Stone the Crows
Pffffftttt.
Nothing.
Pfffffffffffft.
Susan, in the bed next to his, reached down to the floor. He heard a click. The lamp went out. Oh.
So, electricity, then! The lamp had looked too ancient for that. Oil, surely. Well, maybe Scatterbrook Farm wasn’t quite so ancient. Still, no WiFi…..
John lay down in the darkness, nestling into the warmth of the thick blankets. His hand slipped under the band of his pyjamas, to its usual place, fingers over his cock, already semi-stiff.
His phone. Where was his phone? It could not be in the farmhouse, or they’d have heard it ringing when he called from Susan’s phone.
Susan’s phone….. She did not know he’d had her swipe code for several years now. And he’d made good use of it, which is precisely why he so wanted his phone. For the past three or four years, Susan had been photographing herself in various states of undress. She didn’t seem to have sent them to anyone, as far as he could tell. And she certainly didn’t have a boyfriend, though he knew plenty of the boys at school were plenty crazy about her. Several of his friends fancied her totally and weren’t shy about telling him how cute they found her. He always feigned disgust at the thought, but of course he was turned on. Sometimes he’d heard boys in his year talking about her when they didn’t know he could hear - he’d even got into a few fights when he’d heard boys saying how bad they wanted to fuck her. But of course he loved that too and the fact others found her as hot as he found her somehow made him feel just a little less bad about his incestuous desires.
He’d sent himself copies of each intimate photo, carefully hiding traces of his action so that she would not find out. His collection was several hundred images now, and how he loved each one! The hours he had spent poring over them, seeing her body develop, her breasts grow from most nothing much to what they were now, full and pert and delightful. How often he had soaked the phone screen with his semen, whispering her name as he did so, Susan, delighting in the imagination of doing it to her for real. And how many times he had looked at these most private pictures of her while she was in the room with him. He delighted in the thought that while she thought he was just playing a game or messaging friends, he was perving over her. Sometimes he’d masturbate slowly, quietly under the sheets, cumming while looking at her photos, looking at her too. It was maddening to have her so close and so far, maddening but so intensely exciting.
Often he felt guilty after he’d come.
She was his sister.
She was cute!
He couldn’t help himself. He could not stop. And every week or two he’d sneak her phone to see if there were any new pictures for him to grab. Most were of her posing in panties and bra, and to him these were almost as stimulating as the topless shots. He was deeply familiar with all her intimate apparel, and not just from these stolen images; for it was not her private pictures alone he filched. No; he had spent hours exploring her underwear drawer. Each item of her underwear, each pair of panties, each soft bra, had been his plaything. He had just recently found a new kink, replicating the pictures she took in the bathroom mirror, striking the same poses she had taken while wearing the same panties, the same bra. He loved the feel of her panties over his cock, loved to see the stiff outline of his penis under the fabric.
It wasn’t just her underwear he had a passion for, either; those sexy trousers she’d been wearing on their exploration of the countryside earlier that day, the fabric that clung tight to her legs, the cut holes that revealed her sexy, smooth brown skin, ah, he had worn them too, and masturbated with them as well. What would she think to know that? He guessed she’d be horrified and never talk to him again. But he knew he would be wearing them again.
He had let her climb over each stile first so he could ogle her cute butt, the black fabric stretched tight so he could see the outline of her panties beneath it. He’d wondered which ones was she wearing today. Those satin ones, with the rose pattern and the lacy frill? He liked those. It couldn’t be the boy shorts style (perforated black with red lace frill over the mons) as those had no visible panty line. The deep blue silk tap pants? The French shorts? As John’s mind wandered over his sister’s lingerie collection his cock had stiffened. He’d adjusted it, and tried to put his thoughts elsewhere - never an easy task when he was near her.
Of course, now he knew the answer. After she’d changed (and, oh, how he hoped he’d change in front of her; he had often waited for her to come to bed and then pretended to be asleep so that she would undress in front of him. But she never had; at the home, and here, and wherever they shared a room, she never changed in front of him. Or if she had, he’d been asleep when she did. How that thought tormented him, to have missed her stripping off….) she had come back into the room and put down her bag. She then went back to do her teeth. As soon as she was out of the room, quick as a flash, John unzipped it, anxious to find the clothes she’d taken off.
Her clean clothes were at the top of the bag. He saw the frilly mini-skirt/tights combo she’d bought just before they came to the farm. He was looking forward to seeing her wearing this. The skirt was a sexy grey ruffled design, short and sexy, and the black tights were a mix of opaque and transparent that would show plenty of skin. He also found that satin pair of panties with the rose pattern. These were among his favourites, and they always felt so good against his cock. One time he’d sneaked them out the laundry basket and worn them for a whole day. It had given him such a thrill to be in class wearing his sister’s panties, and the thrill had got even more intense as he walked back to the home with her. He imagined her shock, her horror to know he was wearing her used panties, the panties she’d worn the day before. That previous day, as he sometimes did, he had suggested they sit on the top deck of the bus home. He’d let her go up first so he could peek up her skirt - a thing he loved to do, but did sparingly lest she catch him. And when he’d seen her wearing this pair, his favourite, he promised himself the perverted little treat of wearing them the next day. He thought about repeating the trick, wearing these panties overnight - but, no - it would be too risky.
Now, he knew he did not have long. She’d be back in a few minutes. He rummaged deeper in the bag, and towards the bottom felt with his questing fingers what he was looking for – the bunched-up trousers. Gently pulling them out to not disturb the rest of the neatly-packed items, he unrolled the black fabric to find the treasure he sought. Just a simple pair of plain black panties, but more than enough to delight him. He pressed the fragrant garment to his nose, breathing in deep to enjoy her most intimate scents, tasting the fabric with his tongue, his mind racing about her pussy - what it looked like, how she tasted, how he would love to fuck her! Did he have time to jerk off? Pulling down his night trousers, he draped the garment over his raging cock, delighting in soft, comfortable feel of the cotton. But then he heard the bathroom door rattle. Shit - she was coming back. Quickly he stuffed the clothing back, zipping up the bag and replacing it as she had left it. He sat on the bed, hoping his face was not flushed. But Susan seemed to notice nothing.
Why was it, he wondered, that so much of her underwear was sexy and alluring, yet she insisted on wearing such modest outer clothing to bed? Even the daily clothing she wore was so much more sexy than the sensible bedwear she had on now - that long sleeved tee, those full-length bright-patterned trousers. He just didn’t get it. Once or twice, in the home, he’d turned up the radiator hoping she’d take off her top at least …. But she never did. Damn.
He drifted into sleep, turning over plans in his mind as so often he did, plans to spy on her in the shower or bath, through a peephole or by setting up a hidden camera. He’d often crept to the bathroom door when she was in there…. Just listening to the sound of her in the shower was sexy, imagining her naked and glistening with suds and water. And there were other sounds too, sounds of her urinating – ah, another kink of his, how he wanted to see her piss, to wet his fingers in the flow and – yes, taste it, have her piss on him. Such reveries of getting it on with her, her falling into his arms, kissing, tongues mingling, and undressing her item by item…
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Well, so I had an idle hour and banged this out stimulated by a recent rather good TV show from the BBC & my own kinks. Readers who give a fuck can track down the show easy enough to see what I’m thinking of. It’s worth a look.
I’m not sure if I’ll continue this. But if there’s demand I might well. Requests for where to go next are welcome.
