The Dream, The Nightmare, The Incest

Have you ever had a dream that felt so real that you thought it was your waking life?

I was house sitting for my older sister by a couple of years while she ran some errands. A few hours later and she returned home complaining that she was feeling funky and needed a shower.

Okay, I had said, and sat on her second hand couch that shouldn’t be as comfortable as it is.

Sister – exit stage centre.

A few minutes go by. I’m petting her dog, a fat black sausage dog with a face of a pug.

She calls me up stairs. Uses my full name.

I’m confused but I walk the wooden stairs upwards. They creak. I’ve been here before, I think. This old house feels familiar.

I remember rounding the corner in the shower and seeing her ass first – so smooth, so beautiful. The perfect shape, covered in luscious beads of water.

‘I want you to watch me’ she says, her voice hushed.

She turns to face me, a razor in her right hand. From my deductions (elementary, dear Watson), she’s finished shaving her cunt.

‘I want you to watch me shower’

Her words have meaning, conviction. They ring true, despite of their strangeness, their otherworldly feeling.

But I just don’t watch her shower. I’m moving – no, I’m watching myself moving – and I’m reaching down to cup the curves of her ass.

And I’ve never thought of it before but my sister – slender, slightly tanned, olive eyes, 5 ft 9 – is shorter than me in ways I’ve never processed.

I remember how that feels, my hand on her ass, my ring finger resting between the smooth curves. I could slip it into her anus, I think, but I don’t, I’m staring into her eyes. Eyes that are confident and calm. They have no doubt, no fear.

I kiss her. And it’s amazing. It’s a full kiss, if that makes sense. Lengthy, no tongue, deep and sensual.

All the while I’m lifting her ass up to be level with my cock, hardening by the second.

When I enter her, it’s like nothing I’ve previously known. Warm, smooth, slick. Forbidden.

She eyes me, her eye colour flickers from olive to grey blue, eyes I’ve seen somewhere before.

But I can hear her mind, it’s loud and reverberating and it says I’ve wanted this too.

And I can’t stop pounding into her, it all feels good, the shower water – warm, just right – my hand on her ass, my mouth on hers.

And I think to myself as I kiss her – who else dreams? Who else feels so hot and aching and SURE but in their waking moments refuses to mention their dream out loud, out of fear of judgement, because it’s taboo and unwanted? Because, I think, I’m not alone. I refuse to believe that I am. I never have been before.

And then perception shifts significantly. I’m the audience now, not so much the main star.

There’s a mother, a decorated police officer, having tea with her only daughter.

Both women are slender, sandy blonde hair. Athletic.

While the mother takes away the empty tea cups, the daughter is surfing the web. Why? Only she knows. I’m just the observer.

Accidentally, she pulls up a folder. A folder full of video files – the mother, naked and masturbating, reclined on her bed, her hands working herself furiously. She’s moaning her daughter’s name.

The daughter cuts off the footage, calls her mother in and furiously unloads on her.

I can feel the mother’s shame radiating off her like heat. Not just shame, sadness. A huge hole where her heart should be.

The daughter demands to be driven home this instant. But I can feel the daughter’s thoughts too – burning brighter than her mother’s shame. There’s shame, indeed. But guilt. Guilt for what, I wonder. Then it hits me. The daughter enjoyed what she saw.

Have you ever had a dream that felt so real that you thought it was your waking life?