Touch Therapy Ch. 02

She peeled the plastic wrap off the plate, and picked at the contents. The vegetables and meat had cooled to room temperature, but were delicious. Crunchy bell peppers and onion, tender steak strips, yellow crookneck, all redolent of garlic and soysauce. The brown rice, though, was cold and inedible.

As Rachel stood in the kitchen, her bare feet moved, as of their own accord, in tiny, quiet steps across the tile. She ended in the archway, looking into the gloom of the den. Greg had fallen asleep with the TV on again, as he always did, and the glow of the screensaver pulsed in slow, alternating strobes of green and blue light, picking out details of the shadowy room and throwing them into relief.

Rachel swallowed the last strip of steak and set the plate down on the counter, gingerly, trying not to make any noise. She unconsciously licked her fingers clean, then wiped them dry on the towel.

No one had turned down the heater before falling asleep, and the house was too warm now. Greg had kicked off the comforter, and was sleeping shirtless, wearing only the cut-off sweats he had been wearing earlier.

Rachel drew nearer to his sleeping form, wishing he would wake up. Now, she wanted to explain herself to him. She didn't know what she could say, but she remembered the nightmare's feeling of horrible loneliness, and she suddenly wanted, very much, to see Greg's eyes, to speak to him.

She murmured his name, too loudly, she thought, in the silence of the room, and drew near to him with a couple of quiet steps. In his sleep, Greg twitched. One hand came up and gently touched the side of his face, fingering the bruise there.

Rachel felt a pang of guilt. Kneeling by the futon, she watched his face as she said his name again, slightly louder. She reached out a hand then, placing it on his naked shoulder --so warm-- and giving him a gentle shake.

Greg opened his eyes, all dreamy warmth and sleepy incomprehension.

Rachel felt a sudden surge of panic, and found herself babbling apologies in a rapid murmuring voice. Her hands alternately flicked in the odd mannerism she used when at a loss for words, and then touched lightly on his chest as she repeated, over and over, how sorry she was, how she didn't know what had come over her, how. . .

"Whoa," Greg mumbled sleepily. "Whoa! s'okay. Chill!" He reached out for her, his hands closing on her forearms and giving her a gentle squeeze while he reassured her. "Really, it's okay," he mumbled, half awake, ". . . love you. Said I'd look after you, and I will."

Rachel froze up when she heard him say love, but Greg seemed oblivious to her sudden tension, using her stillness as an opportunity to gather her in close, squeezing her gently against him while he continued to mumble reassurances.

Rachel relaxed as he held her against his chest, stroking her fluffy hair, and occasionally bending his neck to press his lips in gentle kisses against the top of her head.

This was what she wanted, she realized. Not him, immobile, silent, compliant, but actively holding her and rocking her. She almost sobbed at the realization, wondering what Doctor Griggs would make of it. Tears leaked from her eyes as she clutched at him, burying herself in his warmth, feeling safe and comfortable and, yes, happy.

Greg, as he came more fully awake, began gently teasing her. Calling her a dork for freaking out over little things, trivial things. Saying she was a spaz for locking herself in her room all night.

He kept at it until Rachel felt herself starting to smile, and she looked up, meeting his eyes for a second. She flushed, embarrassed, as she confessed why she had been so angry at him.

Greg laughed openly at her, then, called her a dork again, and gathered her back into his embrace. "You know, I wasn't ignoring you," he said. "But you were pretty clear that you were making the rules, here, and I didn't have any reason to think that you wouldn't just tell me what to do."

He gazed down at her, suddenly serious. "It's not like I've got you figured out. I don't. I'm never really sure what you want. I'm just doing my best not to fuck up, here." His face pinched into a slight frown as he continued, "in all honesty, I'm scared shitless that I'm going to do something to hurt you." His frown faded as he solemnly stated, "and I don't ever want to hurt you. Not ever."

Rachel turned her face into his chest then, pressing her lips against his skin, thinking mine, all mine. With sudden shock, she tasted herself on his chest, and realized that he hadn't washed her off of himself.

Some tiny voice in the back of her mind murmured to her that she should probably find this dirty, nasty, disgusting. . . but she didn't. In some way it made her feel better. He wasn't disgusted by her, or by her touch, or by her smell.

She smelled herself on his skin, and it seemed right, and good.

She kissed his chest again then, letting her lips part slightly, her tongue lightly touching at his warm skin as she tasted herself on him. She heard the sharp intake of his breath, and felt a sudden warmth, and wetness, at her groin. She almost sighed at her own predictability, wondering if her sudden preoccupation with her brother's flesh meant that she was a slut.

To be honest. . . she didn't care.

She crawled up on the futon with him. The towel fell off as she did so, and she made an instinctive grab for it, but let it go when she missed. 'Fuck it,' she thought, 'it's not like I'm going to let him keep his clothes on for much longer.'

Rachel watched Greg's eyes as she slid up over him, and felt a rejoicing surge when she saw his vision grow sharp with lust, his face tightening with anticipatory focus.

She straddled one of his legs and lowered herself down onto him, her body pressing full length against his, the soles of her feet clasping his ankle, her thighs clasped about his leg as if he were a tree she was climbing.

She could feel the hard muscle of his upper thigh pressing into her crotch and, excited, she humped against it gently, still sore, but enjoying the firm pressure.

Greg groaned as he felt her hips thrusting against him, and his hands moved across her shoulders and back, fingertips tracing abstract arabesques on her skin. He opened his mouth to say something, but Rachel cut him off, pressing her fingers over his lips as she continued to gently rub herself against his leg.

"Shut up," she whispered, in a far gentler echo of what she had said earlier that day, "Just shut up." She drew herself up him then, her hands working their way under his shoulders as she lowered her face toward his, saying, "kiss me."

Greg kissed her, and she kissed back, unreservedly, her lips capturing and drawing at his tongue, her own tongue flicking out to play at the corners of his mouth as she made small, contented sounds at the back of her throat.

Rachel reveled in the feel of Greg's hands, rough with calluses, but gentle in their movements, as he drew her ever closer, slowly pressing her down into himself. Her small breasts flattened out against him, and a flare of pleasure spiraled through her belly as her nipples scraped against his. She made a small, needy whimper in the back of her throat, and her knees clamped hard around Greg's thigh as she rubbed herself against him.

The cut-off sweats suddenly seemed an intolerable hindrance to Rachel. She sat up, breaking the kiss with a soft liquid pop. She scrambled backwards between Greg's legs, gripping a fistful of the soft material in each hand, and started yanking feverishly at the shorts.

Greg's eyes widened a bit as the waistband caught on his hips, but then he took his weight on his hands, elevating his hips, and the sweats slid down to his calves. His suddenly liberated cock snapped free, and slapped against his belly.

For a moment, Rachel paused, forgetting the crumpled sweats in her fist as she looked down at him. The tuft of hair over his sternum, the flat belly, the hard length of him jutting from the curling thatch at his crotch.

Greg, suddenly shy, started to move his hands to cover himself, but Rachel, in yet another echo of earlier, quickly tossed aside the sweats and, reaching out, grabbed his wrists to stop him.

She held him like that, exposed, and her eyes traveled over him, finally meeting his own gaze with a frank directness that caused him to blush.

"Don't," she said quietly, leaning forward over him, stretching forward until she held his wrists against the mattress, palms up by his shoulders, as though he were reaching up in surrender. "Don't hide," she murmured, "I like looking at you. I think you're beautiful."

Greg's blush deepened, and he looked away, intensely uncomfortable. "Whatever," he said, dismissively, then looked back at her, his gaze direct and sincere, "you're beautiful. Really. So much it hurts sometimes when I look at you."

Rachel had no reply. She leaned over him, her fluffy hair tickling against his throat and chin, and kissed his collarbone. Nibbled gently at it, then licked along it's length with a warm, wet swipe of her tongue.

Sometimes kissing with feather-light touches, sometimes nipping almost hard enough to bruise the skin, sometimes sucking with lasciviously wet sounds, Rachel worked her way down Greg's torso. She wrung gasps and moans from him, delighting in each one as though it were a personal victory. As she worked her way past his navel, her breasts pressed against his twitching shaft, her nipples scraping along its underside.

They moaned in unison, and Greg's hands closed gently around her shoulders. He pulled feebly, trying to draw her back up, but she shrugged him off and, slipping lower, placed a gentle kiss on each hip before turning her lips toward his center.

Greg's breath caught in his throat, his back arching involuntarily, as Rachel's lips hovered millimeters over his cock and she blew a warm, moist breath over the exquisitely sensitive area where the underside of the head merged with the shaft. She paused, and when Greg finally drew a long, shuddering breath, she stuck out her tongue and swiped it across his frenulum with a firm, wet stroke.

This time Greg cried out loud, and his head snapped up, his eyes wide, as he stared down at her.

Rachel smiled wickedly back at him, and gripping the base of his prick in one hand, she pulled it upright, so that it stood between them, meeting his gaze over the top of it, silently daring him to say something, anything, that might stop her.

A clear bead of precum oozed from the slit at the tip and Rachel, her eyes never leaving his, leaned deliberately forward, running her tongue out to gather the bead into her mouth. Greg gasped, the muscles in his stomach twitching as she tongued him.

She squeezed the bead of precum between her tongue and palate, her eyes finally closing as she tasted him. She had expected bitter. Maybe sour. But Greg's taste was subtle. Slightly salty, with a rich undernote that reminded her of. . . the ocean. That was it, she thought, he tasted like the ocean.

Swinging one leg over Greg's thigh, so she could rub herself against him once more, she bent her head, and began licking up and down the underside of his shaft, still gripping him firmly at the base, and drawing the flesh of his member tight and smooth.

Greg's head fell back on the futon as his hands gripped her shoulders almost painfully tight, and groans and gasps were wrung from his throat.

When Rachel had coated Greg's cock with spit, swirling her tongue around the tip, then licking down the shaft, she finally parted her lips and took the tip of him into her mouth. Her hand moved gently up and down, thumb rubbing the ridge on the underside of the shaft while she sucked first gently, then more vigorously, at the helmet.

Greg's head thrashed slowly back and forth, his lips drawn tight in a grimace, groaning in ecstasy as Rachel worked over him. When she finally bobbed downward over his length, pushing him all the way into the back of her throat, he cried out. His hips jerked involuntarily, driving him deeper into her throat, and she choked slightly, pulling away and gasping for air while he thrust against her fisted grip.

Rachel looked down at him then, waiting for him to open his eyes and meet her gaze.

"If you want," she said, "you can do it to me."

Greg, confused, parroted back, "it? What?"

Rachel flushed crimson then, the scarlet tide rising up her throat and covering her cheeks. She licked her full lips nervously, and there was something very like fear in her eyes as she said, "what I, you know, did to you." She turned her head aside then, unable to hold his gaze as she waited for understanding to dawn. Greg, oblivious, just frowned at her. Rachel, too embarrassed for words, took one of his hands in her own, drew it up to her head, and fisted his fingers into her hair.

Greg suddenly realized what she was offering. His memory flashed on the way that she had held his own head and driven herself against him. He tasted the blood in his mouth again, and his cock surged greedily as a small, wicked voice whispered in the back of his head do it! Fucking do it! Punish her!

He imagined wrapping his fingers into her beautiful fluffy hair and forcing his cock past those beautiful full lips, driving brutally into her throat with the same kind of violent passion that she had subjected him to. He imagined her, her eyes wide and panicked, streaming tears as she choked and coughed on his hardened length. He imagined using her in that way, and was disgusted by how exciting he found the idea. No wonder her eyes held fear.

He snatched his hand away as if it had been burned. "God no," he exclaimed, "no fucking way!"

Rachel's eyes flooded with a kind of grateful relief, as of a penitent spared the lash, and she bent her head, kissing the tip of him, then engulfing his length while she held his gaze.

There was something so soft, so giving in her look, that Greg felt his stomach spasm, his groin tighten and churn. "Oh fuck," he gasped, realizing that he was losing control.

Rachel's thumb and forefinger squeezed tighter around his base, and her lips pursed, cheeks hollowing while her tongue swirled and flicked at the head of his cock.

Greg lost it. His hips pushed up off the futon, his back arching as he came. The thick band of muscle under his balls contracted again and again.

And Rachel held it back.

She never loosened her grip, and the pulsing of Greg's climax extended far beyond what he was accustomed to as his body strove to expel a charge that Rachel just would not let go.

When the spasming finally ended, Greg lay panting on the futon, still twitching like a landed fish, sweat beading on his torso, his engorged cock gripped tightly in Rachel's hand.

He levered his head upward to look at her, his balls tight and uncomfortable with a feeling that reminded him of an interrupted piss. "What the hell?" he asked, eyeing Rachel with a certain desperation.

Rachel said nothing, but capturing his gaze with her own, she leaned over his still erect penis, immensely sensitive in its post-orgasmic condition, and she flicked her tongue lightly over the head.

Greg grunted, "God!" His eyes clamped shut, then popped open again as he watched her, fascinated, unsure whether he was being teased, or tortured, or both.

Rachel bent her head once more, again making sure that she maintained eye contact with him, and extending her tongue so that it just touched the tip of his cock, she relaxed her grip.

The sudden release of pressure sent Greg's cum blasting into her mouth in a sudden surge. She captured most of the burst by clamping her lips over the tip of his cock at the last moment. Her hand dropped from Greg's cock to cup his balls, gently stroking the underside of them with a pulling motion, as if urging him on.

Then, never letting her gaze break from his, she slowly and deliberately swallowed. His load was thick, and copious, and she had to work at it. The muscles in her throat and neck slid and clenched. Greg heard the faint gulping noise she made as the last of it slid down her throat, and he lay there, stunned, while her tongue snaked out and licked sexily around her mouth.

When Greg again felt her tongue lapping gently at him, he grabbed her shoulders, crying out, "Whoa! Enough! I can't take it, you gotta stop!"

Rachel paused only briefly, glancing up at him, and whispering "Trust me. I'll go slow, but just trust me."

Reluctantly, Greg fell back, his hands still cautiously clamped on Rachel's shoulders, but allowing her to continue. The sensation was so intense that it was almost painful, but Greg held on, patiently enduring it, until he realized with a start that he was stiffening again.

It wasn't with the same urgency or lust that had driven him the first time, but he grew firm again, and Rachel's ministrations grew less painful, and more pleasurable, with the passing seconds.

With a triumphant smile, Rachel sat up, her hand still jerking at him, as she said, "see? I told you so!"

Greg just shook his head in astonished acknowledgement, staring up at her. She knelt astride one of his legs, slender and pale, her dark hair tousled, her eyes shining, holding his erect cock as if she had discovered some exotic new species that she had yet to name. She was, Greg thought, utterly beautiful.

Her gaze grew solemn as she looked down at him, her hand still squeezing and pulling at his length. She shifted position then, straddling him, and using her free hand to support herself as she wriggled into position.

Greg saw what she intended, and some tiny part of him screamed out, "Stop! She's your sister," but that voice was so tiny, so far away, that he thrust it aside with little effort.

Rachel held him with one hand, her other palm pressed flat against his chest to balance herself. She guided him carefully to her lips, rocking her hips back and forth to slide the helmet of his cock along her slick labia, coating his length with her juices. Finally, she positioned him at the mouth of her center and, wiggling her ass back and forth, began to work herself onto his thick length.

Her eyes opened wide after the first couple of inches, and she began breathing heavily, carefully, her lower belly heaving as she pressed herself down onto him. It had been a long time since she had been penetrated in this way, and she wasn't fully ready. Greg clutched at her hips, fighting back the desire to thrust into her, watching the tense expression on her face and letting her control the pace.

Still sore from the afternoon, Rachel's face pinched in concentration, and she bit her lower lip as she pushed past the initial discomfort. Eventually, she felt as though Greg was completely in her, and she looked down to the union of their bodies, confirming that his shaft was entirely engulfed.

Relieved, she fell forward over him, her breasts crushing against his chest, and kissed him. She sucked at his lips, kissed his eyes and cheeks, and murmured endearments into his ears. Then she began to slowly move her hips, rubbing her clit against the bony ridge of his pelvis, feeling him slide and push against her inner warmth.

A sudden thought hit Greg, and he half sat up, panicked. "Protection!" he yelped.

Rachel's palms thrust into his chest, forcing him back down as she swirled her hips in tiny, but forceful, strokes. "Pill," she grunted, without breaking rhythm.

Greg sighed in relief, and relaxed back as Rachel continued to ride him, her head tossed back, the nipples hardening on her small breasts, sweat starting to bead on her pale skin.

There was no urgency this time, as their bodies moved with a steady, rocking rhythm. Greg felt like he could go on forever like this, suspended in preclimactic bliss, without ever reaching culmination. Desire was now a warm and glowing fire, steady and persistent, where before it had been intense and raging.