Sister, Mother; Always My Valentine

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It was Valentine’s Day nineteen eighty-four, my nineteen year old ego had suffered a crushing blow. I had been dumped – for the first time in my young life I had suffered the pain and ignominy of rejection. Until that time it had been I who picked and chose. Today, Melanie Parker, the girl with whom I had been going steady since term began had finished with me – she certainly knew how to pick the dramatic moment. Now I could not go to the Valentine’s Party I had been looking forward to. I did not intend to make a fool of myself by going alone. Theatrically I slammed the door behind me as I entered the flat.

I heard Abbe crying. She was in the living room sitting on the floor, her legs bent, hands clasped, hugging her knees to her chest. She looked as miserable as I felt. The room was candlelit, the air heavy with the pungent aroma of burning joss-sticks. All the usual signals that she was in a melancholic mood. Her cheeks were tear streaked. “What’s wrong Abbe?” I asked putting an arm around her shoulder.

Her voice was soft and slow. “Nothing Adam – it’s just …” She broke off to dab at her eyes. “I’m getting old – too old.” I could smell the grass she had smoked, in an ashtray lay three fat roaches.

“Your not old Abbe.”

“I must be, work has been getting less and less. My agent is saying I should think about the future. No one’s sent me a Valentine this year.”

I should explain, Abbe had an agent because she was a dancer – a famous dancer. When I was at school, being related to Abbe brought me incredible popularity. Every week Tammy’s Tribe would appear on television. Girls aped their hairstyles and makeup. Pubescent boys and older men fantasised about them. In those days ten by eight publicity glossies of Abbe and Tammy’s Tribe were like gold dust, and I enjoyed almost unlimited access to the currency.

She gave me a hug when I said. “You can depend on me, I’ll always be here for you.”

“I know but somehow it’s not the same. No I must be getting old, men just aren’t interested anymore. Except for one thing.” When she was really down, smoking dope always made her worse. “I fucked Martin off today. Told him unless he was going to make a commitment he should piss off back to his wife.” When Abbe was angry or depressed she used the vocabulary of a fishwife.

Martin and Abbe were a long running on/off saga that ran in the background of my life. Martin would get a guilty conscience and stop seeing her. Or she would demand more of their relationship than Martin could or was willing to give, she would issue an ultimatum. Inevitably he would storm out, or she would throw him out. “So once again you’re footloose and fancy free.” I said trying to cheer her up.

“No it is the absolute end this time. Do you know the bastard turned up here without roses, wine or even a poxy card.” I winced at the word, but she never noticed. “I reckon he was only here because I’m a better fuck than his wife. I’m sick and tired of being used. That’s why I told him to piss off.”

“Poor Abbe.” I commiserated, gently rubbing her hunched shoulders. Personally I had always thought Martin was a shit, and that Abbe was wasting herself on him. I knelt behind her, the shoulder rub becoming a massage. Beneath my fingers I could feel the tension in her shoulder and neck muscles. “Never mind. You know no matter how cruel the world out there at least we’ve got one another. You know you are the centre of my life my Valentine, and I always give you a card”

Every year, for as long as I can remember I have given her a Valentine card. They were a family tradition, giving all the women in the family a Valentine. So each year my father and I gave mother and Abbe Valentine cards. My older sister Abbe was my goddess – tall; she had, and still has, long slim legs, the kind that appears to go up to her waist; her long hair she usually wore tied back in a pony-tail. When she smiled, which was often, her face seemed to light-up as it split in two.

When I was little, I thought she was the most beautiful person in the world. At bedtime when Abbe or mum read me a fairy story I always imagined the beautiful Princess looked like Abbe. She had been my archetype of beauty it was against her that I measured all other women. In my mind I had visualised her as Rapunzel, Cinderella, Sleeping Beauty and all those other characters. When I grew older I applied the same yardstick to potential girlfriends. There was no shortage of girls, my tall willowy body and long legs were like a magnet to them. If a girl was not tall and slim, I would ignore her advances.

Like all boys, as I got older I began to notice her body, it was difficult not to. I knew she was not only beautiful, but also incredibly sexy. At least once a week, the dance troupe she worked with, Tammy’s Tribe would appear on television. By the time I had reached puberty I could not help becoming aware of her small firm breasts. These were accentuated by large erect nipples that thrust forwards noticeably when she wore a tight fitting top or ensest porno her leotard. Nowadays I only give a card to Abbe – my mother has always been my Valentine. Confused well read on.

I was born November the fifteenth, nineteen-sixty-four, Abbe was fifteen years older than me. By the time I was conscious of my family Abbe was nearly twenty, mother and father seemed to be ancient – they were in their late forties. A middle-class family, who lived in a semi in a London suburb, a very ordinary family. Each morning Father would catch the train into the city where he worked. A little later I would set off to school. Abbe who started work later would float around the house wearing little more than a caftan, her long legs tantalisingly disappearing under the hem.

The routine continued almost unaltered until I was about eleven years old, when I went from primary to secondary school. It was about the same time Abbe moved out into her own flat.

On February the thirteenth, nineteen-eighty my world fell apart. I was due to go on a school trip to France that Easter and had to get a passport. I had collected a passport application form from the Post Office and completed it. All I needed was my father’s signature and my birth-certificate. My headmaster had filled in the referee bit and signed the photographs. When I came home from school mother was out, I went to the cupboard where all the important documents were kept. I sorted through envelopes and folders, house insurance, car insurance, all the paperwork a family accumulates until I found my birth-certificate.

I felt as if I had been punched in the stomach, I stood stunned. Through my tears I read and reread the words. My name, Adam; my date of birth; mother’s name, Abbe; father’s name, a blank. Realisation dawned, Abbe was not my sister, she was my mother!

If Abbe was my mother, not my sister, the woman I called mother, must be my grandmother. My father was my grandfather. I still had the paper in my hand when mother – grandmother arrived home. To be honest I cannot remember what I said, if I even spoke. All I can recall is her saying. “Oh bugger!!!” That is very clear because mother never swore. She was forever reproving Abbe for using the word, “bloody”, and grandfather for his occasional, “damn”.

Angry, numb, in shock, I fled to my bedroom, locked the door and refused to come out or even open the door. Looking at the paper I began to piece together my relationships. It was simple really, Abbe was my mother; Mother was Grandmother; and Dad, Grandfather. It did take some time to come to terms with my new family tree.

Then realisation dawned, the people I had trusted to tell me the truth – the people who when I had been evasive or tried to tell little white-lies, had lied to me all my life. Lied to me about who I was. My anger grew!

Crash! I started throwing everything around the room.

Shatter! I punched out the window – there was a brief sense of satisfaction as the glass gave and the shards tinkled like bells as they hit the concrete garden path. Even greater satisfaction when Mum and Dad – you know who I mean – were shouting outside the door. They were pleading with me to come out. “Come on Adam just come out and talk.” Dad implored.

With great satisfaction, I heard Mum’s shocked exclamation when I shouted. “Fuck off and leave me alone.” It was then that I realised I had cut myself. Blood ran from the gash running from my hand to elbow, dripping from my fingers forming a sticky patch on the carpet.

I cannot remember how, when or why I came out of the room. I remember the trip to the hospital, my arm being stitched. When I returned I can remember Abbe was there too. I cannot recall everything that was said that night. I doubt whether Abbe, Mother or Dad could remember either. The mood was volatile, one wrong word or gesture would ignite explosive recriminations. Everyone seemed to resent all the others. Someone would take on the role of peace-maker and calm would return until the next wrong word then once again everyone would rage. I can remember that I was venting my anger on all of them. Abbe if I remember correctly was trying to settle old scores with her mother.

Sometime about four o’clock in the morning Abbe grabbed me by the arm, turned to her mother and said. “That is it. I am not letting you talk to me like that. I am taking Adam with me he is my son not yours.”

Abbe’s heels tapped out an angry drumbeat as we hurried along the deserted dark streets. Eventually we managed to hail a cab that took us back to her flat, where I have lived since that day. The next morning I went to the little shop and bought a Valentine card to replace the one I had destroyed the night before.

“Oh it’s sooo nice when you massage me. You have so much positive energy everything that’s negative just drains away, as your good feelings flow through me.” Abbe often said things like this when I massaged her, she swore blind that I had some sort of power in my fingers. Then she did the fake agent porno unexpected. Turning, she caught my face between her hands pulled me closer to her and kissed me.

It was not unusual for Abbe to kiss me on the lips, but this kiss was different. Her tongue forced its way between my pursed lips, between my teeth to engage with my tongue. This kiss was a full blown snog. Her arms wrapped themselves around the back of my head, crushing our lips together. I could taste the saltiness of blood.

By now I was reciprocating. We were sprawled on the floor, legs entangled, bodies touching. My thigh between her thighs. Her hip bone pressing close against the bone hardness of my throbbing cock. I knew this was not how I should behave with my mother. I was driven by a rampant cock, years of masturbating, fantasies told behind the bike sheds which were suddenly coming true, my conscience was swiftly parked in neutral and abandoned in this whirlwind of passion.

My hand instinctively slid along her bared waist and upwards under her top to toy with her breast. She pulled away from me. “Adam this is so wrong.”

We lay there side by side not moving, not speaking. I was thinking and I guess she was also thinking. Is what we are doing so wrong? Are we hurting anyone else? I thought not. I was about to voice my thoughts, when she sighed, turned to me and said. “Who the hell cares I feel wicked. Let’s sin together and this will be our very special night.”

As we kissed again my hand wormed its way into her bra. She did not try to stop me. She moaned with pleasure as I began to caress her hard nipple between my thumb and forefinger. With my free hand I undid the catch of her bra, releasing her breasts from their confinement.

Pushing up her top I revealed her breasts, their firmness belied her thirty-five years. The prominent bullet-like nipples, pink in colour looking like the weapons pack of some Bond Girl’s equipment, projected from the deeper tan coloured areaola. – A colour filled with romantic associations, the colour of old time working boat sails. I kneaded the firm orbs. Placed my lips over one of the magnificent teats, it grew even harder, when I began to gently lick it, tracing its shape with my tongue. Flicking it teasing and testing its resilience as it hardened. Its hardness an echo of the state of my throbbing cock. Once again our legs entangled, her hip once again in contact with my prick.

“Oh that is so good. Suck it honey, suck on it.” She clasped my head tighter to her breast. I sucked.

“Oh yes … This is heavenly. Suck harder … bite me.” I bit. Her back arched. “Oh that was so good – do you realise you made me cum?” She was grinding her groin in a circulatory motion against my thigh. The denim of my jeans was warm and damp on my skin.

She grabbed my hand pulled it down past her waist. I don’t know whether her skirt had ridden up or if she had hitched it up herself. She placed my hand on her panties. My hand was homing in on her crotch before she uttered her next words. “Touch me there.”

My fingers entered her, rewarded by a sprinkling flush of wetness as she screamed. “Adam don’t stop … PLEASE – PLEASE – PLEASE DON’T STOP – PLEEEEASE.” My ears rang, her mouth was an inch or so from my ear, and she had screamed the words. Her body arched, twisted and thrashed with a violence I had never before encountered – her nails dug into the sensitive skin of my wrist. As suddenly as the onset of the spasm, she relaxed, lay still in my arms gasping for breath.

Cradling her to me with one arm I gently toyed with her engorged clitoris. By feel alone I could tell in its aroused state it was magnificent – at least two inches long and thick. – Later when we were in bed I actually measured it, it was bigger than my first estimate, three and an eighth inches long and nearly half an inch across.

My urges had not been met and my pulsating cock was expressing its frustration by thrusting at my zip, as if it had developed a mind of its own and was demanding release. “OK take it easy. Just relax.” I was trying to sound soothing.

“Oh Adam did I frighten you – I can’t help it when I get going I sort of loose control. And you were so good. Oh honey your magic fingers.” She sat herself up.

“I hope this is as good!” She said grasping the bulge that seemed to fill my jeans. “Christ it feels big and so hard. A real man’s prick, I hadn’t noticed before, you’ve grown up so fast”

My ramrod hard cock grew as she undid my belt. Then taking care to avoid catching me she slid down the zip. She met a momentary obstruction when the waistband of my briefs caught on my erection.

Since puberty I have been proud of my prick, always one of the largest on view in the school showers. This had earned me, in the sixth form, the sobriquet of “Donkey” or “Donkey Dick”. – I did not mind, the more adventurous girls queued-up to sample its alleged delights, whilst the timid ones stayed away. The rampant prick Abbe exposed to view was impressive, fake cop porno even to me.

Abbe licked her lips. “Now Adam just lay back and relax let me do the work.” She said speaking as if I was a frightened virgin. I suppose in a way we were both virgins – inexperienced and unsure as far as incest went. She lowered her head, her moist lips encased my throbbing purple headed cock. She slowly bowed her head, swallowing me centimetre by centimetre.

I’ve had blow jobs before, but this one was special. She did not just take the head into her mouth and use her tongue to toy with it, like girls had in the past. She literally swallowed me. I expected her to stop when I felt the tip touch the back of her mouth. Her epiglottis tickled and thrilled it as she swallowed. Then grasping my hips she forced herself to dive down impaling herself on my cock. I could feel her nose pressing against my scrotum. The head was embedded in her throat. Bobbing her head she began to move. For me it was ecstasy, I was aware she was grabbing breaths as she rose before sliding down. Soon all to soon I felt my testicles tighten, a pulse that became a tremble at the base of the underside of my cock. The gush as it tried to twitch and the first jet spurted into her throat.

It seemed impossible but she really did force herself further on to my gushing lance. When the flow had ceased she allowed herself to breathe. Stroking her hair I murmured. “Abbe I love you.”

She lifted her head, she said. “So much! Oh my poor baby you were bursting for that.” Then she kissed me. Her kiss tasted weird – salty, sweet, sticky, cloying in my mouth – it took me a moment to realise what I was tasting, was my own cum.

My heart sank into my boots, or would have done if I had been wearing boots, when Abbe sat up moving a foot or two away from me. “I suppose you think we should fuck now?”

Numbly I nodded.

“No I don’t want to, well not right now. I want our first fuck to be a very special experience, so you will have to wait.” To be honest although I agreed my stirring cock did not – but I ruled my cock.

“We’re going out somewhere special.”

“Where?” I croaked, more than anything in the world I wanted to fuck Abbe, at that moment a night out was the last thing on my mind.

“That’s my surprise. Look doing this is absolutely wrong. I mean I think we can be sent to prison if we get caught. Can you imagine how people will react if they find out. Right so as we are being sinners, I want to out sin everyone else. Think of it as a magical mystery tour. But ask no questions.” She said getting to her feet. I could hear echoes of mother when she said. “Come on get ready we’re going out.” As we dressed she began to sing the Beatles’ song ‘Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band’.

Abbe insisted on driving, as we headed away from home and out into the suburbs I realised we were heading towards our old home. When I asked why we were going there Abbe simply said, “Ask no questions I’ll tell no lies. Trust me you will enjoy this. If we are going to sin let’s sin deliciously.”

I began to have visions of parking outside the folks’ house and screwing on the doorstep. Or maybe in the car right outside their door. Maybe Abbe had a grudge to work out by going in and telling them. To tell the truth I was not too keen, over the last couple of years I had matured and worked out my anger. Although I knew they were my Grandparents, to Abbe’s annoyance I still referred to them as Mum and Dad. It was strange Abbe really did resent the way they had taken me from her, yet it was Abbe I chose to live with.

Abbe parked the car near the secondary school we had both attended. “Come on,” she said. “Give me your hand.”

Slowly we walked hand in hand, along the road that led towards home. A road I had at one time walked every day, a road Abbe must also have walked when she attended the school. I was certain we were heading for the folks’ house. We reached the church, she led me into the churchyard.

She led me directly to a large Victorian tomb, the type shaped like a box, sheets of granite form the sides and capped with a flat granite slab. “Good its still standing.” Abbe said. “Come on help me up I want us both to climb on top.”

Nervously I looked around, we far enough away from the road that we could not be seen. The top was about five feet high, I made a stirrup of my hands and gave Abbe a leg-up, then scrambled up myself.

Abbe took her coat off and lay on it, as she did so she lifted her skirt. “Come on Adam this is where I want you to make love to me.”

I went down on my knees between her legs and helped her remove her panties, once they were off her backside she lifted her legs and I removed them. As I loosened my jeans she wrapped her legs around my neck. “Fuck me Adam fuck me really hard.” She said as I slid my jeans down to my knees.

Despite the coat the hard, cold granite played havoc with my knees, but a little thing like pain was not going to stop me. Carefully I opened her lips, nestled the head of my rampant cock against the entrance and rubbed it around. Blindly it nudged at the hard bud that was her clitoris. “No Adam! Just shove it in and shag the arse off me. I want you to be rough. I want you to be selfish.”

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