A Haunting Love

by Lubrican

Chapters : 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14 | 15 | 16 | 17

Chapter One

The house stood dark in the moonlight, among tangled undergrowth that had once been an expanse of shrubs, carefully tended flower gardens and lawns. Old mossy trees loomed around its perimeter, stretching their bare-looking arms up into the sky as if begging for some release from terrible torture. Smaller trees had volunteered to fill the empty space around the three-and-a-half story structure, which had been built during the American Civil War, over a hundred years now past.

Built in the Victorian style, the house had many gables and a tower that reached into the sky like it was some attempt to reach the stars. While the windows were intact, they were dark and had been dark for more years than most in the little town of Nettleton could remember. Scraps of white showed through the grimy glass, remnants of window coverings that seemed to move in the wind occasionally, even though the wind couldn't reach them. Like sightless eyes, the windows stared out at the world, and hid what might be inside. No paint remained to give life or color to the exterior of the gloomy place and what, in daylight, was a uniform gray, appeared as a mottled collection of shadows in the weak light of the quarter moon.

While all appeared to be lifeless in and around the old mansion, there were a multitude of sounds about the place; creaks, groans and popping noises as if the tired structure was shifting its weight on the stony ground. Tree branches rubbed against each other in the breeze and a number of creatures provided a soft susurration of noise as they struggled to stay alive in their daily routines of hunting food and avoiding predators.

Many in the town that surrounded the Nettleton Mansion believed that its builders, after which the town was named, still roamed the rooms and staircases of the old place, even though they had been dead and buried for over a century.

The fact that four of the exotic old building's residents had been murdered over its long and painful history was responsible for the belief that it was haunted. That, and those flutters of movement in the dark windows, among other things.

One death was an attempt to separate Jeramiah Nettleton from a significant portion of his wealth, in the form of trying to kidnap his 12 year old son. The boy fought and was strangled during the incident. Two men were caught, one of which had the boy's pocket watch on him. Both were hanged from an oak branch on a tree that still grew on the property.

Forty years later Joshua Nettleton's wife, Constance, was found murdered in her bedroom, stabbed repeatedly by an obviously angry and demented person. When her almost decapitated body was discovered, she was naked, and her clothing was neatly stacked on a sideboard nearby. Her gardener was accused of accosting her and, when she tried to resist the rape, he was believed to have killed her in a fit of anger. The gardener was also hanged, though in this case, from a proper gallows in the town square.

And, in 1931 both Roger and Elizabeth Nettleton had been murdered in their sleep. Investigation revealed that the murderers, when they were caught with the family silver, admitted that they had been hired to kill the whole family by Roger's business partner, who would have then inherited the entire mining operation. The men confessed that they hadn't been able to find the children in the house, and had therefore taken what they could carry and taken off. In fact, it was the two children, ages four and six at the time, who had raised the hue and cry by appearing in a servant's room in the carriage house, soaked with blood. That resulted in the bodies being found, and the murderers being pursued and caught. The children couldn't talk very well at that age, and all the questioners could get out of them was that they had been in the tower room and had heard screams. The fact that the only route from that room to the outside led right by where their parents were being killed, and the fact that the children were too young to understand that the reason Mommy wouldn't get up was because she was dead, just made things more mysterious.

That mystery was also solved. The robbers were caught red handed. Technology had advanced by then, and the criminals, to include one Chauncey Fallworthy, the mastermind of the horrific crime, were electrocuted instead of being hanged.

The children were removed from the sad place and fostered until their majority, but in the decades since the murders no Nettleton had returned to the place. It had too many sad and painful memories.

Including the criminals, eight people associated with the place in one way or another had died violent deaths.

But, banks being what they are, managed the already existing trust fund set aside to take care of taxes, and produced the required funds each year, duly transferred to the county. And, county governments being what they are, the funds were received and disbursed. County commissioners didn't care where the tax money came from. They just wanted to spend it.

There were only a very few people who knew what had happened to the Nettleton fortune that had resulted from sharp investments and savvy supervision of a mining empire.

Most of those who knew worked at the bank, but they were not willing to part with that information lightly. There were no heirs other than the two sad children, so people drew their own conclusions.

The property sat and decayed. Various teenagers tried to get in, probably on a dare, or in an attempt to establish a makeout haven, but the wrought iron fence that completely surrounded the property had been made specifically to keep people out. And, after the last murders, someone had gone to great lengths to securely board up the lower windows and doors, foiling casual attempts to plunder or engage in other mischievousness. Various people in town swore they'd seen mysterious lights through the grimy windows in the house on dark nights, over the years and, though there was no data to support it, most townspeople thought of the place as haunted. It was easy for those who swore over the years that they saw movement in the boarded up house to believe that unhappy spirits roamed the dark place.

One attempt at raising the property taxes had been made, years ago, but had failed. The current absentee owner, one Robert Ellsworth Nettleton, who was one of those sad children fostered after his parents' murder, and whom almost no one in town had ever met, fought off that attempt. No one was beating down the doors to buy the place. In that part of the state land ... that wasn't haunted ... was plentily available. The fact that the town had been named for the mining baron who had originally built the house was only a dim memory documented in dusty old papers in a box of historical documents in the basement of the town library.

Over the years, people began to think of "The Nettleton Mansion" as having been named after the town ... rather than the other way around. The haunted wreck was a thing of mild curiosity, mostly ignored as people drove past its nearly invisible rusty iron fence, which was now screened by a tangle of vegetation. Only the imposing wrought iron gates were really visible from the road any more, and beyond them a dim unpaved track that was impassable to vehicles these days due to the three inch saplings that were trying to fill the empty space.

And so the old house sat and waited for something to happen.

In some ways the house mirrored what had happened to Nettleton, the town. When, as the ore veins were cleaned out and the operation began to be less and less profitable, the miners were laid off, a few at a time, until the mines finally closed for good in the late forties. Nettleton lost about half its population in the process, and property values plummeted. While that might have made it attractive to outsiders, there was nothing else in the town to bring them there.

The town, like the Nettleton mansion, slid slowly and almost gracefully into a quiet decline. Once a population equilibrium was reached, people began to decide, on more or less a nationalistic basis, not to let the town die completely. A cold storage company was induced to buy one of the larger mines and turn it into something that generated some badly needed jobs and the wages that they provided. During the fifties a manufacturing plant was built, to get the tax incentives, and several other businesses took advantage of the low cost of living in the area to produce goods that were shipped to more lucrative markets. Things had settled into a workable little place where people liked to live, but which had no hope of ever being in the limelight again.

Debbie Franklin lay on her bed in her bedroom, staring at the ceiling. She was bored. She lay listening to Petula Clark, singing her new hit song Downtown and scowled that, in Nettleton, there was no "Downtown" to go to for the excitement the singer drew reference to.

It was early summer between her junior and senior year in high school and she couldn't wait to be a senior. Due to her late birthday, she hadn't been able to take Driver's Ed in her junior year like most kids did. While the state didn't require Driver's Ed to get a license, her mother did. The way she thought of it, though, was that when school started again, she'd turn sixteen and be able to get a license. A license meant freedom to Debbie and she yearned for freedom. Living in Nettleton was, she had decided several years ago, punishment of some kind, imposed on her, probably by fate, and probably as a result of the fact that she loved to masturbate. It was 1965 and, despite the sexual revolution under way in America, adults loved to classify self pleasure as a nasty habit that was probably responsible for a variety of personal ailments and social ills.

Debbie ignored all the warnings though. Even though she was classified by her friends and most adults as a "Tomboy", she loved nothing more than the exquisite pain and thrills that her fingers frequently brought to her as they teased the little bump between her slippery pussy lips that she had only recently learned the proper name of.

Debbie thought about masturbating now. But she dismissed the idea. She preferred to be totally naked when she got those wonderful feelings, and it was the middle of the afternoon. While her mother, Ramona, was at work at her job as a teller at the bank, Debbie's twin brother Robby was around somewhere with his friend Mike. He had a bad habit of just walking into her room when he wanted to see her. Privacy was a word he didn't seem to understand. And, while she wouldn't have minded her brother finding her gyrating on the bed with her fingers stuck up in her, she sure didn't want Mike to see that.

Debbie sighed and got up off the bed. She wandered to the window and looked out at the forest beyond their yard. Her eyes were drawn to the tall round tower with its conical cap that topped the old Nettleton mansion next door.

Unlike ... and unknown to ... most people in Nettleton, she was intimately familiar with that old house. Having lived next door to it their whole lives, she and Robby had naturally explored the dark forest surrounding it. They had never heard the stories that caused most adults in town to avoid the place and, to them, the forest was a magical place. The house was too, though it was a bit daunting and dark and ... scary somehow ... at first.

She thought back to some of the things that were imprinted indelibly in her memory about the mysterious place next door.

It was when they were about ten, and were playing in the forest that they found "the secret". There was an old root cellar behind the house, off to one side of the sagging carriage house that had once held horses, and still held an old carriage with only three wheels and rotted leather seats. Their tentative exploration of the overgrown cellar entrance was the result of a fantasy that there must be gold in there, since it looked like a mine to them. Instead, when they had snitched a candle from home and illuminated the dark hole, they had found that it had walls of brick, covered by wooden shelves, which themselves were partially covered with glass jars containing something dark and gelatinous that they knew had been food at one time. Their fantasy morphed into pretending that the gold had been hidden in these jars of muck, since no one would think to look for it there. They only opened one, though. The stink convinced them that this particular daydream wasn't worth pursuing.

But they had made the cellar into a hideout, where they could evade various imagined bad men, or police seeking trespassers, or just be in a place that was theirs alone, and which nobody else knew about. They fixed it up with old furniture found in the carriage house, and pillows and blankets from home ... a small hidden nest where they could disappear into when they wanted to.

And they kept it a secret from everyone. They somehow knew their mother would disapprove in the strongest terms if she found out they had found a place they could slip through the fence that surrounded the Nettleton Manor, as they had renamed it.

But the cellar itself wasn't "the secret." It was while they were moving things around in the root cellar that they had discovered "the secret." Robby had been tugging on a tall rack of shelves, trying to break off a piece of wood that he needed to put under an old overstuffed chair which had only three stubby legs. But instead of the board coming loose, the whole shelf unit had, with a creaking groan, swung outward from the wall, exposing a dark tunnel behind it.

More candles were smuggled into the hideout and the tunnel was explored. It was featureless, a tube of old, crumbling brick that led nowhere for sixty feet to an oaken door with a thick iron ring on it instead of a knob. Neither child, at only ten years of age, had been able to figure out how to open the door. It seemed to be stuck fast. But their dreams of hidden treasure were re-awakened and, for a week, they examined the obstacle, which was solid as a rock. The close fitted planks of the door were held together by thick iron straps with huge rivets holding them to the door. Hammers and screwdrivers, which were all the tools available to the exploring siblings, made only dents and scratches.

Debbie was the one who solved the mystery when, in frustration, she hit one of the thick rivets with the hammer and the door made a grating, popping sound and moved a quarter inch.

It took the combined weight of both kids to pull on the ring and get the door to move more. Their excitement, aided by a little adrenaline, caused the door to suddenly creak open, dumping both youths on their butts. They stared at the wooden steps beyond the door ... steps covered in a thick coating of dust ... steps that led up ... into the Nettleton Mansion.

Fighting bouts of continuous sneezes brought on by dust that hadn't been disturbed for decades, brother and sister held hands and climbed the steps. They found themselves in a hallway of sorts, so narrow that they couldn't walk side by side. The expanse of wall, made only of boards butted together and nailed from the other side of the walls to studs, extended beyond the range of the two candles they had.

They crept forward, afraid now for some unknown reason, until they came to another door with a ring in it. That one opened fairly easily when they both pushed against it and they found themselves in a room that looked startlingly like the root cellar. Its walls were covered with shelves, and they recognized it as a pantry. The back of the door had shelves on it, like the one in the root cellar. These shelves too were cluttered with old cans and jars. There were traces of what was left of sacks too, but mice had feasted on their contents over the years and all that was left was their droppings and tatters of cloth.

The discovery of the secret tunnel and what turned out to be a secret corridor inside the house which gave either visual or physical access to almost every room in the mansion, changed the lives of the twins. Now their private world had been expanded a thousand fold. Over the next five years they roamed the old house as if they owned it.

Almost everything had been left behind, but little of worth was left. The good dishes were gone, leaving behind mismatched bowls and plates probably used by children and servants. The same was true of utensils. Furniture was still there, but most looked to be in bad shape. There were still paintings and portraits on the walls, but they were dark with age and dust, and it was difficult to tell what, or who they portrayed. Anything made of, or covered with cloth had deteriorated and faded.

Everything exposed to the air, that was.

There were chests made of cedar wood that had preserved their contents remarkably well, and some drawers had contained some kind of pungent smelling substance that had also kept the rigors of time and mice at bay, mostly. There were beautiful gowns and suits packed away that the children gasped over. There were hats and shoes and umbrellas made of lace. There were shirts and things that looked like a ballerinaís tutu, but which hung down to the floor instead of sticking out. There were old smoking pipes, carved into the likeness of fishermen, or a tiger's head and some decorated with tarnished silver, or simply plain. They found a few scattered coins, which were immediately identified as part of the treasure they forever sought.

Because the only things they found in reasonably good condition were the clothes, they played dress up together. Debbie gathered too-big dresses around herself and paraded back and forth while Robby put on a top hat and tails that hung to the floor, one of the pipes clamped in his jaw as he struck poses for his sister. It was in this way that they kept on discovering their bodies after their mother, for some unexplained reason, established separate bath times for them.

During dress up play, Debbie unashamedly stripped out of her street clothes to don a gown while Robby watched with interest, noting that, as time went by, her breasts began to push out from her flat chest and then got bigger and softer looking every year. She watched as he skinned out of his clothes too, to don some fancy vest that, at first, covered him like a jacket, but as he grew, left his growing genitals exposed.

They pretended to be lords and ladies of years gone by, each one with their own wardrobe, and they had these characters interact with each other, requiring frequent changes of costume. So they saw each other naked almost daily as they grew into puberty.

It was Debbie who developed pubic hair first ... mere wisps of golden strands that sprang from her skin almost overnight, or so it seemed. Then there were more and suddenly Robby could see them.

"You have something on you," he pointed out that first day he noticed.

She looked down at her pubescent mound with its tightly closed lips that covered up the little bud she already knew all about by then. She'd never told her brother about what she did in her bed at night. They shared almost everything in the world, but that was one thing she instinctively wanted to keep for her own secret.

"That's my hair," she said, as if it were obvious, which to her it was.

"When did you get hair?" asked her brother.

"I donít know. One day it was just there."

Robby bent over, examining his penis. "I don't have any," he said, disgruntled.

There was some competition between them. Their father had died in an accident when they were little and their mother had never sought another husband. They got by on her salary at the bank, but there was no extra money for frills. As a result, whenever something did come into the house, ownership was heatedly discussed and quite often things were portioned out. If it was a food item, like a box of candy, each got his or her portion. If it was something else, each claimed a certain percentage of the use of the item. It was mostly a game, because they shared everything they had, but establishing ownership meant that they could then choose to share, which was somehow important to each.

For her to have hair, and him not ... seemed unjust somehow.

"Do you have those singing things too?" he asked.

Debbie paused, her pert young breasts with their soft pink puffy nipples hanging a little as she bent to step into a gown of forest green.

"What?" she asked.

"You know, what we heard about in health class" said Robby. "Those singing periods where you have blood ... down there." He pointed to what was already covered.

"Menstrual periods?" she asked. "What do they have with singing?"

"Didn't minstrals go from place to place in the old days and sing songs and tell stories and stuff?" he asked. "I never could figure out what that had to do with girls bleeding, but I'm sure that's what they said."

"Dummy!" she laughed. "I have men-stral periods, not min-stral periods." She giggled. "I sure don't feel like singing when they come around. I'll tell you that!"

"It all sounds the same to me," sighed Robby, who took no offense at being labeled a 'dummy'. "But you have hair and you have ... those thingy periods. Doesn't that mean you can have a baby?"

"I guess so," said Debbie, unconcerned. Her mother had simply explained that periods happened to girls as they grew up, and it was something they had to put up with. She understood the remorse and tears in her mother's eyes as that was said when her mother made her put the thick pad between her legs that soaked up all that blood. It was awful! The pad rubbed her legs and was uncomfortable. But if she didn't use them it ruined her panties and even the jeans she loved to wear, so she ... put up with it.

Later that night, back home, she found Robby with the textbook they used in health class, reading avidly.

"It says here that boys grow hair later than girls. When that happens semen will start coming out of my penis," he said.

"Well if it's anything like my menstrual periods, don't be anxious for that to happen," she said darkly. "Periods are a pain."

"I don't see why. It already feels good if I rub it," he said, looking up.

Debbie was astonished. At thirteen, she thought she was the only teenager in the world who disregarded the stern warnings about masturbation that seemed to come from everywhere. It had never occurred to her that her brother might do the same thing.

"You rub your penis?" she asked.

A guarded look came into Robby's eyes.

"You know ... in the shower ... when I wash it."

Debbie wasn't buying it. She knew her brother too well and he couldn't lie to her.

"You masturbate?" she whispered as loudly as she could without drawing the attention of their mother, who was in the house somewhere.

"SHHHHH!" Robby's eyes darted to the doorway. "I didn't say that," he whispered.

Debbie knew she had an advantage, and she pressed it mercilessly.

"You masturbate ... don't you. You can't lie to me. I'm going to tell mom!"

"No!" he whispered urgently. "She'll kill me if she finds out. Come on Deb, it was an accident. I really was just washing it and it got to feeling so good I just kept washing it and then it got hard and it felt so good I just didn't want to stop. Don't tell mom ... pleeeease?"

"I don't know," said Debbie in her carefully practiced but completely fictitious voice of thoughtful worry. "I heard it makes hair grow on your palms if you do it more than just a few times."

She watched with glee as Robby immediately looked at his palms. Then, with puzzlement on his face he looked back up to see his sister holding in a laugh.

Robby was much more mercurial than his sister. He jumped immediately to hot anger as he realized his sister had tricked him.

"Get out of my room," he said in a low voice. "Tell mom whatever you want."

Debbie knew when she went too far. She had done it hundreds of times, teasing her thin-skinned brother. She also knew how to deal with him when he got mad like that.

"Come on you goof," she said in a jovial voice. "I was just kidding around." He was still surly and she knew she'd have to give him something in return. She thought about her own secret, so carefully kept over the years. Knowing that he did it too it didn't seem so dark any more. She held out her palms to him. "I do it too."

Debbie knew her brother well. He was instantly intrigued.

"You do?" he whispered. "Really Deb?"

She blushed, but nodded, dropping her hands. "Yeah, a couple of years now."

She saw his eyes widen and his mouth drop open.

"And I'm not insane, and I don't have warts or any of that stuff." She folded her arms, like she'd settled some big debate.

"How come you didn't tell me?" he asked.

"How come you didn't tell me?" she shot back.

"Oh ... yeah," he said. He looked thoughtful. "How ... often ... do you do it?" he leaned toward her as he whispered.

Debbie's skin had begun to go back to its normal pale color, but she blushed again. She wasn't so sure she wanted to admit just how often she rubbed her clitty.

"Ummm ... a lot," she settled for.

He slumped a little. "Me too," he said, his voice normal, but low. "Sometimes I take a shower when I don't even need one ... just so I can ... do it."

Debbie had always thought she was the smarter twin. It was at times like this that she felt justified.

"You don't have to be in the shower to do it," she said patiently. "I do it in bed, after everybody's asleep."

Robby's forehead wrinkled. "Really?" he said. "I never thought of that." He looked at his lap. "Boy, just thinking about it makes me want to do it now."

Debbie had never really been all that interested in boys, at least not as sexual objects. She had her little secret that she did in bed and which satisfied her, and that was fine. Other girls went on and on about boys and kissing and all kinds of things that sounded pretty yucky to Debbie at the tender age of thirteen. Her way of conquering a boy was to beat him at a footrace, or make it to home plate without being thrown out.

"Well don't do it when I'm around," she sniffed.

They hadn't talked about it again, but after that, when they went to the Nettleton Mansion to explore, if they dressed up, each one was more than a little interested in the other's body. They still had an easy unconcerned manner about themselves as they got nude together.

It was almost a year later that Robby, while he was putting on a formal kind of suit that had a shirt with no collar, and which had begun to fit him a lot better than it had in years past, said, "I'm getting hair too."

Debbie, who now had a nice collection of honey gold hair above her pouting pussy lips wanted to see, so Robby bared his adolescent prick and she bent over to look. Sure enough dark brown hair was beginning to sprout all around his penis and the sack that hung under it. That sack suddenly looked much more full than Debbie remembered it being ... larger. As she stared the penis moved all by itself.

"I can feel you breathing on me," said Robby in a strained voice.

"Your penis is moving!" said Debbie.

"I think it's getting hard," said Robby.

"Why?" she asked.

"I don't know. Sometimes it just does that," he replied. "When it does ... that's when I want to rub it."

Debbie's mind set about such things had undergone not a little transformation in the last eight months. Her breasts were now huge, from her own perspective, though they were only the size of a softball, roughly. The nipples, which had been puffy and soft for a long time had begun to get firm, especially whenever she rubbed herself in bed. They tingled too, and she had found that it felt very good to rub them and squeeze them gently as she rubbed between her legs.

"You want to masturbate now?" she asked, standing up. "Why?"

"I don't know," he said. "I told you it just happens sometimes. Whenever it gets hard I know it will feel really good to rub it."

"Could I watch while you do it?" she asked, a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"I thought you said not to do it around you," he remembered.

"I changed my mind," she said with the certainty that all women have, and which is based on the fact that all women somehow know they have the ultimate and uncontested right to do so.

"I'd feel pretty weird doing that here," he said, looking around the dusty bedroom they were in.

"Why?" she asked. Debbie felt completely at home in the Nettleton mansion by now.

"What if the ghosts watched?" he asked.

They had heard some of the stories about the house by now and had decided long ago that the Nettleton mansion was, in fact, haunted. Things got moved around ... little things ... and there were noises. But, after fleeing several times in abject panic, they had always crept back in. Eventually they came to the comfortable agreement that, while there might be ghosts in the house, they weren't apparently unfriendly ones. They spoke to the ghosts a few times, proclaiming loudly that they weren't there to take anything, or destroy anything, and that the ghosts were welcome to do whatever they wanted to do, since it was, after all, the ghosts' house.

"Why would ghosts care if you masturbate?" asked Debbie.

Debbie threw out "the challenge": "I'll do it if you do it."

"The challenge" was a time honored way in which they talked each other into doing whatever it was that one of them was worried about doing, but which the other one wanted to do. They had issued "the challenge" to each other so many times in the past that the result was almost always an immediate, if still somewhat nervous acquiescence to the suggestion ... whatever it was. Basically, responding to "the challenge" was a habit they'd both fallen into, and it was ingrained in them ... as normal as hunger.

"Okay!" Robby stuck out his jaw and his hand went to his penis. He immediately began stroking it, and it got even longer and harder than it had been.

"Hold on!" complained Debbie. "Give me a minute here." She dropped the gown, just naturally getting ready to do it like she almost always did it ... naked.

Then she went to the bed, which still had a musty cover on it. Pulling that off she scooted up onto the sagging mattress and lay back, sideways to her brother. Her fingers went automatically to her clit and she began rubbing it in circles.

"Okay," she said. "You can go on now."

Robby, unlike his sister, had been interested in the opposite sex for some time now. His friends also told tales of kisses and groping sessions and other more involved things that he always pretended to know all about, but actually knew very little of. He had never actually thought of his sister like he thought of other girls. Sure, she had breasts and all the other things girls had, but he had seen them so often he just took them for granted.

Until now.

Now, she was a girl, and she was naked, and she was doing something sexual right there in front of him.

He felt something in his balls that he hadn't felt but once before. That one time he had been stroking his soapy penis in the shower. Usually he just stroked, and it felt good, and he just assumed that was all there was to jerking off. His mother usually came along yelling at him to stop wasting water, so his stroke sessions never went on as long as he'd have liked them to. And, when he started doing it in bed, at Debbie's suggestion, he'd experienced much the same thing. He concentrated on the feeling of his hand, and what it was doing. He'd never thought about a girl while he was doing it ... at least not in any specific way. He hadn't quite connected what he was doing to what his penis could do ... with a girl.

As a result, Robby had never actually had an orgasm.

Now, however, seeing his sister's fingers busy at the juncture of her legs, he stared. And he suddenly realized that where her fingers were moving in more and more rapid circles, the lips under her fingers were puffing up and beginning to gape open, exposing the very area where his health teacher had told him that a penis was designed to fit into.

The strange feeling in his balls increased until it was almost painful. He was jerking faster now, much faster than he'd ever done it before. He was a little freaked out, because while it was painful ... it was a good kind of pain somehow. He didn't know what was going to happen, but he didn't want to stop.

Debbie was watching, her eyes half closed, her lower lip caught between pearly white teeth. She moaned and the sound bore into Robby's heart like a dagger.

Then she stuck one of her fingers into that dark opening and it disappeared up inside her. The connection between what was in his hand and where her finger was exploded into Robby's mind and the pain in his penis became unbearable. He had an instant of panic that he'd hurt himself when he felt a soothing rush of ... something ... racing through his sensitive penis. To his astonishment, a long stream of milky-white fluid arced up and out of his cock. It seemed to hang in the air for the span of a single heartbeat, which he could clearly feel in his chest, and then splatted wetly on the edge of the bed and the floor.

Debbie knew instinctively what that liquid was, and seeing it shoot out of her brother's penis gave her a feeling deep inside her that was almost as scary as what Robby had felt just before he ejaculated. She pulled hard on the finger deep inside her, mashing her clit and her own orgasm crashed down on her like a ton of bricks.

"Awwwwwwmmmmmmm" she groaned, curling up into a fetal position, her finger still buried in her as the sensations wracked her young body.

Meanwhile Robby was staring as more and more of that fluid leapt out of his cock. It suddenly stopped, and he felt a dull ache in his balls. It still felt good to hold his penis and he did so tightly. When he finally let the pressure off a big bubble of white oozed out of the tip and hung, swinging gently as he panted, before dropping between his feet.

It was quiet, the only sound the panting of two teenagers. Debbie finally opened her eyes and stared at her brother, for whom she suddenly felt feelings that were more intense than she'd felt in the past. That was saying something and she knew, somehow, that everything had changed between them. It was a good change, though, as far as she was concerned. They had always been close, but now they shared something they felt with no other person on earth.

"That was awesome," she sighed.

"I squirted," he said, amazement clear in his voice.

"You sure did. It almost got on me," she said, unfolding and stretching.

Robby watched as her naked body stretched, long and slim on the bed. He had a sudden urge to squirt some more, even though his balls ached and his penis felt dead. He realized he was still holding it and let it flop down.

"I never squirted before," he said, unnecessarily.

"You said you would some day," she pointed out.

"Yeah ... I guess I just wasn't expecting it." He stood there uncomfortably. "Is that okay?"

Debbie sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Her leg felt a wet spot and she rolled to see she'd put it right on a glob of his spunk.

"Ewwww," she said as she wiped at it with her hand. "Do you have to get it all over the place?"

"I'm sorry Deb," he said, his voice tragic. "I didn't mean it ... honest."

She stood up, looking at her brother's face. He was obviously upset that she was upset.

"It's okay. You're supposed to do that. Just try not to get it all over the place next time."

Robby's response caught her off guard. Wearing only an unbuttoned shirt he stepped forward and hugged his naked sister.

"Oh thanks Deb, I promise. I'm so glad you're not mad."

Debbie was shocked by the feel of his chest against her breasts, and something poking into the area she had just been rubbing, also warm and soft. Before she could process that strange feeling of naked skin against her own naked skin he backed up. The look on his face was of pure joy. She wanted to laugh because he was so eager to please her. She felt a rush of warmth in her chest.

"I love you, you goof. You could never really make me mad," she said. "Now come on, I want to be Lady Nettleton." She retrieved the green gown that "Lady Nettleton" always wore and stepped into it, pulling it up to cover her nakedness. It fit her a lot better these days too, and she smoothed it into place at her waist, turning so that Robby could button the numerous tiny buttons up the back.

"I love you too Deb," he sighed, as his fingers strained to deal with the small pieces of round bone that closed her dress.

Then he put on his formal suit and they got the mismatched porcelain tea service out of a cupboard in the dining room and pretended to have tea. Robby commented on how beautiful she was, and how well the crops were doing, and how well she was supervising the servants. She curtsied and spoke about his bravery in running off the latest raiders, and how handsome he was. Then they danced, pretending they were at a ball they were hosting, with hundreds of people all around them. Robby "introduced" Debbie to their imaginary guests, calling her "his beautiful bride, Edwina" and, because they didn't actually know the real names of the semi-fictional Nettletons they were pretending to be, she introduced him as "My handsome husband, Beauregard".

They had pretended to be Beauregard and Edwina many times before this, but this time, after sharing something so intimate, the mood was different. To the surprise of both of them they slowed in their dancing and were suddenly kissing each other, standing still, their lips clinging to each other's.

Debbie's eyes were closed and, while she was imagining herself kissing the mythical 'Beauregard', she realized that her brother's lips tasted sweet and good.

Robby had forgotten all other women, and the feel of his sister's lips against his was hot and electric. He felt his penis begin to stiffen again.

He pulled back. "My penis is getting hard again!"

She looked at him sternly. "We don't have time for that again. Come one. Mom will be wondering where we got to."

Ten minutes later they were climbing up out of the root cellar, dressed in their own clothes, just normal looking teenagers, as they slipped between the trees back to the real world.

Robby and Debbie, for whatever reason, did not take their newfound sexual intimacy back home with them. It was something to be shared only in the Nettleton Manor. While each still masturbated at home, neither sought to be with the other while they did so. Perhaps it was that both knew, on some level, that what they had done would be frowned on most horribly by any adult who found out about it. Or perhaps it was because that secret sharing of their passion was so precious that it must be restricted to their secret imaginary world. For whatever reason, there was unspoken agreement between them that, if they were to do that again - and both wanted to do that again - that it would only take place in the faded rooms in the forlorn house that harbored so many other secrets so well.

And, perhaps because that sharing was so intense, they both regarded it as a treat, or luxury, and as such, did not increase the frequency with which they stole off to explore and pretend in the house. No doubt there was an unconscious desire to protect, for as long as it could be protected, their secret hideaway. If they went too often, someone would eventually notice them, or find them, and everything would be ruined.

Over the next couple of years they grew more mature, though, and while the house still held fascination for them, they played dress up less often and turned more to exploration of the secrets the house might still be protecting.

They explored the secret passageways extensively, finding places where holes had been made in the walls so that a person in the secret passageway could peer into the various rooms of the mansion ... including the bedrooms. Most of these peeking holes were so cunningly constructed that they were incorporated into the whorls of woodwork that adorned the fancy trim of the rooms. Two were designed so that they looked natural as gaps in the mountings of old gas light fixtures.

The bedrooms held fascination for them too. One had obviously been a little girl's room, with the remnants of dolls and tiny dresses that were the match for the larger ones that older women had worn. Another was littered with wooden toys, carved horses, and an intricately made wagon ... boy's toys. Then there was the big bedroom, with its canopied bed, the canopy hanging in tatters of rotted cloth, but still grand in its faded way. This room held the chests filled with gowns and formal mens' wear that they loved to put on.

Still others were almost bare of furnishings, and smaller, as if people less important had slept in them. Those rooms, they noticed, all had peek holes that viewed primarily the beds.

And, when they felt the urge, instead of dressing up ... they dressed down, stripping off their clothes to tease each other with their nakedness, strutting and posturing, exposing their sexual parts and, when their passions had been raised as high as they could stand it ... masturbating in ways that inflamed themselves and each other.

It was inevitable, in a way, that each time they did this, they got closer and closer to each other, until, one time, Robby's spurts of semen splashed on his sister's skin. He had ignored her admonition "not to get it all over the place" simply because he didn't know how to avoid "getting it all over the place." And she said nothing, because she loved watching those streams of spunk fly through the air so much she didn't press the issue. It always dried by the time they returned, so all she had to do was avoid stepping in it when it was fresh.

And this time, when it splattered across her stomach as she lay, legs spread as wide as she could get them, hand frantically shoving a finger deep in her pussy, she didn't complain about it because of the surprise that it was so hot where it touched her. Her only experience with touching it was that first time, when she sat on a spot that had had time to cool in the air. So, without thinking of where it came from, she'd always thought of it as being cold. But now, where it made a streak on her stomach and one arm, it was warm. And somehow warm wasn't at all yucky.

Her orgasm that day was hotter than ever.

Robby, though, was horrified.

"I'm sorry Deb," he gushed, backing up as his prick continued spurting wildly. "I didn't mean it." Robby, being a boy, had a long history of yelping, "I didn't mean it."

His sister shushed him though, to his great relief. He watched in amazement as she brought the hand away from her pussy and scooped up a glob of his spunk, rubbing it between her fingers.

"It's not so bad," she said. "It's really slippery!"

Perhaps, because she was intent on calming her brother down, or because she was concentrating on feeling the stripe of his spend across her stomach, she habitually returned her spermy fingers to her clit and rubbed it gently in the afterglow of her orgasm. She was slippery enough already that she didn't notice the added slip as her brother's sperm was rubbed into the top of her pussy split.

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