As the story slowly built to its crescendo, Justine, completely caught-up in the burning eroticism, feeling it take her and make her its own, pushed her leggings and panties down so she could touch and stroke her stiff, pulsing clitoris and hot, swollen, labia more completely. At the same time, her free hand found its way inside her blouse, to rub and squeeze and pull nipples that suddenly seemed huge, and almost too sensitive to touch. That didn’t stop her though; every brush of her nipples sent a bright spark of pure pleasure deep into the core of her, making her gasp and moan with the sheer delight of it.
As the movie played out, Justine’s fingers strummed and petted her smoothly waxed pudenda, her fingers slipping easily through the dewy flesh of her swollen labia, imagining she was the girl in the movie, that it was her Country-Boy making her feel so good, giving her pleasure she hadn’t felt in all the five years of her marriage.
Her fingers pistoned into herself, drawing out the pleasure, pulling her to that peak of pleasure she could feel herself approaching, and when the girl on-screen dissolved in gasping orgasm, Justine came too, her teeth clenching as she fought not to scream in release, fought and lost, as a fine spray of her secret essences bathed and coated her frenzied, restless hands and fingers.
“Oh God yesss, oh Johnny, oh yes baby, love me, oh Johnny, yesss…!” she chanted as her climax echoed and reverberated through her, the face of her wonderful, caring brother before her as he took her to that peak again and again.
Justine slumped back gasping, her heart beating a frenzied tattoo in her chest and small lights sparkled in her peripheral vision as the aftermath of her colossal orgasm surged, ebbed and eventually calmed. Justine wondered at how it had been Johnny she’d seen as she gave herself such pleasure, how the thought of him had spurred her on and on, but for now, now she would lie back and remember the hot rush of love and arousal she’d felt when she thought of her Country-Boy without examining it too deeply, not while the memory of such pleasure still lingered.
*
John let himself in wearily, his night cut short by having to deal with the latest shit-storm stroke calamity stroke PR disaster his current assignment had managed to engineer. As it was, he’d had to hustle his charge back to her hotel suite and shove her fully-dressed into an icy shower until the combination of high-tension booze and whatever it was she’d popped had worn off a little, before calling the doctor the agency retained to come and check her over and assure him she wasn’t going to die on him anytime soon.
Her entourage, allegedly close friends all, had stood by and cheered her on while she tried her damnedest to self-destruct in public, so he’d had no compunction about throwing the whole bunch of them none too gently into the limo and collecting their smartphones. He deleted their pictures and selfies, and warned each and every one of them what would happen to them if any word of this latest debacle leaked out to the press-vultures, or if any pictures appeared on social media, or even one word hit the streets.
He’d been coldly enraged at their callous disregard for their supposed friend and terrifyingly graphic in his threats to their lives and limbs if anything, anything at all, ever leaked out; somehow, none of them believed for one second he was bluffing. Johnny was pretty sure he’d finally gotten through to that gang of numbskulls and airheads, and that the night’s events would be going no further, ever.
Cleanup and damage-control had taken half the night, and now that his charge was in a discreet private clinic a long way from anywhere, registered under a false name, and all of her so-called friends had once again had the facts of life, and how short and full of painful incident it could be, explained to them in short, simple words, John had decided that, early as it was, the night was over, and he was going home.
As he came in the door, his head still full of the steps he’d taken to keep the gutter press and paparazzi away, he noticed the place had been picked-up, and he was smiling at Justy taking the time out of her night’s workload to stop by and dust him off a mite when he heard her call his name.
Her voice had come from his sleeping alcove, so he ambled over, moving silently, as was his wont, to stop dead and stare in stunned, slack-jawed amazement at the sight of his beautiful baby sister writhing on his bed, her sweats pushed down on her smooth, round thighs, her eyes tight-closed even as her hand blurred with the speed she was rubbing herself, with her other hand shoved up the front of her blouse, while his favorite incest porn DVD played on the big-screen TV.
Almost against his will, his eyes were riveted to the juncture of her thighs, to the smooth skin innocent of any hair, and the sight of her fingers rubbing the pink, exposed flesh as she pleasured herself.
Justine slumped back, her face red and beaded with perspiration, her black hair pasted to her forehead, and a serene, almost exalted expression on her face. Even as she caught her breath, something made her turn her head, to lock eyes with him, his gray eyes wide with shock… and something else, something she recognized even in her shock and confusion.
Justine squealed in mortified shock, yanking the comforter over her partial nudity, and hiding her face in her hands.
“No, Justy, no… I didn’t mean… I didn’t know… Justy, please I wasn’t…” he stammered, while Justine hurriedly yanked her leggings back up and slid out from under the covers, to run past him. To try to run past him; John fielded her, circling her in his arms even as she struggled to escape, to run and hide, anything to hide her shame and ringing embarrassment at being caught so squarely ‘in flagrante’.
John hugged her close, smothering her attempts to escape, to wriggle free, murmuring soothingly to her the whole time in the exaggerated accent she loved him to use.
“Shush, Shush now, it’s okay, you okay, Justy, s’only me, this your home too baby-girl, yawl do what you want here, honey-chile, you ain’t done nuthin’ be ‘shamed for, ’twas me, baby, and I’m sorry, I di’n’t mean to walk-in on yawl, baby, honest…”
Justine sagged in his arms; she was caught, there was no way out of this, no explanation she could think of giving, and her face burned with shame at being seen… that way, doing that, especially by her sweet Johnny B; what must he think of her?
John felt the girl slump, and tightened his grip on her, before hoisting her into his arms and carrying her back to the bed, to sit with her still cradled in his arms. Justine’s fingers were digging into his arms, while she kept her face resolutely hidden, firmly pressed into his shoulder, her body stiff and unyielding. John began swaying, rocking her as you would a small child, and almost without thinking, began softly crooning the ‘Mardi Gras’ song to her, the first Cajun song he’d learned to sing and play properly on the fine old Bon-Tee accordion Jean-Noel gave him when he was twelve:
“Les Mardi Gras s’en vient de tout partout, Tout alentour le tour du moyeu, Ca passe une fois par an, demande la charite, Quand-meme ca c’est une patate, une patate ou des gratons
Les Mardi Gras sont dessus un grand voyage, Tout alentour le tour du moyeu…”
As he sang he slowly beat time on her flank with the arm across her waist, exactly as one would when lulling a baby, holding her to him as he soothed her, singing the way she’d loved him to sing to her when she was still just a young teen and he was newly arrived in New York. As he sang and rocked, he thought back to those first days in New York, dealing with his mother’s grief and the thirteen year-old Justine’s shock and loss.
*
Mama and Justine had met him at La Guardia; his mom had been stony-faced, obviously masking her emotions, but not Justy; nope, she’d taken one look at him coming through the arrivals gate and she’d flung herself on him, babbling about how big he was, how much he’d changed, how glad she was he was home at last. Mama-Jane had reached out to stroke his cheek, and then suddenly she was hugging him like to break his ribs, crying and talking and stroking his hair.
John somehow managed to get his luggage stowed in the cab and sat with the women in his life gathered to him the whole journey back to Mineola, to their large apartment on Roselle Street. Jane had cooked a large and sumptuous meal, which John ate with a will; it had been a long time, and it was entirely his fault, since he’d eaten with his mama, and he regretted not coming here sooner, maybe being a part of this family too, the way mama-Jane had always wanted. Now he was here because of her loss, and he felt sad and guilty that he’d waited this long; Tony had been a good man, a devoted husband and father, and he found himself wishing he’d taken the time to get to know him better.
They’d sat up late into the night, talking about him, them, how much Justy’d grown since her last picture, how tall he was, life in the Orleans Parish Sheriff’s Department, and how things were going to work going forward. He had a plan for how he was going to live now that he had his family to care for; underneath it all was the one thing that was troubling him; he never spoke of it at all, but inside he was scared stiff at the prospect of somehow getting mama-Jane and Justine through the imminent funeral and the days after.
But first things first; in the morning he had a call to make.