the planet" as she puts it, on more than a few occasions. I'm certain I'll be the first to hear when she has ventured into that area.

  "If the stories are true, he’s man enough to handle two horny mares," Cathy says. "Total satisfaction guaranteed, Sally. When was the last time you could say that?" Never. Not that anyone needs to know that much, like ever.

  "I never said I'm horny over…" I start and self-consciously fall silent.

  "Your future stepbrother?" Cathy says teasingly, nothing but Cheshire grin. I cringe. Thanks for putting the words I hate to it. "Sally, every time we talk about the stud who—"

  "You," I interrupt, pretending I'm not feeling hot and sweating bullets. "You talk about him and I listen, because I'm such a great friend. The indulging kind, you know."

  "The stud who puts all other studs to shame," Cathy continues, as if I never uttered a word, "those big blue eyes of yours acquire that glazed look."

  I'm almost relieved she didn't say "cum-hungry look" and I’m grateful for the waitress' return with our drinks.

  "So what are you planning on doing about it?"

  Nothing, I'm about to say, when I see them in a convertible, making their way through traffic. Him, and some laughing bimbo in the passenger seat next to him. My body responds just as intensely as it did when I first laid eyes on him—a mixture of lust from my loins mixing the heartache that springs from my chest into a lethal cocktail. All of it topped off with a jealousy like I never had before.

  "Well, look who’s here," Cathy says, but I'm not really listening. I'm like a lioness, ready to go for the bitch's jugular as I watch her throw her head back and laugh, looking perfect. Cassandra Zyoski. The new face of the modeling world. I hate her with a passion already. "Lucky girl," Cathy muses.

  Not if I have a say in it, my jealousy roars.

  Suddenly the rays of the setting sun no longer looks so good. They have a really bad feel about them, and so do the birds that cut through the sky with wings like razorblades.

  The convertible comes to a halt in the procession of cars that are waiting for a single red light to switch to green, and he turns his head, just far enough to look over the delicate bare shoulders of his latest prey, and notices me. He smiles when our eyes meet and it is all it takes to bring me to the edge of a cardiac arrest; all the excitement that I resigned to sleepless nights written all over my face in broad daylight for him to see.

  All sensory input melts away to the background until all I'm left with are the intensity of the blue of his eyes and a biological reaction that overrides my pride, reducing me once again to a hormonally wrecked woman with a pair of soon-to-be soaked panties. Like the desperate woman I am, my heart leaps with hope, just because he recognizes my existence. Pathetic hope.For what? That he will see me for the woman I am? Different to all those bimbos who drop at his feet—like I'm ready to do right here in public—if only he'd see the real me? Not the heart-pounding, limbs trembling, dilated pupils, drooling woman I am. Pathetic. But my body doesn't care about pathetic. It cares about him, at every level. That's instinct honed over millions of years of evolution. Not reason.

  Then he mouths "Fuck you," and I'm ready to faint, a moan escaping from the back of my throat. Pressing my thighs together hard at the thought of it, heat explodes between my legs, just when I realize it could mean the exact opposite of what my aching body has in mind. My heart cracks so hard that I fear he can hear it. Two clean pieces, that in turn crack some more until my chest feels hollow, except for the hurt that is left by a thousand splinters. Then he is gone, trailblazing out of sight, a hopelessly love-struck woman left behind like an afterthought.

  "Oh, wow," Cathy says. She is helpful like that. "You really got it bad." She loves pointing out the obvious. "Seriously, girlfriend, what are you going to do with that crush of yours, before it kills you?" Cathy says it so casually that I almost ask her if she has any ideas.

  I say, "What do you mean? He's my stepbrother." Notice how I'm no longer denying the accusation? That's my pride giving in to my hormones. Right now, I'd love to be that woman next to him, and it shames me to admit I'd accept a few months if that was all fate had in store for me. Like I said, pathetic. Twenty-two and I'm acting like a girl with her very first crush.

  "Who cares? Stepbrother, right? Not brother," Cathy says. I'm perspiring so badly that the back of my blouse clings to my back. Not listening, I think how that would be, dating my stepbrother. Dating the blonde god who leaves me speechless, a mess of hormones and unsteady feet.Pure biology. Not logic but desires and longings taking center stage. Realizing Cathy is talking to me, I snap out of it and turn my head to face her.

  "You really are going to let that bitch steal your man, just like that?" she says and I can't help but laugh.

  That afternoon I changed. I felt the change, and I knew where it would lead—surrendering to my taboo desires—and I allowed it. Not that I was happy about it, or that my pride didn't do its best to resist, but on a deeper level I already knew it was hopeless to fight it. No man had ever had that effect on me. Mark? He was neutral, like most guys are to me. A guy good for a casual fling at best, but nothing serious. Steve, however, was volcanic, like a force of nature that couldn't leave you cold no matter how much you wanted him to.

  My juices are running down my thighs, and I know I will climax soon enough. Because of him, and his tongue that hits all the right spots, and the two fingers that he has shoved deep inside me.

  "What do you think?" I ask Crystal, the invitation still in my hand after reading it out loud. It has been three days since that day on the terrace, when I stopped all pretence of being indifferent to Steve MacCarty. Crystal jumps off the window sill, where she had been sunbathing, and meows.

  The invitation is printed on paper that feels smooth as silk. Expensive. It is handwritten and the calligraphy is flawless. Stylish. It says in big blue finely-drawn letters: look how rich I am. Rich and blessed with class—or at least rich enough to buy the appearance of class.OK, it doesn't say that literally, but that's what it comes down to. It also says that I am invited to an informal party to take place at my stepbrother's place, tomorrow evening.

  It was delivered less than five minutes ago, mid-afternoon. I had just arrived home from a class that had failed to capture my full attention, my mind returning to the image of Steve with that bitch, as Cathy so eloquently put it. Silly.Pathetic. I guess at twenty-two there is still room for that in my life. After a quick shower, wrapping myself in my white bathrobe with the intent to do nothing for a while before kicking my ass into gear for some studying, one of the maids came to tell me a package had arrived, and that the delivery guy insisted I accept in person.

  My curiosity piqued, I wrapped my bathrobe around me a little tighter, contemplating putting on some clothes first but then deciding against it. The maid looked excited, like she wanted to ask questions. She didn't.

  A private driver in an immaculately black uniform, smoothly shaven and with a back straight like a military man, stood waiting for me in the hall when I appeared at the top of the stairs. A handsome guy, he was. In his arms was a large pink box, tied with red ribbons and a bow. On top was an envelope with my name on it. Not an ordinary package. The kind of package that told me it came from the sort of store that I avoid. Even though Mother's allowance would allow me to shop there, I don't. Why? Because I don't want to take the money for granted. I don't want to be like all the other kids with parents that have more money than sense.

  Hesitating for a moment, sensing this had to do with my future step-brother, my heart rate picked up. Two weeks ago, I'd have sent the guy packing. Two weeks can make a world of difference. Faking an air of cool nonchalance, I descended the stairs, wishing I had put on some clothes when I felt my nipples tighten. I returned to my r
oom with the package pressed against my chest, the envelope pressed hard between the box and my skin. Pathetic.

  Crystal meows and rubs her pretty head against my shin. I sigh and hold the box out in front of me, at arms' length, with both hands, curling my toes. The thick fuzzy carpet tickles my bare feet. If only that were the only part of my anatomy tingling. "Looking can't do any harm," I say to myself. Crystal ignores me.

  Putting the box down on the low glass end table in front of the couch, I pull at both ends of the red ribbon and the knot comes undone smoothly. Crystal pushes herself against my bare leg again, her fur warm from the sun, and I pretend my heart isn't racing and that I'm not secretly flattered. Pleased. Giddy. Lifting the cover slowly, I stop halfway and let go.

  Straightening my back, I take another deep breath. And another. Willing myself to rise above what is happening with my body, I take in air as if it enough to calm myself down. It isn't. Pleasure shoots from my stiff nipples as the material of my bathrobe slides down my breasts, a reminder of the danger I'm in.

  Ignoring the box, my pulse racing, I squat and lovingly grab Crystal with both hands around her middle. She meows appreciatively when I lift her up high. "You think I should allow myself a little crazy, for once?" I ask. Crystal's blue eyes remind me of his, and when she turns them on me, meowing, a shiver runs down my spine, triggering another blast of heat between my legs that I take as a confirmation. My pride mocks me in the corners of my mind. My heart pounds excitedly. "Right, then," I say and put Crystal down. She meows in protest.

  As if wanting to make up for lost time, I turn my attention to the box again. There is a slight tremble to my hands when I pull the top away. Even the wrapping paper looks expensive. I put the top next to the open box and pull the covering away. My jaw drops—and I allow it to—when I see my present.

  For a moment I don't think anything at all. My mind is busy digesting the exquisite red dress, set with diamonds that twinkle like bright stars against a heavenly red sky. Only they aren't. Stars are unreachable objects that have fascinated minds since the dawn of man. Stars are what inspired stories of Gods, in the way my stepbrother to be inspires women like me to daydream what it would be like to have a man like him. No, what it is like to claim a man like him. Conquer a man like him. And why not? He is as perfect as the stars in the night sky. That's just your hormones talking, my pride tells me, and a stab of hurt reminds me how true that is. Diamonds are just a way to impress a woman, and I am impressed. More than I am willing to admit out loud.

  Unable to resist, I run my fingers over my present, even though I know he’s probably given many women similar gifts. This is his modus operandi, my pride tells me. Warns me. But it has the opposite effect. Instead of scaring me off, the way it should, my excitement grows when I think this means he wants me. Desires me. The dress feels as smooth and soft as it looks, the diamonds cool and hard.Expensive.

  Crystal smoothly jumps on the low table and brings her pretty face close to the dress just when I lift it by the shoulders. My breath caught, I register the diamonds are laid out in a pattern: forming a rose just where my left breast would be if I had it on. The front is low cut—too low for my comfort. The sides too are bare, and the back is non-existent until it reaches where my ass would be.

  It’s the kind of dress only a movie star could get away with; or a model, or a woman with a lot of confidence. I am none of those.

  Anger hits me like a tropical storm when I realize how he is playing me, and how part of me loves it—only to find I'm not able to play his game. Not ready to go where he is waiting—for what? Me? Easy prey?A nice snack between all those gorgeous women of his.For what? Bragging rights? Well, fuck him. Fuck him, and that bitch, and me too. Fuck me, for responding the way I do—like a bitch in heat.

  "Fuck!" I shout, when I realize I'm perspiring like an addict in detox. I drop the dress unceremoniously and turn my eyes away. "What does he think I am?" Crystal doesn't reply. "Just another slut?" Crystal still doesn't reply. "Well, I'll show him!" I will. I just have no idea how, yet.

  I walk around the low end table and let myself fall backward on the couch, my bathrobe falling away and leaving me only partially covered. That is how I remain for the next twenty minutes. Breathing, seething, indulging in feeling insulted.The rays of the sun caressing my skin. Twenty minutes is all it takes for my biology to prove it is stronger than my pride.

  I try not to judge myself when I slip the fingers of my right hand under my panties. Eyes closed, my other hand finds its way to a hard nipple that needs attention. Crystal meows just when my fingers brush over my throbbing clit, and I sigh the way you do when pleasure rises to the surface. Pinching my nipple, I sigh again. With each wave of pleasure, my pride retreats further until I'm nothing but a woman with needs and desires that I don't have the energy to resist any longer.

  I will judge myself, though. Later.After the deed is done. I'll feel ashamed of my own weakness, almost as much as my desires for a man my pride tells me to despise. A man not even worthy of being called a man. A man who uses women, solely for his own primal needs. But that is for later. Now, my fingers move faster as the burning between my legs becomes more intense, and I fill up the air around me with sighs and moans that are testimony to the state I'm in.

  My chest rises and falls with each wave of pleasure that leads me to the climax I need, and my eyes are shut tight as my lips are parted. So are my legs. My left leg is pulled up, resting against the back of the sofa, and my right leg dangles over the edge.

  I arch my back and curl my toes when pleasure peaks, and my unseeing eyes shoot wide open. Unshed tears spill over and I hear myself cry out; all my desires and longings are right there in the sound of a cry that only the one man I should stay away from can generate. Crystal meows. My body shocks with the intensity of my orgasm, white light exploding in front of my eyes, and my fingers dutifully continue their work.

  "Oh, God," I pant once I've come down enough for a guilty conscience to kick in hard, but I'm still flying high enough on orgasmic bliss to ignore it. That only lasts several minutes, though. Self-conscious, I sit up and pull my bathrobe close. I'm almost surprised to see my room still looks the same as it always did. The furniture is still there. So is the sunlight that streams in through the windows in generous amounts. Crystal decides she has got all the attention her silly human friend is going to spend on her and offers me her behind when she retreats to her feeding corner.

  I sigh, but this time it is one of frustration. Running the fingers of my left hand through my hair, my heart races when I eye the dress.The dress that testifies of exquisite taste and wealth, and a practical knowledge on how to get under a woman's skin; an art my stepbrother to be has perfected.

  It would be so easy to surrender and give in. Too easy, I tell myself, half-heartedly. It is bad enough that he has this effect on me, no need to tempt fate. I dread to think what I'd do if he were physically near.

  "Fucker," I say, frustrated. "I'm too old for this shit," I mutter, and sadness flows freely in my heart. Too old at twenty-two?the part of me that wants to be foolish and carefree asks. I ignore the inquiry and rise to my feet. Grabbing the dress, its softness is enough to take the edge off my anger. The crazy part of me senses its chance and asks me what I have to lose.

  My pride and self-esteem, I argue. That's a valid argument, right?Pride and self-esteem.Two guards that guard us against…what?The animalistic part of being human. Pride and self-esteem are what separate us from acting like beasts.

  I know I shouldn't have thought that. My crazy part instantly conjures the image of myself bent over the hood of Steve's car. Dressed in my billionaire's dress and a pair of matching red heels, my hair pulled up and my cheeks flushed, my face a mask of lust. He is behind me, dressed in a tuxedo, his pants down just as my dress is pulled up to my waist to reveal nothing but nakedness. His hands on my hips, he drills me hard, like I imagine he does to every woman who crosses his path. Both of us are beasts without pride and self-es
teem, and part of me wants it so badly that it hurts.

  My pussy contracts excitedly and my blood pressure spikes. A lustful sigh escapes my lips, like a powerful breeze straight from my lungs, and I toss the dress into the corner before hurrying to the bathroom. Not that I think a cold shower is going to make a difference, but what is the alternative? Give in, my crazy part whispers, and I want to kick myself. "Never!" I shout and shut the bathroom door behind me harder than I intended.

  "Wrong," I say, so softly that I can barely hear it. That's a dead giveaway, isn't it? Fake protest. Something you throw up for form, delivered because you feel you have to, but so feebly that no one in their right mind could mistake your true intent; the opposite of what you are 'protesting' against.

  Blood rushes through my veins like hot lava and pleasure peaks. I'm certain my primal grunt can be heard by the guests outside, but I'm beyond caring. Throwing my head back, teeth bared, my orgasm takes hold of me and my hands shoot down. Fingers entwined in his hair, I push myself against him, not wanting his tongue to stop. It doesn't.

  I sit up with a shock when I realize all eyes are on me, and Professor Dray is talking to me. Apparently he's been talking to me for quite some time, while my mind was elsewhere. "Miss Trisky, if you find my class to be so boring then maybe you should stay away altogether?"

  Mumbling, “Sorry,” I try to put on a smile. Professor Dray raises an inquiring eyebrow. Of course, he just has to. He can't just give me a break, or any other student for that matter, and repeat whatever I missed. Not him. He dislikes students and is never too shy to make that much clear.

  "Could you repeat that, sir?" I say. Some snickers penetrate the air but I also receive some Don't let the pathetic fuck get to you, Sally, looks, that let me know I'm not alone. Professor Dray's dislike for students is mutual—there’s no love lost between both parties.