The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Swooping magpies (the Australian kind) are an inevitable feature of living in the Great Southern Land. Nasty little buggers they can be, at least during the nesting season. I speak from personal experience: I collected a sharp peck just above my right eye when I was a little boy. I wailed forlornly as the blood trickled down.

Okay. Lesson learned. Keep a healthy distance from nesting areas in the spring. This I did, and was correspondingly rewarded by the absence of painful encounters with serious-minded aerial black-and-whites during the rest of my childhood.

The avian encounter of significance to my tale took place many years later, as I was jogging through a nearby bit of wilderness, well populated with various sorts of gum tree. Perhaps I had grown a little complacent.

Magpies swoop out of hiding, and so it was on this occasion. Nevertheless, a prickling on the back of my neck warned me that something was amiss. I spun, in time to see my attacker almost upon me. Reflexively, my knees folded and I sank just low enough to escape the attack. My eyes followed the feathered Stuka as it rose and banked, returning for another pass. Without warning, anger flared in me, red and hot.

Naturally I had felt anger before, but this had a different quality to it, like steam shrieking from a kettle ... or, dare I say it, like a mental orgasm, with something like the quality of a burst of hot fluid, though without the pleasure.

At the same instant, the bird’s dive came to an ignominious end. Instead of coming within pecking distance of my head, it crashed at my feet, where it flapped and writhed convulsively.

Well it was for that feathered malevolent that I did not follow my strong inclination, which was to grind it into a paste under my heel.

My ire slowly subsided and curiosity arose in its place.

I considered the crash landing I had somehow caused: for I intuitively knew that there was a connection between the eruption of my anger and my attacker’s undoing.

I distanced myself from the stricken bird, and observed.

It took some time, but eventually the creature rose to its feet, shivered the feathers of all its body, and took once more to the air, seemingly paying no further attention to me.

In the days that followed, I ruminated often over the incident. Since it was clear to me that I had somehow caused the bird’s mayday, the question was, how? Temporarily scrambled its brainwaves, perhaps. Certain sages of the land of India used to think the human brain capable of functioning like a radio. Could it be that I had transmitted ... something ... to the bird? Some telepathic arrow, perhaps?

Through trial and error, I soon discovered that I had indeed developed a superpower ... which caused me a great deal of wonder as to the true nature of the universe. Clearly, there existed phenomena that would play merry havoc with my understanding of it.

My first deliberate attempt to employ my power, on an incessantly barking neighbourhood dog, failed ... until I remembered the anger I had felt toward the magpie. Could the trigger have been the strong emotion I had felt at the time?

I encouraged my irritation with the dog to swell into true ire, then felt once again that liquid, mental rush. Riding along with the burst of power I sent a “shut-the-hell-up” kind of thought. The reaction was swift. The canine let out what sounded like a yelp of surprise ... and did indeed fall silent ... permanently, I surmised, after a full week of blissful silence from that quarter.

I was ... mightily elated. I had found the key. Now to decide how my power could be put to further profitable use.

I came to wonder whether anger was the only trigger ... whether it was possible that any strong emotion would serve to unlock the ability. This turned out to be the case, and the way I confirmed it was as follows.

Mrs. Johnson, a widow of some thirty-five years of age, was the neighbourhood scold, though she had not always been so, according to rumour. Implacable fate had not been kind to her. Word was, she had been riding high before the unexpected demise of the love of her life. It was a body-blow from which she had never recovered. In its wake, she had degenerated into an unemployed drunk in an ill-kept house, looking far older than her years.

On the occasion in question, she was engaged in a contretemps with her neighbour, a Mr. Moore, who was likewise a slovenly, pitiable individual. I was unaware of the particular reasons for the miserable state of his life.

The cause of their dispute I do not know. Perhaps his dog peed on her letterbox. Whatever the case, there they were, standing toe to toe, glaring and hurling abuse, totally forgetting the art of active listening.

As I watched, pitying, from the yard of my family’s home, I suddenly sensed an opportunity. She: her life fallen into disrepair, to the point where few wanted to have anything to do with her. He: her luckless male counterpart.

You don’t eat butter by itself. Ugh. You would never eat plain popcorn ... at least, I wouldn’t. Soporifically boring. But popcorn with butter ... well, it’s not haute cuisine, but it is highly edible.

Was it beyond the bounds of imagination that these two unpalatable human ingredients might make a winning combination?

Greatly daring, I considered for the first time the possibility of influencing the mind of a human being.

I observed the combatants carefully. Was there, or was there not, a yearning quality to their aggression? I could not decide, but neither could I discount the possibility.

I made my decision.

I imagined them a loving, mutually supportive couple, took hold of the strong compassion I was feeling for them ... and the now-familiar welling of power occurred in my brain.

I took a moment to observe its quality and ensure myself of its fitness for purpose, then launched it in the direction of the two pathetic squabblers.

In the two or three seconds of its travel, I could feel it, zooming toward them ... through the fifth dimension, perhaps, or the twilight zone.

I watched closely as the surge of energy reached its targets. Both gave a visible start, and the fount of their anger subsided like a spent ocean wave, leaving silent confusion in its wake ... a confusion that morphed, in each of them, into a heightened awareness of the other as a person.

With an obvious air of embarrassment and shame, Mr. Moore turned slowly and started for his own premises. Yet the reluctance in his demeanour was equally clear: more than anything in this world right now, he wanted to be in her company.

As often happens in the face of male ineptitude in the area of romance, the female did what needed to be done. She called after him, in a conciliatory tone.

It was enough. Mr Moore halted and turned. His features were working with emotion.

I watched, pleased, as they spoke together, quietly and earnestly. Some fifteen minutes later, they were making their way together toward her door.

In the days that followed, I kept occasional watch on them from my window on the second floor, naturally wanting to know how things would play out. Even the very next day, I could clearly see meaningful alteration in both of them. They appeared together throughout the day, bringing order and the beginnings of beauty, first to her front yard and then his. Their demeanour grew brighter with every hour they spent together. Their appearance improved too: they wore better clothing and were better groomed. By the end of a week, they and their properties were greatly altered. They were quite demonstrative in their affection. Clearly, love and devotion now bloomed in what had been a pitiable desolation.

In the wake of this episode, I was gratified, delighted ... and yet, truth be told, somewhat afraid ... of myself and my life-changing power. The thought had occurred to me that there was something god-like about me now, and how could such a thought not carry with it a measure of fear?

I was actually grateful for the fear ... power without restraint can so easily lead to evil. Nonetheless, it did not prevent me from employing my ability, for ... and I admit it ... I was fairly drunk on power, particularly in the beginning. Questions of right and wrong were not absent; they were simply, as with other forms of intoxication, somewhat anaesthetised, and so, less able to exert a decisive influence on my behaviour.

It was in this state of weakened morality that I made my way toward the next milestone on this road of power, one far less selfless than my effort with my neighbours.

It happened in the following manner.

As anyone who lives in a household with siblings of an opposing sex knows, it cannot be guaranteed that a sister will not at some point unintentionally intrude upon a brother’s nakedness ... or vice versa.

Since children below a certain age are fairly oblivious to the weighty implications of maleness versus femaleness, this is harmless ... until the advent of puberty.

I, a young male freshly entered into the unfamiliar ranks of those legally considered to be adult, lived in such a household, and I did indeed dwell with one of those ... a sister, I mean.

Her name was Nabila, and a very fine name I thought it, too. She was, in fact, my twin, though no uninformed observer could have guessed how close we once had been. Never yet had I seen her naked ... at least, not in recent memory ... not since she had metamorphosed from a slip of a girl to a rather wonderful exemplar of that thing known as feminine allure.

Without going into detail ... let the reader picture any supremely attractive person of their acquaintance ... I will simply state that, to me, she was as hot as fresh lava. Or, to put it more palatably: she was oven-fresh.

Thinking back, I clearly see that I had, as I edged towards manhood, become greatly enamoured of her ... if not of her post-childhood personality. Suffice it to say, for years now, she had given me all the respect and affection one would give any noxious vermin ... a cane toad, perhaps. It was, therefore, primarily her body that worked magic upon me ... but where would humanity be without physical attraction? Extinct, that’s where.

Since to lust for a person as genetically proximate as a blood sibling is seriously proscribed by the human tribe, I had repressed this emotion to the extent that I, myself, was not consciously aware of it. I was living in denial.

As it transpired, the fates were not inclined to aid me in my delusion.

Accordingly, once upon a morning, it came about that I, intent on my own thoughts, unknowingly walked in on my sister as she stood naked before a mirror in the upstairs bathroom ...

... to be greeted by a vibrant, wordless cry of outrage. My head snapped up ... to behold delicious Nabila, shielding her upper and lower privates with her hands, and glaring at me with such wide-eyed ferocity that, had she developed a superpower of her own in the manner of, say, heat vision, I would doubtless have been reduced to a pile of steaming slop on the bathroom floor.

I blushed, both chagrined and aroused. For her part, Nabila began to vociferate furiously in my direction, an experience that was both alarming and charming, since her speech was always characterised by a slight lisp. After a dropjawed pause, I fumbled my locomotors into reverse and began to beat a shuffling retreat, mumbling indistinct apologies.

Unfortunately, I made the error of not looking away from her as I went. In hindsight, I believe I could not have done so: I was fairly spellbound. In any case, it was this additional offence, I assume, that goaded glorious Nabila to actual physical retaliation.

The first object she hurled was a tube of toothpaste, which encountered my forehead with significant velocity. While it did me little scathe, the attack caused me to come to a halt, not least because she had, in selecting and launching the object, for an instant fully exposed her upper body.

That fleeting glimpse of her breasts paralysed my volition. As well, a certain sense of injustice arose in me. I felt she had gone too far.

Further enraged, I assume, by my failure to vanish instantly, she accurately launched several more objects in my direction: a bar of soap, a box of tissues, a bottle of shampoo ...

Each impact fanned my indignation, to the point where, utterly without conscious intention on my part, my ability awoke once more, this time taking the form of a mental command, silent, yet quivering with power.

STOP!

The effect was immediate. Nabila fell silent. Her face relaxed completely. Her hands drifted to her sides, fully revealing her loveliness to my sight.

And, oh! how lovely she was. Her beauty tore at my heart, causing my irritation to drain rapidly away ... only to be replaced by surging lust. Further, a fire flared into being in ... well, in my dick, to be blunt, which leapt to straining attention with the alacrity of a marine.

What my body wanted was limpidly clear. Its blind longing knew no pangs of conscience. However, on this occasion, fear overruled desire ... fear of causing some unspecified harm to Nabila, as well as fear of consequences to myself.

Without knowing quite how I got there, I found myself in the corridor, and out of her sight. I paused a moment, torn, then turned and, with a reluctant gait, headed for my room, breathing heavily.

Arriving in that imperfect sanctuary, I came to a halt, panting with the force of the emotions rushing through me.

After a moment, a single, muffled exclamation reached my ears. Then, silence fell. I assumed she had emerged from her momentary trance and begun to scold me once more, before realising I was no longer present.

After a brief delay, I heard rapid, angry footsteps approaching. She did not knock, but threw wide my door, and I was once more subjected to her furious glare. She was now mostly hidden within a large towel, by which I mean that everything was covered but her arms, shoulders, legs, and feet, all of which were still distractingly bare. And her face, of course ... which was taut with outrage.

Having found me, she proceeded to unleash a lengthy, virulent rant upon me.

“The next time,” she said towards the end of her tirade, still steaming like a kettle, “you try to perv on me, I’ll contact Mum and Dad and ask them to come home early from vacation, and your life as you know it will be over. Is that clear?”

Reluctantly, I nodded acquiescence, though, since I had had no intention whatsoever of “perving”, righteous indignation simmered within me anew. This remained unexpressed, for it was crystal clear that she was in no mood to listen to any excuses or justifications.

“Not only that,” she continued, “I have a boyfriend now, not that that’s any of your business, and he will be only too pleased to beat you to a shrieking pulp if I drop the slightest hint that that would make me happy.”

At that point, she finally ran out of words. She glared at me a moment longer and, finding no new javelins to hurl, contented herself with a toss of her fine head and a contemptuous “Huh!”

Then she was gone, leaving the door unclosed, and me alone with my thoughts and feelings ...

... burning.

All the rest of that day, despite the threats Nabila had made against my wellbeing, and despite all my efforts to dispel it, the brief glimpse I had gained of her naked, unprotected flesh remained excruciatingly vivid in my awareness. By late that night, I had given up the struggle: in my bed, in the silence of the night, I applied my hand to my straining cock and paid homage to the divine creature who, miraculously, dwelt within the same walls as myself, allowing the vision of her naked loveliness to fill all my mind, until my hot, liquid offering to her sprayed forth ecstatically.

If I had hoped that this single episode of masturbation, motivated by my own sister, would exhaust the fire that now blazed within me, I was sadly mistaken. In the days that followed, the image of her glorious nakedness haunted me ceaselessly, causing my penis to rise with embarrassing frequency, at the most inopportune moments, allowing me little peace during the waking hours, and in sleep generating the most exquisite dreams of torrid sexual encounters with Nabila, though of course all sadly lacking physical contact.

I couldn’t deny the truth any longer: I wanted her. I wanted her badly. But what was to become of this powerful lust? Would it fade if left unfulfilled long enough ... or would it remain a source of suffering for the rest of my life?

There was a third possibility, one which became clear to me in hindsight, but which at the time was obscured by veils of mores: I could act on my desire.

After a week of torment, in a household environment that now had even more in common with a cold war, I became aware that purpose was taking shape within me, entirely without my conscious participation. Though I did not understand its precise nature, I felt a sense of imminence, as when the air grows heavy before a storm.

This intent crystallised suddenly one evening, when I heard Nabila padding softly past my bedroom door, once again on her way to the bathroom.

I didn’t decide consciously. It was simply that the pot had reached boiling point, and my unconscious mind had determined that it was time to act. I was, so to speak, on autopilot.

The first symptom I felt was a great excitement rushing through my body, causing it to hum and quiver like a tuning fork.

Nothing more happened for a long moment, surely long enough for Nabila to reach the bathroom. Then, unbidden, my legs moved and I followed in her path.

As I walked, the stolen image of her body arose clear in my mind, igniting the power within me.

I then did something I had not known was possible.

Instead of transmitting a wave of power, my mind reached out and caressed the consciousness of Nabila, subduing it and rendering her, I intuitively knew, highly amenable to suggestion.

When I entered the bathroom I saw, through drifting mist, that she was standing in the broad, open shower nook, positioned in such a way that the hot water streamed down her shoulders and back, while her head remained largely unwetted. Now, I needed no unconscious motivation. What I saw before me was more than enough to set my limbs in motion. Heart pounding, I stepped toward her, quaking in every limb.

As when I had first seen her in all her naked glory, her body was at rest. Seen through swirling mists, she was a magnificent work of erotic art.

When I came within the field of her vision, I halted. Could she see me? Would she recall this second intrusion on her privacy?

As to the first of these concerns, I need not have worried: her eyes were closed.

This measure of secrecy gave me courage, and I hesitated no more.

Stepping close enough to her that the shower spray dampened my clothing, I leaned forward and pressed my quivering lips to her mouth.

At the contact, she sighed softly, which only served to further inflame my passion.

Driven by lust, yet still somewhat restrained by caution, I gently plied her lips with kisses many, touching soft and warm, withdrawing, then touching again, over and over.

After a time, I thought I felt her lips also begin to move. A moment later and I was certain: she was responding to me!

My passion erupted. I shucked my clothing in an instant, wrapped myself around her streaming nakedness, and applied my mouth to hers with a new will. Her perfect breasts pressed against my chest, my rampant cock against the curve of her belly. I burned in the sweet hell of sexual congress.

The idea came to me of bending my knees and thrusting my cock between her legs. This thought filled my head with the blood of both passion and fear. If I were to follow my inclination, I would be but a single thrust away from complete physical possession of her. Yet, even in the fire of my lust, the thought of consequences remained, lurking in the background like a ghoul.

I was a millimetre away from passing the point of no return, yet before I could cross the line, my trepidation overcame my lust ... barely. Shuddering with the effort, I stepped back from her.

For a moment, Nabila’s lips remained deliciously pouted, then slowly returned to rest. Her face was in a dream. There was something greatly arousing about this passivity. I cannot explain what.

Though my desires were temporarily hobbled, they remained unaltered. Now that I was no longer in immediate peril of taking her fully, my purpose asserted itself once more, and I determined to lay the groundwork for future encounters.

In an unsteady voice, I spoke to her.

“Listen to me, Nabila,” I said. “Listen to the words of your brother Brand.”

She did not speak, but there was a slight alteration in her stance and expression that told me something in her was attentive.

I took a deep breath ... and expressed the most profound wish of my heart.

“You want me,” I began, speaking haltingly, dredging ideas up from my imagination. “You lust after me, and only me, with a ... with a burning need that will compel you to come to me again and again for satisfaction. For you, there is no greater joy than to submit to my desires, to kneel at my feet, to pleasure my body and to have me pleasure yours. I am your one true love ...”

At this moment, I broke off, for these forbidden suggestions had produced a swift response; swift, and heart-rending.

Tears began dropping from her closed eyelids. She began sobbing, quietly but deeply, so that her shoulders heaved with it.

This I could not bear. It did me almost physical pain to see her so. In no way did I want her to suffer; precisely the opposite. I wanted her to experience the uttermost heights of happiness ... and the most abysmal depths of sexual pleasure.

I thought quickly, then spoke again, to put her distress to rest.

“To be in love with your brother is ... is right and good,” I stammered. “To feel lust for your brother is right and good. To want to please your brother sexually is right and good.”

I paused for inspiration, then continued.

“You have learned from others that it is wrong to feel such things for your brother. Those others are ... incorrect and ignorant. They have no better wisdom than you do; less, in fact, since they can never feel what you feel. Ignore them. Hide your heart from them. Learn from your brother what is good and right. Fully open your heart and mind to your brother.”

Having expressed my wishes, I fell silent and observed her anxiously ... then relaxed a little. I fancied I could still see tears at the corners of her eyes, but her expression was no longer one of distress. Instead, a small smile graced her lips.

I sighed with relief. The moral dilemma that had hurt her was, it seemed, resolved.

Without warning, with her eyes still closed, Nabila stepped with uncanny precision toward me, pressed her body fully against mine, and wrapped her arms all the way around me.

Then, she was kissing me, kissing me as I had never been kissed before, as I had never before imagined being kissed.

Her eyes were still closed. Her lips, open and soft and warm, searched and explored mine. Every part of her body that could be, was pressed against me, undulating gently.

I don’t know how long it went on. It was a timeless gift from paradise, and I gave God silent thanks for it. I was aware of my cock pressing into her belly. I was so hard, it bordered on pain.

Yet, after a time, despite my lust, I felt the need for a breathing space. I feared what might result if I went into this too precipitously. I was altering a human soul, a portentous undertaking, and I wanted to proceed with caution, especially in the light of her first, distressing reaction.

Somehow, I managed to stop. Taking hold of her shoulders, I urged her back and away from me.

Unfortunately, this act seemed to introduce a dissonant note into our tryst, and Nabila’s eyes flew suddenly open.

Quickly releasing her, I took a step backward. I held my breath, fearful of what might follow ... wondering whether she would again begin hurling abuse ... or conveniently placed missiles ... in my direction.

She stared toward me for a long moment, although she seemed more to look through me than at me. For a time, she seemed inclined to speak. Instead, she glanced around in confusion, her eyes sliding over me, then turned slowly and went back to her shower.

I was not entirely sure what to make of her behaviour, but I found the will to take this opportunity and get, while the getting was good.

Dripping, I returned to my room, barely remembering to snatch up my wetted clothing on the way.

Some minutes later, after I had had time to dry myself and dress in fresh clothing, there came a soft knock upon my door. I hesitated, then crossed the room and opened it.

There stood Nabila, modestly clothed in a white terry bathrobe.

There was a touch of ... dreaminess in her expression, as of one who has not fully awakened from a deep sleep.

From the subtle working of her facial features, I could tell she was preparing to express a thought that troubled her.

“Did you ... ?” she began ... then fell silent.

A long, wordless moment passed.

“Did I what?” I asked.

“Did you ... do something to me?” she queried hesitantly.

At that, a wave of fear rushed through me, the fear of being caught red-handed ... yet I did not entirely lose my cool. I examined her carefully and saw that her own words puzzled her: she didn’t really know why she was asking.

“Like what?” I said, trying to act annoyed.

Nabila shook her head, as if to clear it.

“Never mind,” she said. “It was a silly thought.”

But she was not done. She stood there and observed me speculatively.

“Look,” she said finally, looking a little guilty. “About the other day ... in the bathroom ... I know you didn’t mean to walk in on me ... or see me ...”

“You knew?” I said incredulously. “Then why the hell did you give me hell about it?”

“Because ...” she tried, “because ...”

Words failed her. She gave up trying to explain, stood silent a moment, then blushed ... but drew herself up decisively.

“Close your eyes,” she ordered softly.

I hesitated, frowned, then decided to obey ... out of curiosity.

“Keep them closed.”

A whisper came then to my left ear, and I could feel her gentle breath.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured.

There was a long pause ... then, a warm, gentle contact occurred in the region of my mouth, remained there a timeless moment.

I felt her lips withdraw from mine, but sensed that they were still very close. I waited ... then, suddenly, she was raining soft kisses upon me in a stream that ended only when I began gasping with desire.

At that point, she broke off.

“What the hell am I doing?” I heard her murmur, before the sound of her feet on the carpet told me she was moving away from me.

My eyes flew wide, just in time to catch a glimpse of her face as she drifted from the room.

She was gone.

Unsteady, I sat down on my bed.

Had her face been flushed with excitement, her lips parted with passion, her eyes bright with lust?

I decided that they had, and the thought made me drunk. My desire was being fulfilled ... at least partially.

I took a deep breath. Well and good. But how to proceed from here?

I gave this a good deal of thought.

I wanted all of her and I wanted her forever ... but I was, I decided, not going to jeopardise this goal by blundering in like a thoughtless, horny teenager; though of course, that is precisely what I was, and precisely what I had already done.

Still, having been driven to interfere with the functioning of her mind once, I was very much disinclined to do so again any time soon. Quite apart from anything else, I knew nothing of potential side-effects.

I came to the decision that I would leave it to Nabila to make the next move ... if there was to be one.

Having made this resolution, I stuck to it, though an eternity passed before our next intimate encounter ... by which I mean two entire days, during which everyday demands on my time ... education, employment ... kept me away from home from too early in the morning until too late at night.

For similar reasons, Nabila’s presence in the house was also unpredictable, especially since she was on call for occasional nightshifts.

Arriving home weary shortly after eleven on the second day, I took a short shower, brushed my teeth and headed for my room, my sole intent being to collapse into bed.

I was on the very point of doing so, not even pausing to turn on the light, when a voice spoke from behind me ... her voice.

“Brand.”

I whirled. She was sitting in my office chair, swivelled so that her back was to the desk. The desk lamp was lit, though not brightly. In my weariness, I had not even noticed it.

I was not weary now.

“Sorry for startling you,” she said.

I shrugged nervously. I was trembling. So, I saw, was she.

“What ... what can I do for you?” I managed.

“I ... I’ve been thinking about the other night,” she said. “A lot.”

“Yes?” I said cautiously.

“I ... kissed you, you know,” she said hesitantly.

I only nodded. I was indeed aware that she had kissed me.

Nabila directed her gaze toward her own feet.

“I ... I ... I ... I ...” she stuttered, caught in a loop.

“Yes?” I prompted gently.

Her reply was almost inaudible: “I want to do it again.”

Having stated her desire, however, she made no move to follow through with it.

I surprised myself then, by supplying the confidence she seemed to be lacking. I stepped forward, took hold of her upper arms, and urged her to her feet. She tilted her face up to gaze at me, and again I became aware of a hint of sleepy languor in her expression. This was a definite turn-on ... and there was that angelic mouth, pouting up at me in an invitation I could not refuse. I bent slightly and took possession of it.

Her lips responded to my every overture, and ... ah! ... heaven holdeth no bliss like unto that to be had from a beautiful, pliant, wanting woman.

There came at last a slight lull in the rush of my lust and I, desiring to see her response to my love-making, broke from her, taking a single step back, but retaining my hold on her arms.

Like me, she was breathing heavily, causing her breasts to rise and fall distractingly. Her head, though, was bowed, as if she were reluctant to show me her lust.

Without warning, her hand drifted forward to lewdly grasp my cock, through my underpants ... yet, in keeping with her competing emotions, she shook her head, as if trying to deny or refuse her desire.

She did look at me then, though there was an inward quality to her gaze.

“It’s ... it’s not because I’m hot for you,” she said.

With your hand on my cock? I wondered silently. She was conflicted indeed.

I could see her mind working, trying to generate some justification for her inexplicable behaviour.

“I’m only ... practising,” she said finally.

I could clearly see that this statement surprised even her, that she had spoken without knowing what she was going to say.

Still, she seized upon the idea.

“Yes,” she continued, nodding vigorously, while unconsciously giving my cock a squeeze that made my knees go weak, “practising.”

She gave a forced giggle.

“I’m not hot for my brother! That would be ...”

She paused.

“Criminal?” I supplied, without thinking.

Her face slowly fell at the word and her hand dropped away from me.

“Ridiculous,” she said. “I was going to say ‘ridiculous’.”

My unfortunate choice of word had dampened the mood. Uncertainty dawned in her eyes, followed by shame. Without speaking, she turned and departed, leaving me to curse my undisciplined tongue.

Now the fires within me were well and truly roaring, because I could see that Nabila’s soul also longed for me.

But, she had departed unhappy, and I could not help but wonder whether my dream was over.

I need not have worried. Day is filled with doing, but night gives time for the weaving of thought, and the welling of emotion. In the last hours of the following day, she gravitated once more to my sanctuary, entering with the expression of one about to ride a rollercoaster for the first time: anticipation mingled with fear.

“Brand?” she began.

“Yes, Nabila?”

“I ... I ...”

She stopped. Her gaze turned toward the floor.

“I wanted to talk about ... what’s been happening ... between you and me ... I think I know what’s been coming over me.”

I waited.

“You see, Brand ... I’m in love.”

I stopped breathing. Could it really be that my plan had already succeeded?

“I am in love,” she continued, “with a man ... you wouldn’t know him ... and ... and I want to do everything I can to make our love perfect.

I sighed, disappointed.

“So you see,” she said, “I only kissed you because ... I just needed to ... to practice my technique.”

This was clearly laboured logic. In her eyes I could see that she thought so too ... yet, she persisted, and I was not at all inclined to point out any flaws in her reasoning. Perhaps she was trying to find a way of getting past the “criminal” roadblock I had placed in her path.

“I guess I just got completely carried away,” she said.

“That’s ... uh ... totally okay, Nabila,” I said. “No need to ...”

“The thing is,” she interrupted, looking at my feet, “I ... I need to do it again.”

Her face as she said this was nigh as red as a ripe tomato.

It was almost the same phrase she had used the previous evening, and I recognised it as stemming from the one of the original suggestions I had given her, demanding fulfilment.

I don’t know which reacted more strongly, my heart or my cock. The former pounded, the latter leapt ... or vice versa.

“Can I?” she continued, her hands clenching and unclenching.

I shrugged, attempting nonchalance and failing, since the muscles of my shoulders refused to function smoothly, turning the intended casual movement into a spastic jerk.

“Sure,” I croaked, and truly the sound was remarkably frog-like.

“You’re my brother,” she extemporised, “so you can help me ... and it doesn’t have to mean anything ... you understand?”

It was a highly specious line of reasoning, I thought ... but I wasn’t going to tell her that.

“What do you want to do?” I managed.

“Well,” she said slowly. “This man I’m in love with ... I really, really, really want my sex life with him to be perfect, so ... right now ... I need to touch you ... intimately.”

Potentially, a couple’s sex life is a wide-ranging and multifarious business, involving countless ways of conjoining, and my imagination was already hard at work, trying to work out what kind of ‘touching’ she might have in mind.

I nodded dumb acceptance.

She took a step closer to me.

“I know it’s hard,” she continued, “for a ... a man to kiss and make out without ...”

She blushed.

“... without having an ...”

She seemed unable to complete the sentence.

“... I don’t want to be a tease,” she continued at last. “So ... uh ... don’t worry: I’ll make sure you ... uh ... have fun.”

She broke off, paused, then spoke again.

“I ... just need to get something ... I’ll be back in a minute.”

She exited the room. Nonplussed, I sat down on the bed to wait.

Moments later, she reappeared, wearing, of all things, sunglasses.

I must have looked surprised.

“It’s just ...” she began, before the penny dropped, and I interrupted.

“I understand,” I said. “You feel shy.”

She nodded in grateful response, then crossed the room to fetch my office chair. Placing it in front of me, she slowly sat down facing me, then turned her attention to my pants.

The sunglasses must have helped, since her hands began unfastening my fly with no visible sign of inhibition, though with some difficulty, since I was already fully erect.

“Just remember,” she murmured, as she eased me into the open, “it doesn’t mean anything. I’m just rehearsing.”

When my cock was fully revealed, she stiffened, gave a little gasp, and her jaw dropped. I suppose she was impressed. Exactly why I couldn’t have said ... length? ... girth? ... symmetry? Or ... and the thought brought with it a wave of intoxication ... was she wondering how it would feel inside her?

A look of deep concentration came over her face, making it clear, I thought, that she really wanted this to go well.

Her face flaring red below the shades, she began softly pumping my cock.

After a moment, she tilted her face upward, then leaned over and planted her lips on mine.

For a long, delightful time, she kissed me, and pumped me ... and, believe you me, to my mind, all was supremely right with the world.

After a time, she drew back her head a little, and removed the sunglasses with her free hand ... having overcome her shyness, I assumed ... then murmured words of encouragement.

“Come on, Brand. Give it to me. I want it.”

Her words lit a fire under my orgasm ... only seconds later, I came. Since she had made her desire so clear, any reluctance I may have had vanished. I threw my arms around her and, as we resumed kissing, sprayed wildly, uncaring where it went.

I thought I knew what orgasmic pleasure was, but this was on a higher plane. The ecstasy was nigh unbearable, and I sincerely hope the neighbours didn’t hear the noises I made.

For a time afterward, I simply leaned against her, somewhat less than fully conscious. At last I sat up straight again, and looked at my sister. She sat demurely upright, her hands at rest in her lap, a small, dreamy smile on her face as she gazed at me. Her shirt, I observed, bore a chaotic pattern of dark, moist streaks, and her hand was bejewelled with pearly drops and strands of my cum. Following my gaze, she glanced down at it.

I watched her, looking for signs of disgust, or any other form of disapproval. I could detect none.

Her eyes found mine again and she smiled, with an air of mischief. Holding my gaze, she slowly raised her hand to her lips and cleansed it, with many delicate laps of her tongue.

Having completed this task, she lowered her glistening hand once more to her lap.

Her gaze then turned to my relaxing cock, then back to her hand.

Why did her demeanour change at that precise moment? I couldn’t have said, but her face suddenly altered, as if she were waking from a dream. Blushing deeply, she leapt up and once more fled the room.

Later, I came up with a hypothesis: she had come to me with a specific desire, namely, to use her hand to bring me to orgasm ... that desire being fulfilled, her mind was free to function independently once more.

Strange to think, though, that this desire had also included lapping up the cream of my orgasm.

This, I put down to evolution.

Nabila was young ... but her body and psyche were nonetheless the product of countless generations of human development.

With two hundred thousand years of human fucking operating within her instinct and intuition, I thought, she likely needed no explanation of many of the ways a woman might behave intimately with a man.

The next night, I was sitting up in bed, watching television ... at least, my eyes were pointing in that direction. The device was muted, so I could hear her approach. What show it was, I haven’t the faintest idea. My mind was fully engaged, obsessing over Nabila, and wondering whether, after her possible change of heart the night before, she would visit me again.

I didn’t sense her coming, but jerked to attention when I heard the now-familiar soft knock upon my door.

I gulped, killed the box, then managed to speak.

“Come in,” I croaked.

The door edged slowly open, revealing the angel of my dreams, looking troubled and self-conscious.

When, after a long moment, she neither spoke nor moved, I made an awkward motion to beckon her to me. She glanced apprehensively at my bed, hesitated, then slowly approached. Standing a long step away, she spoke, haltingly.

“About last night,” she began. “And ... the other nights ... I ... I truly don’t know what’s been coming over me,” she said. “My behaviour has been ... has been terribly wrong. You’re my brother!”

I had no ready answer to this, so I simply waited.

“You’re my brother,” she repeated. “Can we ... can we keep all of this a secret? Bury it? Never speak of it again? Make it that it never happened?”

These were serious words ... yet they did not altogether faze me, for again I saw the conflict in her, knew that her words expressed only part of what she was feeling.

“But, you said it doesn’t have to mean anything,” I said. “Remember?”

Nabila nodded slowly in reluctant agreement, but I could see that the excuse she had invented satisfied her less than before.

But, she was still in two minds. I resolved to support that part of her that inclined in my favour.

Greatly daring, I looked her straight in the eye and spoke words that were somewhat duplicitous ... and more than brotherly.

“Nabila,” I said, “your wish is my will ...

“... my love,” I appended.

At these final words, a shiver went through her.

“Th-thank you,” she stammered.

“I ... I need to go,” she said, then rose to depart.

When she was halfway to the door, I tried again.

“Whatever you want ... my love.”

She stopped. I could see her body quivering. It seemed clear to me that her intention to leave had weakened. She turned and looked at me with an expression that seemed to appeal for help ... or mercy. To these silent pleas I did not respond, instead deciding to add more weight to my side of the scales.

“Do you need to rehearse some more, Nabila, my love?”

She stood silent a moment.

“We just agreed,” she complained, “that we were going to forget it ever happened.”

“Forget what?” I said with a smile, feigning innocence.

My attempt at humour changed her mood a little. She could not withhold a small huff of amusement, though it was tempered with frustration.

“You want to rehearse some more, my love,” I said. “Don’t deny it; I can see it in your eyes.

She hesitated ... then gave a reluctant nod.

I was elated. My encouragement had tipped the balance in my favour.

“Then, come here, my love,” I said.

She took a deep breath, then slowly did as I said.

“This is so wrong,” she said, but I could see how her flushed cheeks and growing smile gave the lie to her words.

I offered no reply, but returned her the gentlest of smiles.

“Can you at least close your eyes?” she begged.

After a moment’s hesitation, I complied.

Perhaps, being able to operate unseen gave her confidence. Whatever the case, a bare moment later I felt her once more working eagerly away at my pants.

This time, she opened the waistband fully, then began trying to pull the garment down and off me completely. I lifted my backside off the bed, still keeping my eyes closed, and she hauled everything away, leaving me completely naked from the waist down.

I heard her give a deep sigh ... then, heaven descended upon me in the form of softly caressing lips and tongue, as she fully engulfed the helmet of my cock with her mouth.

The physical is transformed by the spiritual. I could have described what she was doing, crudely, as simply servicing my cock with her mouth ... but the match is not the fire; what she truly did was render herself vulnerable and defenceless before me ... open her heart ... share her soul.

Thus do we humans demonstrate our capacity for divinity, by taking an act of simple carnality and rendering it truly holy.

Yet, perversely, the divine fans the animal: it was this very soul-sharing that maddened my body, drove it wild with desire, until I could no longer bear the leisurely pace of her love-making.

Keeping my eyes closed, I reached out, took hold of her ears, and drew her toward me, so that my cock slid deeper into her. I feared her reaction ... but I need not have done so: far from discouraging me, she made her approval clear by uttering a muffled moan of lust and taking my cock even deeper until, to my amazement, she had taken in my full length, and I felt the walls of her throat pressing exquisitely in on the helmet of my penis.

Intoxicated by her wantonness, I began wildly pumping my whole shaft in and out of her mouth, using her ears as handles. Any inhibitions I might have had about doing so were dispelled by the eagerness with which she cooperated with this honest face-rape: she made no effort to hinder me, but her hands caressed me everywhere, and she uttered many little sounds of encouragement and pleasure.

Nabila seemed to sense the arising of my orgasm as surely as I did, for she suddenly pressed her hands against my belly, causing my deeply-embedded cock to withdraw from her throat to her mouth, where she inflicted sweet torments upon me with lips and tongue.

When I came, with a mighty groan, it was with such force, I would scarcely have been surprised if I had blown her clean off me and across the room.

Of course, this did not occur. Instead, she stayed with me gallantly as I sprayed into her, gobbling and licking and moaning, and swallowing audibly and repeatedly, until all the energy of my orgasm was spent.

I released my hold on her then, and leaned back, breathing deeply, recovering.

It occurred to me that many a woman so treated might have felt used and disrespected ... so her generosity in the midst of my wild release caused a sudden welling of love for my sister, deep and passionate.

I opened my eyes. Nabila, flesh of my parents’ flesh, blood of my parents’ blood, was kneeling on the carpet between my legs, settled back upon her heels. There was a look upon her face I can best describe as creamy satisfaction. It seemed clear to me that what she had done was, for her, a delightful, fulfilling achievement.

My heart still overflowing with love for her, I smiled, trying to express all my heart in the gesture, then leaned forward slowly, took hold of her head with both hands, and pressed my lips softly to her forehead.

She melted beneath the caress, and I felt that she understood well what I was trying to convey.

I settled back again and watched her. It seemed clear to me then that the Nabila of my dreams and desires was fully manifest before me.

This impression was short-lived.

Without warning, she belched, instantly causing the mood to plunge from the sublime to the ridiculous.

Nabila started, then glanced around, as if emerging from a trance.

A deep blush coloured her cheeks.

She glanced down at herself, then at my nakedness, then again at my face.

“What have I done?” she gasped.

She cast an angry glance at me.

“You ...” she said, through clenched teeth. “... you promised!”

And again, she fled ... like Cinderella.

The image of her sudden anger haunted me throughout the following day. She had never displayed ire toward me during any of our recent meetings. Now I truly did fear that the spell was broken, that she would not come to me again.

I arrived home early the following night. As I did what was necessary for my body ... feeding, cleansing ... I detected no sign of her presence in the house. Eventually retiring to my room, I waited, on tenterhooks. By ten o’clock, I had concluded that she was not coming.

I sat in my bed, again not watching television, almost deciding, innumerable times, to make my way to her room ... to check on her welfare, of course ... but also to drink once again from the fountain of lust ... or love ... or whatever it was.

Eventually, giving up hope, I hit the sack.

When I emerged from sleep, it was with the impression that some external influence had awoken me. Though there was barely a hint of light in the room, I sensed that I was not alone.

I reached for and lit the bedside lamp to its lowest setting, then glanced blearily around.

In that soft light, I saw a shadowy angel seated at the end of my bed, gazing at me with gentle eyes.

She smiled as our eyes met.

“Perfect boy,” she murmured.

This utterance thrilled me, yet, still not fully free of the dullness of sleep, as well as hoping for a well-spring of such heartfelt confidences from her, I pretended not to understand.

“What did you say?” I slurred.

Though we were not in daylight, I fancied I saw her blush deeply.

“Do you remember,” she said softly, “how we used to sleep together in the same bed sometimes, when we were children?”

Unfortunately, my drowsiness survived long enough to produce one more graceless utterance.

“What are you trying to say?”

Her smile faded at my apparent obtuseness, and I silently cursed myself. In my eagerness to hear her speak more of her most private heart, I had spoiled the moment.

She uttered a frustrated huff.

“Never mind,” she said, then rose and began to hurry away.

Instinct took me over. I simply knew, without conscious thought, what the situation demanded.

Now fully awake, I sprang out of bed, reached her before she was three steps distant. I took hold of her shoulders, and spun her towards me, then caught her waist in the circle of my arms.

She gave a shocked gasp, and leant back against my embrace, but exerted no other effort to escape. Her wide eyes were fixed on mine, as if she were an animal caught in headlights. Her lips were parted. She was panting. Every part of her, it seemed, was quivering wildly.

Intuitively understanding the language of her body, I tightened my hold, leaned forward, and pressed my lips to hers. At the contact, she gave a wild moan, then returned my embrace, flinging her arms around me and kissing me back with desperate need.

Now that she had no further thought of leaving, my hands were free to roam. I quickly discovered that she was utterly naked beneath the bathrobe. She had come to me virtually unshielded, and I rejoiced in the knowledge.

As we kissed, I caressed her body everywhere I could reach, soon gravitating to her hidden treasure.

Her legs were closed, yet when I urged my hand between them, she surrendered instantly, parting her thighs to give me full access.

I touched her there and my fingers were immediately lubricated. I was young and inexperienced, but it was clear to me that, when a woman juices like that, she is yours. Take her!

With my hand, I touched the centre of her, gently, circling and penetrating, dipping and emerging, ever and again, causing her to respond with every imaginable soft sound of helpless lust.

Sudden purpose arose in my mind: again, the pot had boiled, and it was time ... time for the ultimate conquest.

Peeling the bathrobe from her body, I let it fall to the floor, then began to urge her towards the bed.

“Are you going to ... ulp ... f-f-fuck me?” she husked.

I looked her straight in the eye.

“Nabila, my love,” I said, “yes. Yes, I am.”

This simple statement triggered an unexpected reaction: she began to struggle against me.

Through all of our encounters since I had first altered her mind, she had come to me compelled by desire, and only returned to herself, and departed, once that desire was fulfilled. But now, though clearly still consumed by lust, she was resisting.

I paused, unsure. I wanted to fuck her to within an inch of her life ... but at the same time, I had zero desire to inflict emotional suffering upon her.

My resolution had been clear: if I was to possess her utterly, it must be without coercion.

In my doubt, I did not release her, yet neither did I continue to urge her towards the bed.

At last, Nabila herself resolved the impasse, by bidding me do precisely what I had determined not to.

“Spank me!” she gasped suddenly, in the midst of her struggle.

In my surprise, the only response I could summon was a dull-witted “Huh?”

“Spank me!” she cried. “Make me surrender!”

And there it was: the part of her that wanted what I wanted, the part I had created, was openly urging me to complete her journey, her transformation from contemptuous, disinterested sibling to utterly helpless, lovestricken, devoted slut.

Given this encouragement, my firm decision not to use force melted away on the instant. When a fine lady demands ...

Using my strength to bring her to the bed, I seated myself upon its edge and, struggling, managed to take her over my knee.

Still she fought against me, but it was a strange effort, a kind of kicking and writhing which, even if I had not been restraining her, would likely not have contributed well to her escape. Clearly, the internal battle between sibling and heart-slave was evenly balanced.

To hold her in position, I pressed my left hand hard against her, where her waist narrowed, raised my right hand ... and brought it down upon her right buttock.

I had given her a spank ... and I winced at my own ineffectuality. It was a show spank, like something out of one of those oh so fake movies. How different was the reality of dominating a living, breathing human being, the spectacle untempered by any thought of an audience.

Like Nabila, it was clear that I was divided, in my case between that part of me demanded by the tribe, the “good” boy, versus he who would see what he wanted, and reach out to take it.

She had told me what I must do: make her surrender. I steeled my heart. Time to take fortune by the throat.

Drawing a deep breath, I raised my hand once more, higher than before, and spanked her again, this time with much of my strength.

Nabila yelped. Her struggling became even more vigorous ... and yet no more effective.

I spanked again ... and again ... hard ... and then harder, with powerful slaps that assaulted the ear.

At first, Nabila yelped only when my hand met her buttocks. Soon, however, she also began to cry out between the blows I was dealing her. I realised that her cries were the result of something else than the shock and awe of being spanked: she was cumming, and cumming hard.

Sensing the turning point of the battle, I now laid into her with all my strength, and her cries became short, sharp, ecstatic screams, repeatedly articulating a single word: my name.

Her struggling ceased suddenly, though her cries continued, now clearly cries of joy and fulfilment.

Was the battle done? Had I prevailed?

Ceasing my punishment of her buttocks, I carefully penetrated her with a finger and felt the magically soft, sodden flesh of her cunt contracting repeatedly as she came.

My lust overwhelmed me. Even while she continued to cry out the intolerable ecstasy of her orgasm, I exerted strength to turn her over and slide her fully onto my bed, where I could finally take complete possession of her.

Her legs were closed, yet when I took hold of one foot and gently pushed, she put up no more struggle, but allowed the limb to be folded fully, exposing the glistening fissure of her cunt. Then, the other leg, and my angel sister lay utterly open, gazing up at me, smiling in joy.

As she had wished, there was no resistance remaining within her.

The moment of conquest had arrived. I knelt between her legs, guided my cock carefully into position, then slowly plunged into her, accompanied by her profound sigh, until I was fully sheathed.

Triumph!

Drunk with victory as I was, some bestial element within me demanded expression. As I slowly plunged and withdrew, plunged and withdrew, I softly named her with names that rose unbidden to my lips, named her slut, cunt, bitch, whore, and other epithets besides, and she greeted each one with a fervent “Yes!", clamping her legs behind my back, drawing me in with her best strength, clearly urging me to fuck her without restraint.

This I did, accelerating my pace, and each concussion of our loins brought a cry of pleasure from her lips.

And when I came within her, painting the walls and crannies of her sopping well, marking her for my own, I felt as if I had found a true home. It was exquisitely satisfying ...

... and afterwards, restful, when I lay heavy upon her, and she made no move to relieve herself of my weight, but caressed me softly and affectionately, and spoke to me with a wordless crooning that could only be a sign and symptom of love.

Then, I saw that tears were streaming from her eyes. I had no reason to think them anything but the product of unbearable bliss; still, at the sight, I remembered the foul names I had showered upon her.

Suddenly ashamed, I rolled away from her and sat up, on the edge of the bed.

“Brand?” she queried softly.

I groaned.

“Nabila ... I never intended it to go this far.”

These words were so false to fact that I fell silent, astonished at my own duplicity.

Was this some last-ditch effort of the tribe’s influence, struggling for survival?

Internally, I castigated myself for a miserable hypocrite. Never consciously commit a transgression, then try to weasel out of it.

I was only distracted from my inner turmoil when Nabila moved, sliding off the bed to kneel at my feet in slave posture.

I watched, captivated. After a moment, she raised her eyes to mine ... and now they carried no hint of the dreamer.

“Hear me, my lord,” she said softly, but with great clarity, and despite my disquiet, the honorific brought delight to my heart.

“Put away your shame,” she said, “now and forever. Forgive my bluntness, but ... I will not tolerate it.”

I reared back a little at this, surprised at the dissonance between her submissive posture and the assertiveness of her words.

“Let me make it plain to you, once and for all,” she said. “For me, there is no greater pleasure, no greater honour, than to kneel at your feet ... to swallow your cum ... to give you my orgasms ... to willingly submit to your every loving whim. Call me what you will ... insult me in the throes of passion if you wish ... such darts will never pierce me.”

I thrilled to hear her words ... yet, though more feebly, the craven within me spoke again, attempting the impossible task of justifying my seduction of her.

She listened for a few seconds with a small smile, then efficiently put an end to my rambling, by talking dirty ... very dirty ... so dirty that my cock could not help but rise in response.

Nabila’s smile widened at the sight. She watched, clearly delighted, until I was fully erect. Then she rose to her feet and, oddly, turned away from me.

Retreating to the other side of the room, she turned, dropped gracefully to all fours, and began to crawl very slowly towards me, her hot, eager eyes fixed, first on mine, then on my cock. And as she rose to envelope me, I could not bring myself to hinder her. Clearly, I had obtained all my heart’s desire: devoting herself to my pleasure was now, to her mind, the greatest possible occupation in life. Nor did I take action to prevent her as she wrapped her lips around me again, as she matched my groan of pleasure with one of her own, as her hand dropped to the torrid well of her divine cunt and began to circle and plunge. And when my cock once again spat hot into her happily receiving mouth, even as she groaned with the ecstasy of her own punishing orgasm, I could not foresee myself ever giving up my sister, my Nabila, who was now my utterly devoted slut. I knew I would slide ... and pound ... my cock into her many, many times ... hundreds of times ... thousands of times.

Now, my heart was no longer divided.

In the aftermath, when my breathing had calmed somewhat, she passed her tongue over her cum-coated lips and smiled up at me with joy ... yet also, it seemed to me, with just a hint of apprehension.

“Forgive me my harsh speech, my lord,” she said.

“Forgiven,” I said immediately ... then corrected myself. “No ... there is nothing to forgive.”

“Then ... you are pleased with me?” she asked softly.

She waited, and I sensed that she was holding her breath.

“Nabila, my love,” I murmured. “The word ‘pleased’ is a poor description of what I am feeling.”

In that moment, I could find no better words than these, but my lovely Nabila was in no doubt of my meaning.

She smiled in deep satisfaction, spread her arms wide, and bowed down in her kneeling position, until her heavy breasts pressed against her knees.

That night, she did not flee, but rested with me in my bed, a carnal angel. In the morning, the bright sunlight streaming through my window did nothing to hinder a renewed bout of sexual soul-sharing. We spent a delightful hour wordlessly cementing our union.

Afterward, we lay facing each other, smiling blissfully. I reached out, took hold of her head, kissed her deeply, then spoke the words that had eluded me the previous night.

“I love you profoundly, Nabila,” I said, letting all my heart show in my eyes.

Tears of joy brimmed in her own eyes, making her seem vulnerable and submissive. But her response, her surprising response, belied this impression.

“You surely do,” she said softly. “And that’s never going to change. The way to a man’s heart is via his cock ... and your cock belongs to me, sweet brother.”

Her hand then took hold of the named member and work softly upon it as she spoke further.

“But, be warned,” she said then, “you wanted me for your own, and now you have me, God help you ... because I’m never, never, never going to let you go.”

At her words, a shiver caused by more than simple delight went through me. So she knew that our union was no accident. She knew that I had acted with intent ... and my understanding that she had been all unwitting was incorrect. Clearly, there was some unravelling to be done, if I wanted to understand the true nature of what had passed between us since I first altered her heart and mind.

“You knew,” I queried, “that I was trying to ... uh ... win you?”

Nabila gave me a wry smile.

“You didn’t tell me to forget your ... uh ... suggestions,” she said, causing me to gape like a fish.

I could have kicked myself at this revelation.

“Then ... why did you go along with them?” I queried.

Nabila shrugged prettily.

“My mind was kind of ... foggy,” she said. “I couldn’t be sure it wasn’t a dream. And ... thinking back, I have to admit, a great part of me was happy to cooperate ... happy to be your lover.”

I think my jaw dropped.

“But ... you’ve despised me for years!”

Nabila shook her head slowly.

“No, lover,” she said. “I haven’t. I was repelling you ... so that I wouldn’t break taboo. The truth is, I wanted you ... wanted you so much that I was in danger.“

It took me some time to digest this astonishing revelation.

“I guess that explains,” I said then, “why you left the bathroom door unlocked in the first place.”

Nabila’s mouth twisted with amusement.

“I guess it does.”

She smiled then, with more than a hint of wickedness.

“So you see, I was not entirely an unwitting pawn in your hands, brother,” she said. “If this is a crime, we are partners in it.”

I mulled over the phrase “partners in crime”.

“So ... where do we go from here?” I asked presently.

Nabila was in no doubt.

“Thou knowest, my lord,” she said. “We will become as tightly knit as two human beings can be. Before the eyes of the world, we will dissemble, with great skill and determination. We will be cunning. We will not be discovered.”

“And in private?” I asked. I thought I knew how she would put her answer, but I wanted to hear her say it. She did not disappoint me.

Nabila grinned wolfishly.

“In private,” she said, “we will joyously fuck, my lord, and discover how nearly two souls can combine into one.”

How it filled my heart to hear her speak so wantonly, and yet so lovingly.

“You have taken me,” she continued, “and you have fucked me. Now that you see me more as I truly am, I bid you recline, so I may put a seal upon our union with an honest fuck of my own.”

Thus my heart-slave commanded me, and I was thrilled to obey.

She mounted me then, yet swung about as she did so, so that she faced away from me, her breasts melting against my bended knees, and her sex pressing my hardened shaft against my own belly. Then, she began to ride. Later, I was to learn how perfect was this posture for the woman, allowing her control and perfect positioning of the nub of her pleasure against the cock.

For my part, I was well pleased by the sight of her naked back and the globes of her backside as she worked.

When Nabila had taken her joy of me, and afterwards lay in peace with her head upon my shoulder, I found myself considering our future.

I knew that the herd would utterly condemn our union as a heinous wrong, should they ever discover it. Yet time was to prove that this danger would only serve to strengthen our commitment to each other. I still cannot explain why ... nor do I care to analyse it deeply.

In any case, the dice were cast. Nabila had made it clear that she was wholeheartedly with me ... and that she would brook no faint-heartedness from me. With her help, I had expunged that part of myself.

It occurred to me then that, since becoming my “slave”, Nabila had already stated her desires in no uncertain terms more than once ... traditionally unusual behaviour for a slave.

Therefore the question arose in me: who here was the slave and who the master? The matter was not as clearcut as I had expected.

I shrugged mentally. If the demands she made upon me only served desires in myself of which I was unaware, or was unable to bring to fruition by myself, or led to the deepening of our union, I could not see that it mattered either way.

Thus, then, our future: we two were-folk would continue to pass as members of the flock, but would transform into our true selves when safely alone.

Was I evil? I had feared I would become so. Perhaps I was ... but, objectively, my seduction of Nabila was but a peccadillo compared to the deeds of, say, the mass-murderers and tyrants of history ... or of the modern age, for that matter.

An intriguing thought occurred to me then: might I not one day use my ability to deal with some of that filthy breed? The idea both fascinated and frightened me.

As I considered the possibilities, a new project unfolded before me ... a vision of a better world.

Caution suggested that I might begin with the plethora of lesser tyrants, with which the world abounds.

I thought of the reaction of those self-righteous creatures to the love of Brand and Nabila, and suddenly I was angry.

Damn all the hypocrisy of the world, I thought. Damn altogether the blindness of society. They think they know what’s right? They who are so busy destroying their own way of life, while insisting they know how everyone else has to behave? Nabila and I, we’re together now ... and always will be. Nothing in this universe can be more certain.

Even as I thought these words, I knew that they themselves were not entirely free from hypocrisy. In reality, I knew I could not so easily separate myself from the rest of humanity ... I was as guilty as they of wishing for more.

It was addiction that made me think in this way ... I knew that ... and, like any addict, I sought to justify my devotion to my drug. But then, is not all passionate love an addiction?

I shrugged.

For the moment, I would put such questions aside. I would love my Nabila, and she would love me. And our love would give me the strength to pursue my newly-conceived project. I had the power to initiate change in the world ... change for the better ... for the benefit of all people ... for the benefit of all life.

I had the power ... and by God, I was going to use it.