One In The Same

“Tonight won’t be so easy for either of us, huh Georgie? – especially me, I gather” she told him while locking each of her own wrists around the chair back to the iron rungs of the footboard, either cuffs’ trigger within a fingertip’s touch of the other, and gripping the bars as if jailed. “’Gimme, gimme, gim-meh the honky-tonk blues– awlright’” she sang to him and let him unclip then clap the free ends of the handcuff clasps each one rung farther apart and out of her reach. He put a pillow between her head and the chair back and tied Maggie’s ankles to the chair’s forelegs with neckties she’d stolen from him, dumb ones she knew he’d just as soon not wear anyway.

Maggie laid her face to the side of the pillow and so luxuriated in her restraints that he had to re-secure her ankles, and he watched her muscles again tense, smooth tensility running from her calves up her thighs and over her buttocks through her back and shoulders. He kissed the nape of her neck and liberally re-greased her anus, doping the blued, still-oily wreckage of her rectum’s crushed virginity and her hole twitched at the touch. George fell to his knees behind Maggie and kissed both of her buns – cool, soft and smooth, as tenderly as if each were an infant’s forehead, especially smooching the teeth-prints he’d left in her a dozen years ago when they were each last innocent of the other’s body and first, if obliviously, wild for the other’s sex – and licked her anus in and around like lapping the icing off a donut, tonguing her asshole, her eye-wide-open then emitting a methane puff of exhaust in his face (he heard her above him smile to herself) and he burrowed further, inhaling from her furrow, tasting crude and breathing-in her rich, rural soil. 

“I’m gonna mark you again, Maggie” and so she rolled the meat of her buttocks off the chair’s seat and into his mouth, and George slowly sank his teeth into the most outward fleshy aspect of Maggie’s left ass-cheek, leaving a neat set of bite marks opposite the perfect scars he’d left on her right that had years ago healed into faint indentations that only a doctor could get close enough to question and only a lover would recognize. “Bite me, Georgie” she whispered to him without the least hint of humor or venom, “ – mark me again” while her rump quivered in his jaws. He un-punctured his teeth from her, having forever precluded her modeling of a thong bikini, or otherwise have to explain those perfect bite marks to all who already silently suspected almost worse than their own sick thoughts regarding themselves to the extent that no one ever said anything (unthinkable; as clouds passing behind the sun, as wanton a suggestion that the Olsen Twins are queer for each other) of her own brother’s taste for her that she knew she’d never really deny if asked, nor even deny she loved and courted. He kissed away his boo-boo of her with the greedy covetousness of an animal. 

§§§

Maggie had held the gun that they’d brought down with them, and George had carried the guitar, a twelve-string – their valuables in lieu of provisions. They lay wrapped together in army surplus overcoats, hidden from yesterday and tomorrow both for that one first night without a roof over them, bordering somewhere that wasn’t home, breathing no louder than cooing to one another required; thirteen, and a small cannon resting armed, un-hammered, between them. 

They survived well, though: $300 dollars a night, cash money, for three hours Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights – no questions asked, and the occasional complementary case of cheap beer that back-when would last them a month – performing at roadhouses where roughnecks cashed their checks and college kids went slumming with their allowances.

Maggie couldn’t really beat-up her brother anymore after they were fifteen but she didn’t stop trying until one night when they were sixteen. They’d all their lives slept together under a common blanket, and still for years after George had stolen them away from off the mountains a long time ago – a Saturday night or two before any of their uncles, and maybe even their own father, might have her – and as children had clung to each other in the same bed in any lonely motor inn that would admit them.

They’d begin sleep every night appropriately enough, lying away from the center of the bed, but awake the next morning generally together in the middle – sprawled at odds and tangled in each other’s limbs and hair, dried drool adhering their lips, their noses touching – and in the interim, for the hours of their most still, unconscious dream state, fit close and flush as spoons but for the ten minutes, 2 or 3 times a week, somewhere in the early, quietest part of the dark, when Maggie would dimly awaken and become drowsily aware of George bumping at her backside. His wet dreams hadn’t involved her until they were fourteen and he was waking up hard against his sister’s newly nubile booty with what felt like a croquet mallet down the front of his underwear, and tugging his bulge out stiff through his briefs, he’d rub and nudge his wand bare against the soft weave stretched taut across Maggie’s beautifully broadening girly butt. For the first months she’d just wait him out, pretending to sleep through it until his loamy wet-heat happened and they could both sleep again, her inseams gluey and his drying stain starching her panty’s seat and padded cotton crotch (he wet the bed, she’d chide, for the three days each month she was bitchy and off-limits to any more than ‘goodnight ’ and a handshake). But used to it and hidden from him alongside his front, she’d begun to participate: snaking her forefinger through the lower leghole of her panties and discreetly twiddling herself off with her brother, cumming her tidy orgasms – cute, as she thought of them, pretty chirps of pleasure unlike the racking, tacky messes her brother’s dick sicked-up and left coagulating between them – that were no more than squeezing her thighs and arching as if stretching in her sleep while George polluted her. 

She’d have missed it if it had stopped; hell, they had always been rubbing uglies and discovering new touchy-feely handfuls of each other while growing up – hair-pulling and more hair-pulling begat breast-grabbing begat ball-squeezing then break! until the next time either needed an advantage over the other (and one morning just last week she’d awakened with her nose in his fly, rolling off without his knowing) – but this use and indulgence, somnambulate or not, they both knew, crossed some line beyond what either could fake as anything but adult: unclean and as good as only being blessedly bad can feel, particularly the night they knew he wanted to wear her and their pretending ended; when he reached under her head and held her across the chest at her bosom, and clamped his left hand atop her hipbone – strapped into him, for driving power – and rocking her back and forth onto him, he began jabbing at her some harder with rude, rutting prods perpendicular to her crescent and crevice both: haphazardly, vainly, knocking at her cracks upper and lower behind her sheathed in a film of undergarment that blocked the direct access into Maggie that he suddenly had to have – in turns squashing her breast and buns and riding her with jarring gouges at her backside that were now no mere masturbatory amusement and sought to rip past her underpants and barge into her body. She reached back for his hand and squeezed as he was finishing on her, then unbelted from him and got out of bed as though an unrelated thought had just occurred to her: is the door locked? were the blinds drawn?

“What’s this?” she said, nervously, not asking, standing in the dark and brushing at her seat bottom over the wet spot, as if she’d been out-cold all those times before.

“Come back to bed, Maggie” not answering, he said, mortified, re-packaging himself, “ – I’m sorry (i got caught and it’s back to beating-off by myself over lingerie ads; but i do so dearly love you).”

“(i’m not ready) Be nice” she said, cowed, and climbed close again under the covers with him, and the next day turned the room’s air unit down to sixty on her way out the door to buy them each a pair of heavy flannel pajamas and a family-size quart bottle of cocoanut oil. George was in a pawnshop across the street buying her a promise ring.

From then on for the next year, every third or fourth night, she’d emerge from the bathroom cupping a pool of the bath oil in her hands and clap over his lap while he was in bed watching monster movies, and they’d as well do battle. Wearing the small cheap diamond these nights – on her right hand and still not letting him lay her – Maggie always won in the beginning: sitting on his chest with her ass in his face and farting up his nose when she could manage, pinning him beneath her and watching TV while oily jacking-off her brother and trying not to be fascinated with his penis any more than what it took to relieve them both of his middle-night emissions (“Leak now, Georgie, or forever hold your piece!”). He stayed happily trapped under her while her bejeweled right fist pumped him and as he outgrew her hand, but his discharge still just a pubescent sploog, a dribble she’d smear back down his dick and then go wash her hands of before she’d crawl under the covers with him so they could both sleep.