Naomi’s plan to seduce her big brother goes terribly wrong.
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This is the next part of the My Sis-cest/Taboo, and tells the story of the rejected sister seen in Part 1. This story runs parallel with Chapters 1, 2 & 3, so some of the incidents and events from the first part are here, although seen and told from a different perspective to Finn and Lara’s story.
Enjoy reading..
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Part 1: Rowan
My name is Rowan Redman, and this is the story of how my life began, my real life, not the first twenty-one years or so; I sleepwalked through them, like probably most of my generation. My life actually started when I was twenty-two, when I was still at university, studying for an MSc. in Architectural Engineering and living at home with my mother and my little sister, Naomi, known to the world at large as Nimmie, or just plain Nim.
Mum was an author, writing for various magazines, local interest pieces for the most part, but also several moderately successful children’s books under various noms de plume. We were what you could probably call a typical family.
My father did a bunk when I was thirteen; he was an investment counsellor and broker, and when his business took off, so did he, shacking-up with his nineteen year old secretary with tits like basketballs and a brain you could fit in a mouse’s ear and still have room for her personality. Mum was heartbroken, as she should have been, but she pulled it all together and carried on, doing the work of two parents because our feckless father didn’t want anything more to do with us.
So Dad disappeared from our lives and other than the monthly maintenance payments we never saw or heard from him again, not even the occasional birthday card for his only daughter, and now I was the man of the family for real, all fourteen years of me. Nimmie is a year and a bit younger than me, and polar opposites to me in almost every way. I’m dark haired, with grey-green eyes (‘Hazel’ mum and Nimmie call them); she’s corn-blonde, with startling green eyes; I’m tall and athletic, not exactly buff, but not skinny either, kind of nondescript, and usually badly dressed, and she’s petite, usually dressed-down, not a party-girl by any means, but a complete knockout if you take a closer look at her.
We differed in other ways too. I played most sports, but my favourites were tennis and cricket in the summer and rugby and soccer the rest of the year, and I preferred to spend Saturday evenings socialising with my friends, whether clubbing or pubbing, while Nim preferred to study or listen to mum’s old Everly Brothers, Roy Orbison, and Skeeter Davis records.
Boys were starting to notice her, and I had my hands full reminding some of the more determined spotty creeps who wanted to try their luck with her that if they came within touching distance of my little sister, they were going home with their dicks nail-gunned to the back of their heads, and if they didn’t believe me, they were welcome to try.
Things finally settled down when Nim left school and started university; I’d sort-of accepted she was a grown-up now, so she needed her space, but I didn’t let down my guard too far; Nim was gorgeous if you looked beyond the studious look and nerdish air she cultivated. She was studying nursing at the Croydon University hospital, so not a million miles from our home in Caterham, in Surrey; at least it meant I could still keep an eye on her.
She’d grown into a medium height, quietly beautiful girl, with a shapely, feminine, but not extravagant figure, and had taken to wearing her hair twirled-up in a kind of ‘bun’, as she didn’t want to cut it, and the hospital didn’t want the nursing trainees draping their hair all over the patients. With her big-rimmed glasses on, and her tightly bound hair, she looked studious and meek, almost invisible, and when not in her nurse’s whites or scrubs, slobbed around in my old sweats and T-shirts.
I did notice one thing odd about her, though: no boyfriends. Ever. Mum even went so far as to ask me if I didn’t think Nim might be a lesbian, not that it mattered, but I laughed it off. It got me thinking though; never a boyfriend, not even the occasional date. Saturdays invariably saw her sprawled on the living-room floor in sweats or old tracksuit bottoms and tee-shirt, studying, watching TV, or just reading.
If I asked her why, since nurses were all legendarily sex-crazed man-eaters, wasn’t she out causing trouble with her pals, she’d just dimple and say she had everything she needed right here, which always unsettled me, for reasons I couldn’t understand or explain.
I have to say, though, watching her stretched out on the floor on her tummy, with her ankles crossed behind her, and her bum gently flexing and jiggling as she hand-wrote her notes for the day, was always something I looked forward to, even if I wouldn’t admit it to myself.
However, one thing soon made itself apparent to me. For all her efforts to ‘dress-down’ and look dowdy, I couldn’t help but see just what a hottie my little sister really was; when she wasn’t wearing drab, baggy old clothes or bathrobes, it was obvious she had a stunning little figure: a tiny little waist, what they used to call a ‘wasp-waist’, a tight, shapely little bum, and pert boobs that her tiny waist just made look bigger.
The first time I noticed, I couldn’t help but notice everything, then felt disgusted with myself, and permanently soiled, for ogling my baby sister like that. Nim never even noticed me noticing, otherwise I felt sure she would have landed me a good slap in the face.
Of course, once I took notice of her, it became impossible to stop noticing her; in fact, it became almost my obsession. Nimmie didn’t seem to be that bothered when she blearily wandered down for breakfast on a Sunday morning wearing nothing except one of my old sweatshirts and a pair of tight little panties, and then of course, all I’d be seeing in my mind’s eye for the rest of the day would be her taut, round, perfect little bottom in those tightly stretched panties, each well-defined, globular bubble-cheek quivering delightfully atop her long, perfect thighs, and those things jiggling around inside her sleeping top.
It was driving me crazy; I found my sister deliciously attractive, but I was supposed to protect her, not leer at her every opportunity I got; what kind of pervert was I, and what should, or could, I do about it?
In the end, common sense told me to do nothing; if the sight of Nim’s legs, or her cute bottom, or her dimples, or her bouncy boobs was getting me all hot and bothered, then I should stop looking. Try to remember she’s your baby sister, I told myself sternly; anyone else who had those kind of thoughts is going to be a dead man. Apply the same standards to yourself, you idiot.
So I did, and it was hard, believe me; every night she’d caper through my head, her hot little arse jiggling and her delicious tits bouncing, naked as a jaybird and hot as the hinges of Hell, and I would play with her as she sucked me, and fucked me, and did every nasty, perverted, sexy thing I could dream up, endlessly, all night long.
I never laid a hand on her, not even a lickerish glance, but I laid her down and she drained my balls every single night and the fantasy never got old or worn and jaded, not when the living, breathing, hotly desirable object of all my wicked, feverish fantasies lived at the other end of the corridor.
One day, mum presented me with a brand new, top-spec laptop for university and I discovered the world of HD internet porn in all its glory. Someone once said the internet contains at least two billion pages of porn; even if that’s not true, it certainly feels true, after all the stuff I leafed through looking for another way to get my fix, and then I found her. She was the spitting image of Nim. I nearly fell off my chair. The only way I could tell this girl wasn’t Nim was the eyes and the chest: she had blue eyes, and a chest like a pair of honeydew melons; other than that, she was Nimmie, in every detail, and she was doing every filthy, dirty, perverted, exciting, endlessly varied thing I’d fantasised about doing with Nim and she looked like she was enjoying every second of it.
I hurriedly created a folder on my virtual drive called simply ‘N’, and grabbed every picture I could find of this girl, let’s call her ‘Alyssa’. I went through website after website, and found more and more pictures of her, in solo shoots, twosomes, threesome, Dp, Dap, costumes, everything it’s possible for a girl to do with one or more men, a flood of images, and then, oh joy, actual video, and now I had a handy visual for the X-rated Nim-movie playing more or less constantly in my head. ‘Alyssa’ wasn’t Nim, but she was as close as I was ever going to get, and that was good enough for me.
Round about the beginning of Spring Term, after the Christmas break, I started to notice a change in Nim. She seemed to be more gregarious, more interested in me, which I thought was odd; we weren’t hostile or anything, we bantered and joked around, but I mostly kept my stuff to myself, and she did likewise, both of us respecting each other’s space and privacy; I was the big brother, and she wasn’t, and we worked just fine like that.
Now, suddenly she was interested in me, in my life, what I wanted, and where I was going. I was cool with sharing stuff like that with her; we lived together in the same house, we didn’t rub each other the wrong way, so conversations like that between us were inevitable. It just seemed slightly odd that after years of amicable, mutual disinterest, she now wanted to know about big brother’s world.
She also began dressing differently. Gone were the bathrobes, baggy sweats, and squashy, bunny-head or gorilla-feet slippers. Now she was parading around in crop-tops, skin-tight sports shorts cut high on the hip, lightweight tee’s with her nipples poking out like hat-pegs, summer dresses that were like wide belts, covering her from just above her nipples to just below the curve of her buttocks, and when a warm day made an appearance, she’d be sunbathing out on the patio in swimsuits made of postage-stamps and dental floss, which raised my internal temperature near the danger-level.
Nimmie has very pale skin, as a natural blonde, so she needs at least a 50 sun-block, and she’d prevail on me to do the bits she couldn’t reach, which of course triggered a certain reflex in me, so I’d slather it on her any old how, give a quick rub to spread it around properly, then dash indoors to properly ‘entertain’ myself with the image of her like that, with ‘Alyssa’ to keep me on the boil, behind locked doors, of course; didn’t want her walking in on me in that state…
Once I was done, I would then amble out nonchalantly and give her a lecture on Basal Cell Carcinoma and other skin cancers; this did not usually go down too well, and only partly because she knew more about it than I did…
On wondering what had brought this whole change about, my knee-jerk reaction was to assume she’d got a boyfriend, followed by an almost overpowering urge to hunt him down and skin him with a blunt chisel, but I quickly stuffed that back down where it belonged; she was nearly twenty, the law said she was an adult, so whatever she did, she’d be doing it as an adult, but I still didn’t like the idea.