I was an apathetic one. Blank in the face and generally disinterested with the happenings going on around me, which caused some discourse between me and my older brother, Jeroen, who ran the monastery we lived in with a serene yet iron fist.
He was calm and languid on most days–when I did what I was told. But most often, I preferred to wander the rich green fields of our monastery island, rather than sit in the stuffy cells and pour over scriptures.
This was a rare monastery; one where both monks and nuns lived together, albeit in separate wings. Jeroen was the head priest. He was pious from the bottom of his feet to the ends of his soft blond hair. He had a way about him that was both serene yet oddly menacing, Buddhist in his still composure but Martian in his sly tongue.
The others feared displeasing him to an almost fanatical extent.
I woke up every day in a bare hexagonal room. The stone floor had a light dusting of hay. My two sisters, Temperance and Grace, were pulling themselves from their shared bed, their long ginger hair unwinding from their shoulders. Already they’d dressed in thick woolen dresses and the typical brown cowls. Temperance took a comb and set about plaiting Grace’s locks.
“Would you ever consider growing your hair again, Morgan?” Temperance slid a look up and down my person. “It should touch your shoulders, at least.”
It did, but hardly. I thrust on my breeches and grabbed a worn tunic from my chest of belongings.
“Oh, that tunic is…” Grace bit back on her words, her small face scrunching as I shrugged it on. “It’s a little short, isn’t it? You could see the hem of your undershirt in that.”
I tamped it down with a belt–reducing excess cloth as much as I could–and wrapped boots to my calves.
“Brother Jeroen won’t like what you’re wearing, Morgan,” Temperance called hesitantly after me. “Please don’t upset him. Come back and change.”
I took the turn around the bend and entered the courtyard cloisters. Roving archways flitted past me, an open square of grass allowing rain to strike on the stone floors.
Up the cloister, I spotted Jeroen, his brown cowl burying his hands. The only part of his pale skin visible was that of his face.
His soft features studied me. “Oh, Morgan, that tunic is too short.” His grimace was gentle. “Would you wear something else, please? We have visitors in the monastery.” He tried to catch my eye. “You could put on a cowl, just for the day.”
“No.” I sniffed and spat. “Too bulky. It’s no good for working.”
“But you don’t-” Jeroen sighed as I opened a door and stepped out of it. “You could just leave the outside work to the men!” He called, despairingly, as I trudged across the grassy in-between of the monastery corridors.
Something dark gleamed in his eye as he watched me walk away. But I thought nothing of it as I trudged down into the wet green fields near the sea shores.
~*~
It was time for supper. I was bathing in the woman’s tubs, scrubbing the filth of the day away, when Brother Jeroen suddenly appeared at the door.
Monks were not allowed in the woman’s lavatories, certainly not even brothers of sisters. Not that I minded. I continued with what I was doing and only eyed him, waiting to see if he’d speak, or simply stare.
He had, for a moment. The head priest had watched me scrub my legs with a strange glazed look in his eye. Then he blinked it away. “Sister,” Jeroen said warmly. “I came to make sure you’d wear the proper clothes to supper. We have visitors, after all.”
Body dripping, I stepped out of the tub and regarded the clothes under his arm.
He presented them to me. His eyes were low and almost fogged over. When I stepped up to grab the clothes, Jeroen gave a start and shook them out. “Let me help you,” he decided. “Reach your arms up.”
I amused him and did so.
He pulled the undershirt over me so gently and timidly that it took a great deal of time for him to work it over. If he had to touch my skin, he did it with pinched, cautious fingers, and no more than a graze. “It’s very improper of you to let your legs show with those breeches,” Jeroen murmured. “What’s so wrong with our normal attire? It’s modest. It’s warm.”
“It’s also very improper for our head priest to stare at a naked girl,” I said dryly.
Jeroen paused. His grey eyes shifted. Then, narrowing them, the serenity returned to his soft face as he unfolded the long brown cowl with a faint smile on his lips. “I’m not just your brother in faith,” he reminded me. “I’m your sibling, too. Of everyone in the world, you can trust me not to have impure thoughts.” He pulled the cowl over me and straightened it over my hips.
That’s not what your eyes say, I thought, and as if he were a mind reader, Jeroen stepped away and wouldn’t look at me any longer.
~*~
Dinner went well. The visitors were well-received. Somehow, however, the topic of my marriage was brought about.
“She’s certainly not going to become a nun,” Sister bursa escort Temperance decided, as she slid a subtle look my way. “But we can always settle her down with a good Christian man.”
I said nothing. Really, I was indifferent to it all.
But Jeroen seemed hesitant to reply. Across the table on the monk’s side, he sat in the center, picking over his potatoes and cream. “Yes, I suppose,” Jeroen murmured. “Unfortunately, I can’t think of any prospects at the moment.”
Sister Grace mistook this as a slight. Her laugh was a stifled yipe beneath her sleeve. Temperance glared, and she quieted herself.
“We can reach out,” a male monk assured him. “There are those of us with mainland families. We can ask for any men looking for wives. My uncle recently lost his wife; he’s a good, pious man. He may be interested in her hand.”
Again, Jeroen’s pale grey eyes fastened to mine, and he stared at me, unblinking. “Your uncle… remind me of him?”
The monk blinked at me. “Well, he’s in his fiftieth decade,” he said hesitantly. “But he’s a good man. He’s strong for his age. And like I said, very pious. He loves God like he loves his wives.” He stirred his water in his goblet.
Jeroen said nothing. But his normally peaceful features had hardened with a stiffened edge.
~*~
That night, Sisters Temperance and Grace didn’t return to the room. I waited and waited, but they never came; so instead of waiting for them as I normally did, I put the fire out and undressed to my undershirt, rolling into bed.
I’d tossed and turned for just a little while before the door opened.
It was dark. I assumed it to be Temperance and Grace. With my eyes closed, I listened to the sounds of quiet footsteps, of shuffling and undressing. The whisper of the brown wool cowls made a particular rustle that I knew quite well. I could hear it thud softly to the floor.
But then when a voice spoke, it wasn’t light and female, but low and male. “Sister Morgan,” whispered my brother in the darkness. “Are you awake?”
I raised myself slightly.
The blanket was lifted. Into it he slid, but instead of the coarse brown wool of his cowl brushing me, it was his bare skin. His legs were exposed up to his undershirt. He folded himself in the blanket, rustled the bed with a breathy sigh, and eventually, draped his hot arm over my side.
He nuzzled closer.
There hadn’t been a doubt in my mind what he intended to do. I’d known for a long time, longer than him, most likely, what he secretly longed for. By folding himself up to me, his chest plush with my back and his arm caging me close, my suspicions were confirmed.
He pressed his face deep in my hair and breathed in. “Forgive my intrusion,” he whispered. “But I couldn’t stop thinking about how you must be feeling right now. Hm? Doesn’t it scare you, what they were saying?”
I stayed quiet, as I was ought to.
“Talking about marrying you off.” He threaded a hair behind my ear. His breaths had coarsened. Slowly, once the hair was cleared from my neck, he pressed his lips to a space behind and beneath my ear.
The touch was shockingly pleasurable. He did it again, this time with wet lips, and my body responded.
“Oh, Morgan.” His hand around my chest squeezed me tighter. It slipped down a fraction. His voice was soft and breathy. “I don’t know what to do with you. You’re always so disobedient.”
Something straight and rigid pressed to my thigh. I adjusted myself from it, and he adjusted himself too; he cupped his legs to my back, threading that length between my thighs, bringing us as plush and close as possible. He burned along my back and legs. He rocked us slowly, that hard length teasing between my legs; I wondered if he thought he was being subtle, or if this was his way of relieving himself.
He took a low, hissing gasp in, and the breath washed over that place behind my ear. “I love you so much.” He kissed that place urgently. His lips pressed hard to it, and then he kissed lower on my neck, teeth dragging as if he were tasting me. By now, his slow rocks were drawn out and agonized. “Oh Morgan, I don’t want you to be tarnished by someone else.” His lips paused on the back of my neck. I felt him tremble. “I can’t stand the thought of some dirty old man taking your chastity.”
His hand slipped lower. He was dragging up my undershirt, dragging so his hand could rub up my thigh directly. He massaged the skin there, and his breaths were still and shuddering in my ear; they stopped completely as he dragged the shirt over my waist, then settled my naked skin back to him. His releasing breath was a gasp.
“I’m being sinful,” he whispered hoarsely. “God, forgive me.”
The thin membrane of his undershirt was all that separated us. From the hard length between my thighs, a thick moisture was spreading; when the shirt was teased away, his bare erection settled against me, hard and velvety and drooling on the tip. The air smelled of hot fruit, of hot summers and bursa escort bayan hot gulches.
He pushed himself up to the cleft between my legs. He didn’t move, only situated himself there, as close as he could possibly get without penetrating.
“I need to love you.” His lips tangled against my ear again, his whisper so close, it almost breathed inside me. “I wish it was me who could have you, but I won’t deflower you. I just need to give you my love.” Already, he was rocking. The cleft between my legs had grown slick; his hardness moved with ease, his hips shifting back and forth. “Oh… yes, Morgan… just hold still…”
He jerked and trembled against me. The hand that had rested on my shoulder moved down, dove up my undershirt, and cupped my bare breast. His breaths sucked in through his teeth, his tongue suddenly flashing out and dragging up my neck, he moved himself between me, hot and hard and persistently nudging back and forth. With every motion, he drove a little deeper. My cleft parted around his force. His hand came down to guide it, fingers trembling.
After a minute of this, his breath sharpened, and he angled himself upwards.
“Oh, I can’t help it.” His forehead pressed to the back of my hair. “I can’t. I need you.” The head of his sex began to nudge upwards, sliding and parting skin. “It’s okay. It’s better if you give it to me. I’ll be so, so gentle.” His whisper fainted. His tip had reached a tension, an obstruction. “I’m going to take your maidenhead. It’s going to be so good for you, Morgan, you won’t be tarnished if it’s with me. Don’t worry. I’ll be gentle.” He pressed up. “Oh… oh yes… Morgan… yes…” The flesh parted, and he was engulfed, shuddering and sliding deep, deep inside. His hips kept pressing, and a faint stretching ache filled my gut, his length burying further and further into my flesh.
It stung when he pressed flush to me. He held himself there; his arms were locked steel-tight around me, and he wasn’t breathing. Slowly, his hips began to rock.
The rocking brought a slick wet friction inside me this time. His thick member throbbed in my flesh, tentatively inching back and forth with his little shivers of delight. It felt good, the ridge of his knot-like head rubbing slick against the deepest parts of me.
“Good girl,” he whispered hoarsely. “Oh, see? Feels so good. God would’ve wanted this for you. He would’ve wanted someone who loves you to take you.” His breaths shuddered and gasped in my ear. He twitched wildly, and his length almost slid out fully; he guided it back in with his hand, threaded his other arm up and under my body, and began to jerk, twitching and thundering, much more quickly inside my sex.
His words were a strangled half-breath. “Just hold still.” His spine curled, his knees thrusting mine upward. “Hold still, that’s it. Let me take care of you.” His gasps were sweating in my hair, growing more strained, his twitching more powerful. His hard length was sliding rapidly in and out. The friction, the heat and stretch and hardness was giving immense pleasure, coupled with the feel of him pressed naked to the back of my thighs,. He dragged the hair from my face, his hips still thrusting, and cupped my chin to pull my face back towards his. Kisses peppered my face. He pressed a wet one to my lips and held them there.
Then he jerked. Without warning, he slid from me completely. Now he detangled our limbs and climbed on top of me, his eyes wide and wild in the night as he pulled me around and spread my thighs. From here, he moved himself back between my legs. His forehead pressed to mine. Carefully, his wet member was nudged back to the cleft, and slowly pushed back in.
This penetration went deeper, ached fuller. Now he had room to lay flush to me. His thick pubic hair pressed to my own. Our undershirts tangled. His hips rolled, and my legs went around him on instinct, as did my arms. His gasps washed over my face. Then he kissed me. His mouth opened. His tongue drove between my lips and opened them too, and all the while his hips were jerking, fast and uneven and losing control, plunging his hard sex in as deep as it would go, his thighs twitching and rolling so quick it creaked the bed. Warm under the blankets, I cradled him and let him do what he would.
His arms threaded under my shoulders and crushed my chest to him. His body was fluttering; I could feel every shaking muscle, the stutter of his breaths and the trembling of his legs, the rapid humping of his hips and the intense throbbing of his length inside me. His lips hung open over mine and took my breaths. His tongue remembered to graze mine. And then–with a stiffening, a wild hard plunge into my flesh, his arms and legs and torso crushing against mine in a vicious jerk–he went still.
Something hot and wet was throbbing deep inside me. His crushing embrace didn’t still for an instant. There was nothing but a hyper awareness of the hot beads of liquid, veins throbbing, wet release squirting forcefully escort bursa deep. A gasp finally left him. The throbs decreased. His grip loosened, and his member softened and slid.
He eased out. A wet drop followed him. He pulled his undershirt back over himself, his limbs shaking as he climbed away, and wrapped himself against my back again.
“Thank you.” He breathed into my neck. “Thank you.”
~*~
He found me in the corner of the abbey the next day.
I had thought all day of it, of the sensation of him wetting inside me, the primal pleasure of it all. Because of this daydreaming–which he had likely been doing the same–there was no wait. He caught my eye across the hall, and with his hands vanishing into the brown folds of his cowl, he started quickly forwards.
Jeroen grabbed my arm and lead me away. His face was calm as ever, but a light burned in his eye, one of hunger and desperation. Finally, when he stowed me into the nearest closet, he ushered me to the wall and whispered to me to hold still.
I did. Abject–mostly curious–I leaned against the grainy oak cupboards and felt him reach down and pull my robes up, cool air soft on the backs of my legs. His warm thighs soon pressed to them; the hair dragged against the sensitive skin and excited it. His hard sex was already pulsing against me. With his unsteady breaths rustling my hair, Jeroen jerkily pushed it into my cleft. It didn’t pierce me; he only held himself there, shuddering as he adjusted his hips against my back, our robes bundled at our waists and growing tedious. He wrapped his clothed arms under my bare stomach and pulled the dress to my breasts.
Then his other hand reached again to his leaking member.
It was slick with his desire. The wetness leaked down my thighs as he rubbed himself there. When it mingled my own, becoming deliciously slippery, he at last positioned himself proper, and his hard pink tip urged upwards into my flesh, piercing slowly, this time with a dull, fiery ache.
He grabbed me tighter. With both arms crossed around me, his hips began to move. It was a primal rutting, all humping and pained breaths, his member slipping dangerously low each time he pulled back. More than once, he had to reach down and re-sheathe himself inside me. I stayed as I had with my hands idle on the bench; content to let him do as he pleased and enjoy the sensation.
Then he froze. “Someone’s coming,” he whispered.
There were footsteps down the hall outside our closet-made-den.
Monks. They were approaching. They had to be talking of chores, or else they wouldn’t be coming close to this broom closet, which was stuffed full of tools and rags. But despite this, Jeroen didn’t rush to drop our robes back down and straighten ourselves up. He instead began his frantic ruts even faster. His sex surged in and out of me, the voices drawing ever closer. They were going to open the closet door and see this, see him thrusting with the abandon of an animal into me, his birth sister, the same two bodies locked in sinful copulation. Despite my normal apathy I began to tense. I opened my mouth to draw breath–to warn him to stop.
But then he thrust deep, deep enough for his knot-like tip to strike the back walls of my sex. He throbbed inside. Spurts of cum were shooting out. It felt hot and silky, soaking and intense. He exhaled a breath of utmost relief as it happened. All this, even as the monks drew terribly close. He hadn’t finished when their loud voices shook the wood of the door; his sex gave a powerful pulse, as if struggling to stop the orgasm in time. But he couldn’t. He was helpless to keep wetting himself even as the monks halted right outside the door. He quaked with our legs exposed fully and his hips flush against me, muscles tensing and releasing in what was blatantly sinful sex, blatantly a crime, his thighs shaking as he came between the legs of his sister. When they opened the door, there would be no mistake of what was happening. They would see Brother Jeroen and I half naked with his member throbbing deep inside me, his hips still quivering, brother and sister committing the ultimate misdeed. Any second the door would open. Any second they would see.
But then their voices drifted away. They hadn’t stopped here after all.
We relaxed into each other with deep sighs in unison.
Jeroen unlaced his arms from around me. Our robes fell back to our ankles. A hot, wet knot of fluid dripped onto my inner thigh; instinctively, my body tried to clamp it back inside.
He stroked the back of my head and then kissed it. “Come to my room after supper,” he whispered. “I want you again and again and again.”
~*~
And he did have me. We coupled in his bed when all the monks were at a night-held sermon. He’d complained of a headache, and was left to his own devices, which was to copulate with me in the shadowy darkness of the male chambers.
He’d let me leave with an odd mood between us. The next day, he was frantic to find me.
“Oh, Morgan, there you are.” Jeroen all but floated over the ground when he walked. His soft eyes were serene and his lips were parting in a smile. “Let’s walk together. Could you show us somewhere… private?” He hesitated. “I need to speak with you.”