Two Virgins: Brother Fucks Sister – Incest Story by Salty Vixen

Kimberly woke to salt on her lips and the low grind of surf against black rock. The life raft had torn sometime in the night. What was left of it lay in a pale strip of foam twenty yards down the beach, already half-buried. Her dress was gone. The blouse she had worn onto the yacht clung in a wet sheet to her ribs and hips, translucent, sand in the seams. She sat up slowly. Twenty-six, barefoot, and the only living thing she could see besides the gulls.

Robert was farther up the slope, under the shade of a leaning palm, one arm over his eyes. Twenty-nine. Her brother. The cuff of his ruined shirt was still buttoned at the wrist, absurd against the rest of him: trousers torn at the knee, belt missing, chest bare where the fabric had split. Blood had dried in a thin line along his temple. He looked smaller than he did in the city, where the suits and the cars and the quiet way people moved out of his path made him seem larger than he was.

She crawled to him because standing felt like a decision she was not ready to make.

“Robert.”

His eyes opened. Grey, the same grey as their father’s, and for a second she saw the old house in them, the long table, the way their mother used to set two places at the far end and never ask why the children ate alone. Then the island came back into his face.

“You’re all right,” he said. His voice was rough. “I checked you twice. Breathing. No breaks I could find.”

“The others?”

“Gone. The tender flipped. I got you into the raft. That’s all I know.” He pushed himself upright. The movement pulled the torn shirt wider. She looked away from the line of his stomach and then looked back, because there was nowhere else to put her eyes. “Water first. Then we see what the ridge is.”

They found a seep before noon, cold and iron-tasting, running out of a crack in the volcanic stone. Kimberly drank until her stomach hurt. Robert drank less and watched the tree line. He had always been like that: counting exits, counting people, counting what could be taken. Their father’s company had made him a billionaire on paper before he was twenty-five. The yacht had been a client’s. The storm had not cared.

By late afternoon the heat had turned her blouse into a second skin. She knelt at the seep and cupped water over her throat. The fabric stuck to her breasts. Her nipples had drawn tight from the cold water and the air, dark circles visible through the white. She felt Robert’s attention land and stay. Neither of them spoke. On the yacht there had been stewards and glass and the ordinary fiction that they were only siblings at a party. Here the fiction had washed out with the tide.

“Don’t,” she said, without turning.

“I wasn’t.”

“You were.”

He sat on a flat rock and took his shoes off, slow, as if the laces mattered. “You’re my sister.”

“I know what I am.” She stood. Water ran down her sternum and disappeared under the blouse. “And you’re looking anyway.”

Night came fast. They built no fire; Robert said smoke might mean someone, and someone might not be rescue. They lay on opposite sides of a hollow lined with broad leaves. Kimberly listened to him breathe. Every time she shifted, the wet cloth dragged across her nipples and the ache went lower, stupid and animal. She had never been with anyone. Twenty-six and careful, the good daughter, the one who did not give the papers a story. Robert had been careful in a different way. She had heard the rumors and never asked. Little, some ex had said once at a party, drunk and mean, and Kimberly had walked out before she could hear the rest. She thought of that now and hated that she thought of it.

“Kim.”

“What.”

“Come here. You’re shivering.”

“I’m not cold.”

“Come here anyway.”

She went. His arm was warm and heavier than she expected. Her cheek found the hollow under his collarbone. The smell of him was salt and skin and the faint clean scent of whatever cologne had survived the wreck. His hand rested on her back, proper, until it wasn’t. His thumb moved once, a small circle between her shoulder blades. She made a sound she didn’t mean to make.

“We can’t,” he said into her hair.

“Then stop.”

He didn’t stop. His hand slid lower, over the soaked blouse, and cupped her breast through the cloth. The nipple pushed into his palm. Kimberly’s breath broke. She should have pulled away. She pressed closer instead, the way a person presses a bruise to see if it still hurts. It hurt. It felt like relief.

“Robert.”

“Tell me to stop and I will.”

She didn’t. His fingers found the nipple and rolled it, gentle at first, then firmer, the wet fabric rough between them. Heat spilled down her stomach. She shifted her thigh over his and felt him against her, hard already, and smaller than the men in the stories she had not let herself finish. The knowledge landed strangely. Not disappointment. Something hotter and meaner: that she could close her hand around all of him, that he was hers to measure, that no one else on this island would ever know.

She reached down. He caught her wrist.

“Not yet,” he said. “If we do this, we do it my way. You understand what I’m saying?”

The old voice. The boardroom voice. She nodded against his chest because her mouth wouldn’t work.

“Say it.”

“Your way.”

He eased her onto her back on the leaves. The stars were a hard white scatter above the palms. He pushed the blouse up to her throat. Air hit her breasts and her nipples tightened further, aching. He bent and took one in his mouth. The pull was slow, thorough, tongue flat and then the edge of his teeth. Kimberly’s hips lifted off the ground. He pinned them with a forearm and kept sucking, switching sides, working each nipple until it was swollen and wet and she was shaking. His free hand stayed between her legs but didn’t go under the scrap of underwear. He only pressed, circled, let her grind.

“Please,” she said.

“Not tonight.” He lifted his head. His mouth shone. “You stay like this. You don’t touch yourself when I sleep. That’s the first rule.”

She stared at him. “You’re serious.”

“We’re not getting off this island tomorrow. Maybe not for weeks. If we start, we start with rules, or we tear each other up and there’s no one to put us back together.” He kissed the underside of her breast, almost tender. “You’re a virgin. I’m not going to wreck that because we’re scared. Not the first night.”

“You knew.”

“I know you.” He settled beside her again, one hand still covering her breast, thumb idly stroking the nipple he had made sore. “Sleep.”

She didn’t sleep for a long time. When she did, it was with his palm warm over her heart and the throb between her legs unanswered.

They found the temple on the third day.

It wasn’t a temple in any way a guidebook would mean. A low stone platform, half-swallowed by roots, with four broken pillars and a flat altar stone stained dark by old rain. Someone had been here before them, decades ago, maybe longer. There were shells arranged in a spiral and a rusted tin cup. Kimberly stood at the edge and felt the quiet change. Robert walked the perimeter the way he walked a new building: measuring, claiming.

“We sleep here,” he said. “Higher ground. The pool’s a hundred yards east. I saw it from the ridge.”

“It feels wrong.”

“Everything feels wrong.” He looked at her. The blouse had dried stiff and then been soaked again; she had stopped trying to hide what it showed. “Take it off. It’ll dry on the stone. You’ll get a rash if you live in it.”

She hesitated. He waited. The rule from the first night had held: his hands, his mouth, her nipples worked until she cried and came with nothing inside her, and then his cock stayed in his trousers. She had not touched herself. The obedience had started as shock and turned, somehow, into the only solid thing on the island.

She pulled the blouse over her head. Sun hit her skin. Robert’s eyes went dark and still.

“Underwear too. You’ll wash in the pool. Then you come back here.”

“And you?”

“I’ll watch the trail.” A beat. “And you.”

The pool was a sinkhole of clear water, shoulder-deep in the middle, fed by the same seep. Kimberly stood in it up to her waist and scrubbed sand from her skin with her hands. When she turned, Robert was on the bank, shirt off, watching without pretending otherwise. She lifted her breasts and rinsed them because he was looking, because the soreness from his mouth made her want more of it. Her nipples peaked in the water. She pinched one, experimentally, and saw his jaw tighten.

“Out,” he said.

She climbed the rock shelf. Water streamed off her. He didn’t give her the blouse. He walked her back to the altar stone naked, a hand at the nape of her neck, not hurting, not negotiable. The stone was warm. He laid her on it.

“Hands above your head.”

She put them there. The pillar shadow cut across her stomach. Robert stood between her knees and opened his trousers. She saw him fully for the first time: flushed, hard, smaller than she had imagined a man would be, the head already wet. A strange tenderness moved through her, followed by a sharper hunger. He stroked himself once, twice, eyes on her breasts.

“Open your mouth.”

“Robert—”

“Rule two. When I tell you to take it, you take it. You wanted forbidden. This is forbidden. Open.”

She opened. He didn’t push in all the way. He rubbed the head across her tongue, salty, bitter-clean, and then drew back and came over her chest in short pulses, striping her breasts, catching on the nipples he liked to ruin. Kimberly gasped. He gathered it with two fingers and fed it to her, slow, watching her throat move.

“Swallow.”

She swallowed. The taste sat on the back of her tongue. He wiped a last streak from her nipple and pushed the finger into her mouth again. She sucked it clean because he was still looking at her like she was a problem he had finally decided to solve.

“Good,” he said quietly. “Stay there until it dries. Then you can wash.”

“That’s not—”

“It’s the rule.” He tucked himself away. His hands were steady. Hers weren’t. “You’re not a guest here, Kim. The yacht’s gone. The name’s gone. On this island you’re what I keep. You can hate that later. Right now you eat what I give you and you thank me.”

She should have laughed. She should have hit him. The come cooled on her skin and her clit throbbed against nothing, and what came out of her mouth was, “Thank you.”

He nodded once, as if she had signed something.

Days turned. They speared fish in the shallows with a sharpened stick. Robert salted what they couldn’t eat and stored it in the tin cup. Kimberly learned the pool, the fruit trees, the path that didn’t break an ankle. At night he put her on the altar stone or on the leaves and used his mouth on her nipples until she was sobbing, fingers in her only to the first knuckle, never enough. He came on her tongue, her breasts, once across her stomach while she held her own ankles because he told her to. She swallowed every time. The taste became ordinary. The wanting did not.

On the ninth night he finally pushed a finger all the way into her while he sucked her nipple, and she came so hard she bit his shoulder. He didn’t enter her. “Not until you ask for the rest of it,” he said. “And mean the rules that come with it.”

“What rules?”

“You don’t come unless I say. You don’t hide your body from me. If I want your mouth, you open it. If we’re found, this stays here. If we’re not found, you stay mine. Sister, slave, whatever word doesn’t make you flinch. Pick one later.”

She lay under him, stretched and shaking, a virgin still in the only way that counted, and felt the shape of the bargain settle onto her like the humid air.

“Mine,” she said. “Say I’m yours.”

“You’re mine.” His thumb brushed her nipple, gentle now, almost sorry. “Kimberly. My sister. My captive, if you need the story. My slave, if you need the rule. Ask me when you’re ready for the rest.”

She asked on the twelfth day, in the pool, with his cock in her hand for the first time, the whole of him fitting easily in her fist. She worked him until he cursed, then sank to her knees in the water and took him in her mouth properly, learning the shallow depth, the way he liked her tongue under the head. He pulled out and finished on her tongue. She swallowed, looked up, and said, “I’m ready. All of it. Please.”

He took her to the altar at dusk. He made her say it again: sister, his, willing. He opened her with his fingers until she was wet and shaking, then pressed in. It hurt. He was not large, and still it hurt, a bright tear and then a deep ache as her body learned him. He stayed still, mouth on her nipple, one hand in her hair, murmuring that she was good, that she was taking him, that no one else would ever have this. When she could breathe she rolled her hips. He fucked her slowly, the stone warm under her back, the jungle loud around them. She came with him inside her, shocked by the clench, and he followed, spilling deep, forehead against hers, both of them shaking.

After, he made her lie still while he pushed the leak of him back into her with two fingers, then brought those fingers to her mouth.

“Eat it,” he said. “All of it. That’s the last rule.”

She licked his fingers clean. The taste was them. Outside the broken pillars the island went on being empty, and the sky went on being huge, and Kimberly closed her eyes and held her brother’s wrist so he couldn’t take his hand away.