Martha: Artsy Sister and Cutie Extraordinaire

Curman looked around, spotting the sight of a group of girls laughing by the school kitchen entrance. Probably dissecting some viral music video or something. He scanned the foregrounds, other staff and students trudging through. Jennifer Seymour and her peppy group rolled in, wrapped in the usual frivolous, nerdy talk. There was A.J. and his hip circle, along with his cocoa-skinned, caboose packing dancer girlfriend Dajanae Fields by the restrooms. The crowd was beginning to steadily compile as class neared starting hour. He turned back to Hal, remembering his next subject.

"Martha Martha," Curman shook his head dubiously, "a talent, a creative thinker, a great wardrobe sense. A smile that melts geeks and meatheads alike. Legs that many wild imaginations have offered prom invitations to. She has all the genes you apparently missed out on, Hal."

Before Hal could sock him, Curman raised a hand defensively, eyes in an apologetic scrunch. "That said, who would've guessed she was such a freak underneath, am I right?"

On another side of campus, in a classroom buzzing with an assortment of students, Martha sat hunched over her tablet, working on a digital drawing, one lithe leg crossed over the other. She was by the window in her usual seat, apparently paying no heed to the colleagues engaged around her in various activities.

At the door, her friends Leslie and Brock came in with trays of breakfast. They were amiably chatting when suddenly Martha snapped, her attention directed to the two guys who had been talking a row left of her, one seat behind.

"Yeah, well, what's wrong with that?" Martha was stewing. "Are you saying two people loving each other is the same as, like, national genocide then? Huh, Josh?"

"I-I-um, we," stuttered the boy, shrunk under Martha's gaze.

"Martha, it's not two random people," the other, more heavyset boy explained, "Jamie and Cersei Lannister." He made a show of bobbing his head as if to ask if she was in there, somewhere. "Siblings? Brother and sister? Took the same zygote to life-town? You need a recap?"

"Yeah, but he called them evil 'cause of that," Martha pointed at the thinner student with eyes like daggers, rolling her eyes. "You think they're evil, huh, Josh? Well, guess what, in Game of Thrones not everything is as black and white as your little sheltered world, so if you're conflicted now, I hope you learn the meaning of that concept by the end of season one at least. And if not..." Martha flushed. "I don't know, stick to Blue's Clues or something!" With a swift swish of her hair, Martha turned back to her tablet, moving her fingers erratically across its surface.

Leslie and Brock looked at each other as they both sat down on nearby chairs. "You alright Marth?" Leslie asked as Josh and his friend Ted moved down a row, the former quietly stating that he was just quoting a review he'd read online in a timid quaver.

Martha looked up and relaxed at the sight of the two faces. Brock evaluated her furtively. The slender, brown-haired girl was dressed in a short-sleeved leather jacket with an open center over a long-sleeved, tight yellow tee underneath and a knee-length skirt that displayed a pair of smooth, tight calves, slipped into a fitting duo of sneakers. Her hands were wrapped in two fingerless gloves with a red bottom half, black at the top, as they gripped her tablet. Concurrently, her eyes seemed ragged and more tired than usual.

"Yeah, I'm," Martha began, shaking her head, "I'm fine. Thanks though."

Leslie looked to Brock again, who just shrugged. They weren't members of their friend's club but grew accustomed to hanging out in its room of choice each morning. Brock was a fairly tall, half-Asian, half-black acquaintance in the same year as them who met Leslie in middle school and stuck around ever since. He was also laidback and goofed off a little too much. Hence why everyone liked him.

"You want a hash brown?" Brock offered. Martha was staring at the window as if he had said nothing, and Leslie looked on with slight concern while Brock ate on.

The art club grew noisier in the background. Martha silently thought back to earlier that morning, a finger curled over a strand of her hair as a faraway sniffle from Josh went ignored again.

Creeeak.

It was about 6 in the morning. Down below, there were some quiet footsteps and a rummaging or two. Outside, a car pulled out a driveway. And in one particular room in this particular floor, a heat was rising.

Alright, Martha thought to herself. Her chest was panting. She couldn't sleep properly the whole night, with how her hands stayed furiously busy with her snatch.

She had gotten so horny, hornier than she could've possibly remembered being in a while, that the cows sewn onto her bedsheets essentially begging for a grilling didn't help at all. Fantasies were played out in her head... fantasies of a certain brother, with thick, creamy spunk filling up a certain orifice, and she came 3 times in a span of 6 hours, falling into a quick sleep before waking to her hands back in the throngs of her pussy each time.

Now, Martha half-thought, half-rasped to herself as she opened her door and began tiptoeing to the next door over.

She didn't know why her brother decided against sleeping with her that night, but it was driving her mad. She wanted to feel him against her, to grind against his penis. Hell, he didn't need to watch porn on her cellphone. She would jerk him off if he aske...

No! The steamy girl shouted at her headvoice only to stop once she noticed the crack through the doorway. Of Hal's bedroom.

The bedroom of her brother.

A brother with a fertile stallion underneath those trunks. Trunks he must have swung on after leaving the night before, apparently.

And now only feet away.

Feet -- from his sister. His healthy, young, normal... fertile sister.

Martha didn't notice her hands wrangling against her shorts, as squish after squish lay drowned in her haze.

She may have not been thinking straight of course. But it was too late to not think, either. She cared less and less about the implications of what she wanted the longer she let her appetite for this forbidden love well up inside her... it was implacable. Undeniable. Her ultimate fantasy no longer sustainable, contained as it probably had been for all these years: of a brother getting the chance to knock up his lovely, precious sister with his fresh, brotherly seed. Now just laid before her like a lamb before the altar, asking for the opportunity.

Yet Martha couldn't do it, not with reckless abandon, not with some of her moral consciousness still intact -- and particularly not with her brother ****. If he were to wake up and see that...

No, Martha had to take it slow. She would get her way eventually; she was good at that, and Hal was as predictable as a falling bowling pin. Once he was in her web, she'd make him see her side of things. She would be able to finally fulfill what was at first only some faint, hapless dream, and the thought was making her helplessly hot.

But in the meantime, she had a devilish, brilliant idea. Just a placeholder, one that would satiate her need, for the time being. Yes, it would do just fine.

Opening the door, Martha jerked her head around. With the coast clear, she rushed inside then quickly checked to see if Hal was still sleeping. A loud snore to the face answered that question. Martha grimaced at the smell, waving it away. Luckily he was also a heavy sleeper.

Then, very carefully and with one held breath as fragile as glass, she lifted one leg over to Hal's left side, pushing herself onto the mattress. Then with one leg balanced, and her body bent over like a runner at the starting line, she dangled her other leg until she was able to situate it properly next to Hal's right thigh. Then she descended down, pelvis-first, until her puffing clit sat poshly against her brother's meaty, slightly hard dick, her two legs widely spread below her. A shuddering whimper escaped her lips, as she slowly started to grind against it, fabric to fabric, the flaps of her pussy mishing and mashing with the intoxication of the whole scenario filling her arousal to a near breaking point.

She remembered the verbal spat he'd started with her last night, before it turned slapstick. He had asked if he could touch her whenever he wanted, wherever he wanted, with whatever was on his delicious fingers. Out of fury, Martha retreated to her room and slammed the door in his face, hoping he'd get the idea.

But when he asked it one last time, and with a hint of actual, earnest politeness in that typically grisly voice of his... Martha sat at her desk, starting to feel pangs of guilt **** her.

It wasn't that unreasonable, and really, when was she that much of a self-conscious bitch? It's not like this was the Victorian era, where everything a little left of center was a perversion.

Martha had sighed, eventually getting over herself. She was just about to re-open the door and tell Hal she was sorry, and that it was, in fact, fine for him to touch her, feel her up, slap her more globulous features, whatever his apish mind felt like getting up to second to second, but with the sound of footsteps already descending the stairs, she stayed her hand. Maybe next time. Maybe he'd make a first move and she'd oblige by making no attempt at resisting and that would be that and he'd understand her admission. And hopefully without embarrassing her or calling it out or something, else he would be getting a firm punch in the arm.

Besides, she had a truckload of work to catch up on, and she knew it was going to be a pain in the ass -- probably another midnighter. She had planned to call up Leslie or Danielle, as they usually stayed up late too, and luckily for her they were both available. After that, she began getting started, and the rest was history... a warm, ebullient, sticky history... all over her face, before she'd toweled it. Her wet, gunk-sprayed face.

Just then, removing her from her thoughts, Martha let out a distinct moan. Covering her mouth quickly, she realized she was already near a climax, her fingers having gone back to sploshing inside of her. The thought of her brother's cum all over her and the stimulation of her current situation nearly pushed her over the edge.

Remembering the plan, Martha acted, removing her fingers from her pleasure center and trailing it up her brother's torso, slipping them underneath his undersized shirt.

"Oh hey, Hal," Martha said quietly, a timid look on her face as she gazed upon her snoring, asleep brother.

"What? Me?" She donned a tone of mild shock.

"No... no, please, we...we couldn't."

"No, brother, oh, brother, w-we can't do this! This is wrong!"

"Brother! What are you doing? In there?"

"No... we shouldn't... no... no... yess..."

"Yes... yes, yes, I want it, I want you to slide it in me! I want to feel your manhood ravaging my horny little pussy! I want it, I want to have sex with you, so so badly, I'm begging you, pleeaase, ughrm, pleeease, brother, my close, big, thick boned brother, pleeease fuck me! Fuck this cunt! Yes, like that, just like that...oh yes, ohhmm fuck yes, just like that... no, wait... if we don't... if we don't use contraception I could -- I could get...pregn--"

Martha almost choked on her own sentence as she felt the excitement build up in her. She had been closing in on her brother's hairy body with each sentence, and with another swallow of saliva, she fell into his chest, wrapping her arms around his body, slipping it under his heavy back and burying her face into him.

She gave up her verbal fantasy as her legs tightened and her hips straddled him like it was rodeo season and she was playing to win. With an attempt at silence, Martha pressed her lips firmly against her brother's chest as she whimpered and moaned in fluctuating waves, her hands digging into his back. She didn't even realize she had practically began thrusting bullishly against him, the bed now creaking with loud, clear ministrations as she simultaneously rubbed her nipples against Hal's torso and pancaked them amid the consecutive bolts of pleasure it generated. His slight belly pushed against her flat navel, as she suddenly had a lightbulb flicker inside of her.

I... she thought through flashes of crackling arousal, I... mm... have the perfect... urghhyes... idea for... my next... omphf... art project..!

But before she could make heads, tails, or a proper orgasm, an interruption came from down below, and Martha's fantasies and reverie were demolished. If her mother even suspected that she was borderline **** her brother, she would be forever ruined! Not to mention, it would make actually **** -- er, fucking him an exponent more difficult if Mrs. Boon was perpetually keeping her in check.

Plus, it was just a real turn-off, hearing a family member's voice calling out to her during an act of sex, emulated or otherwise. Just didn't feel right. This was why she never liked masturbating, especially with a full house; knowing that Hal or her parents may be just down the hall or stairs instantly triggered her self-consciousness and would fend away any arousal she might have herded in, even in the privacy of her own room.

Of course, now she realized that maybe she denied more of herself than she knew.

Cursing to herself, Martha clambered off and tried to make herself ready for school. Racing down the stairs, she remembered the time, and chastised herself again. She was late for the morning art club meet-up -- and when she actually had some inspiration for once, too! She decided to throw on the first clothes she saw, first, after a quick wash, of course; no excuses for the frazzled soul.

"Wait," Curman had a hand in the air again, thinking.

"What?" Hal glared at him. That distant-spectator look was pricklier than cacti.

"You said... that night, you called her an ****-loving nympho."

"Yeah," Hal snorted, "I said 'maybe you get horny off of beef and dream of brothers knocking up their sisters like some nympho', straight to her face." Hal was oblivious as a passing couple looked their way, mortified. Curman waved awkwardly. "I said it like it was, like it is..."

"Wait," Curman blubbered as the couple shook their head and walked on, "beef? Why the hell that?"

"I don't know, it just came to me when I saw the cow patterns on her bed man. I was saying the first shit that came to my head, okay?"

"Maybe..." Curman's eyes were suddenly locked onto some imaginary pocketwatch. "...maybe..?"

"Maybe what?" Hal finally cut him off, ready to get on already. Curman ignored the question.

"You know this is definitely not the same Martha that **** you out of that funeral for groping her friend who had been crying over the casket of her deceased aunt last summer, right?" Curman looked at Hal with that expression again. Before Hal could reply, Curman added, "Hell she's the girl who made herself a chastity belt for Halloween, just 'cause!"

"I'm telling you man," Hal growled, "in their eyes I'm just another toy to play with. When they wanna prove a point, as a wise hag once said, never trust 'em! I never thought they'd take it this far. But apparently I thought too highly of my own blood..."

Curman cleared his throat and removed his face from his palm, about to move on when suddenly his eyes widened. "Wait, Hal," a knuckle to his chin, "you also said that at dinner that night, when you asked her if you could sleep with her, all three of you were round the table eating, right?"

"Yeah."

"Your mom, too?"

"Yeah."

"So she heard your question?"

Hal thought back to the dinner, and frowned. "If she did, she got good ears 'cause I was using my whisper voice."

"You don't have a whisper voice, Hal."

"Watch it, Bumboy."

But Curman was already not listening, lost in thought, as a cross between studiousness and concern mapped his face; even as his eyes trickled with... whatever that was.