From: misslilyo@aol.com (MissLilyO) Newsgroups: alt.sex.spanking Subject: The Secret Date: 17 May 1996 23:59:00 -0400 Hi! This story is a bit of a departure from my usual stuff. It contains scenes of M/f & M/m spanking, but it also has some description of incest between a brother and sister. Before you go getting all squicked, look at it in the context of the tale. It is fiction. If you're under 18, hit the road, Jack. If you don't like spanking and sex, go with Jack. Otherwise, I'm holding my breath and hoping you like this one. Love, Lily. _____________________________________________________ THE SECRET by MissLilyO Chris would have a fire built by the time I arrived, I knew, just as he had every October for the 22 years we had been staying at the cabin in the north woods. It was a bonus day, late-autumn sunshine spiking down through the heavy canopy of the forest. The dappled light struck my windshield in flashes that reminded me of an old kinescope, and with it images of our past flashed through my mind unbidden, as they did every year on this long drive to meet Chris. These memories were living things, holding power over my emotions, dredging up the feelings good and bad of a life long buried, memorialized every October with the person I loved most in this life, the person who shared The Secret with me. The past would take on color as I drove along, and dimension, lifting off the old photographs in my mind and becoming vibrant once more. I could remember the smells and sounds, the warmth and the terrors. And, of course, The Secret. Chris is my brother, my loving brother, fine and handsome. He is 49 next month and I am 46, and today we are equals. But all those many years ago, his three year lead on me seemed an eternity. He was my big brother, my idol, my mentor, my savior. And my lover. You might condemn us, but I would hold my chin up and defy you to walk a mile in my shoes before you cast that first stone. We grew up in the rural Midwest on a farm that was neither prosperous nor a failure. It simply *was*. Dad always managed to have a little savings put by, and we had two steady farm hands, Pat and Eddy, who helped us year-round, along with a crew of regulars who came each year for harvest. Our parents were so much in love with each other that they filled our whole house with love. As I drive along remembering, I am always overcome with a yearning to feel my father's touch again. He was so tall and kind, our Dad. His face had deep smile lines on either side of his mouth, and his deep blue eyes twinkled with merriment. Dad was interested in everything Chris and I did, helping us with our hobbies and school projects, patiently teaching us as we learned to do the chores around the farm. Mama was always laughing then, teasing him and Chris and me, too, her laughter like music. Both parents encouraged us and taught us, but it was Dad who saw to our discipline. Often, discipline at our house meant only that Dad would become stern and scold one or both of us over some minor infraction. But serious offenses meant a trip to the barn with Dad holding my small hand in his big one. Sometimes it was Chris or me alone, but because we were usually inseparable, we were sometimes spanked together as well. Dad would wait until the supper dishes were put away and we had gathered in the family room to talk about whatever we had done. He would draw us into his arms as he sat in his big chair and question us gently about what had happened, pointing out why our disobedience was harmful or disrespectful or foolish. "Maddie, what could you have been thinking to climb up there like that, honey? Don't you know that if you'd fallen out of the tree, there would have been no one to help you for hours and hours?" Of course at the time I'd shimmied up that big tree, falling out of it had never crossed my mind. When Dad looked at me with his steady blue eyes, I suddenly saw the danger I'd put myself in and saw a glimmer of the fear a parent feels when their child has been in harm's way and escaped--this time. The sorrow of disappointing my father would pull my lower lip out into a sorry pout, and I'd feel tears gathering behind my eyes, threatening to spill out. "And Chris, you were charged with looking out for your little sister while Mama helped me with the tractor. I told you I'd let you go fishing later this afternoon, but you disobeyed me and went off and left Maddie. I trusted you, son." By then, both of us would be so remorseful that the spanking to follow was a welcome relief. We knew our Dad never spanked in anger, but always out of love and concern for us, and in a way we were glad to be so loved and cherished by our parents, even if it meant a trip to the barn to have our bottoms bared. He would hold our hands, and Mama would kiss us each on the cheeks. "Go out with Daddy and have your punishment, and then it will all be forgotten, dears," she'd say. And off we'd go with him, in good weather and in bad to the big barn, fragrant with hay. Dad would sit on a big bale and pat his knee. Usually Chris would be spanked first, as he was the older, but I sometimes wished it could be me, for I'd have to watch as Chris' bottom grew redder and redder as my father's big hard hand came down on his bare skin. Chris would never cry out loud at first, but sometimes his eyes, so like my father's, would fill with tears. He'd step forward and unbuckle his jeans. Down they'd come, and his underpants too, and he'd lay over my father's knee, lifting his bottom high for his spanking. I never thought anything of seeing my brother naked. We'd swum in the pond since we were babies buck naked, and as Chris matured and began to get a dusting of hair on his front, I was more curious than embarrassed or lustful. Dad would always spank us slowly, letting each fall of his hand wait until the last spank had sunk in well. Soon Chris would be squirming, grunting under his breath, trying to keep from bawling, but eventually he'd let go and cry his heart out. When Dad felt he'd had enough, he'd stand Chris back up and pull him into a big bear hug, gently rubbing his bottom and praising him for taking his punishment so well. Chris would hitch up his pants and stand by while I received my spanking. I can't even describe the emotions which I felt when my turn would come. Unlike my more stoic big brother, I'd bawl like a little baby before my panties even came down. Dad would lift up my skirt or pull down my dungarees and pull my panties down to my knees, and then over his lap I'd go, sobbing and carrying on. "There, there, Maddie. It's not so bad," he'd soothe. "You'll get your swats and then it'll be alllll over." And he was right. The spanks themselves were not so painful, it was the thought that I'd disobeyed my parents or disappointed them that cut me to the quick. Each spank seemed to clear the slate until at last, all would be forgiven and forgotten and I would feel good about myself again. Dad often mused aloud to us about his dreams that Chris and I get a good education, promising that he'd have enough money put away to assure that we'd have a chance to be anything in life we wished to be. Our schoolwork took high priority, and reading was encouraged as recreation as well as a means to study for better grades. Mama and Dad would take turns reading the classics to us, and as we grew older, many nights were spent in the family room with the TV silent, while Chris or I read aloud, Dad staring dreamily off into the night, and Mama crocheting. That is the good part of the movie that flashes through my mind as my body responds to the twists and turns in the country road automatically, speeding my Honda closer and closer to my annual getaway with Chris. The bad part begins now, and I can feel my throat constricting as I remember the dark days when my father first knew he was ill. The film flickers and lurches, jumbled images that make me feel weak. Dad growing thinner. Mama walking the floor at night, crying when she thought we were asleep. A hospital bed set up in the family room, tubes in his arms.....and the funeral. Dad had had a savings account, and Mama used some of the money to pay off the hospital and the funeral bills, but then the bank froze the rest of the money. Something about back mortgage payments. Looking back on it now, of course, I'm sure there was something we might have done legally, but things were different then. And the light went out of my mother's eyes when Dad died, and with it the fight as well, it seems. What the bank didn't know was that Dad had left three insurance policies. When Mama got the checks from the insurance, she drove to Midville to a bank where she wasn't known and cashed the checks there. Some of the money was used to fix up our tractor and pay the hired hands through the summer. Some of it. But Mama never trusted the banks again. I reached over and turned down the heater in the car. The late fall sunshine was making the car too warm. Or was it the memories that crowded in next? *He* came. Mitchell. Even now, the sound of his name made me nauseous. We never really knew how our mother met him, but it seems to me that it must have been through the church. He was new in town and started attending our church on Sundays. To me he was always so oily and slithery. I hated him on sight, and so did Chris, but for some reason, Mama took to him right away. Before long, he was calling on her at the house, bringing her flowers or a cheap box of candies in a heart-shaped box. He pretended to be so nicey-nice to Chris and me, but we only saw his mouth smiling while his eyes turned to chips of ice whenever he looked our way. Chris took on more and more responsibility in running the farm, and with the help of Pat and Eddy, the two regular hands, we were making a modest living off the place. I helped too, proud that Chris would praise me to Mama. I'd have walked through fire for Chris. When Dad died, it's like Chris took his place in my heart as the man in my life who was 10 feet tall. And then Mama called us to her one night to tell us the news that would forever change our lives, change who and what we were and would be: she was going to marry Mitchell. Chris was furious and stormed about, ranting and raving at her while I curled up in Dad's big chair and sobbed, but Mama was implacable. She needed a man to help her run the farm, she said. What about me? Chris had said, blue eyes flashing. But Mama told him she wanted Chris to concentrate on school so he could qualify for college. She reminded him that Daddy had provided for our schooling and she intended to see we got it. Chris protested that he was pulling straight A's and keeping up the farm, but Mama had her mind made up. In a matter of weeks, they were married at the church and Mitchell had moved into Mama's bedroom. I moved through the days before and after the wedding like one of those old science fiction movie robots, going through the motions but feeling nothing. Chris was sullen and withdrawn, and we both avoided Mitchell whenever we could. It turned out, however, that avoiding him was not possible. Mitchell drank. And when he did, it elevated his mean streak, so smoothly hidden from all but us children, to a full blown cruelty. He was especially hard on Chris, yelling at him every time he turned around. As for me, his interest was not in yelling at me, but in touching me when Mama wasn't around. Watching his chance, he'd slide his fingers inside the short sleeves of my summer tops, and lightly brush the sides of my little swelling breasts. I went to great lengths to stay out of his reach, but he'd lie in wait for me. His sneering face haunts my dreams still, his nervous licking of lips, and conspiratorial lift of his eyebrows. So many times I wanted to tell Mama, but she always seemed so sad that I couldn't bear adding to her pain, and I was so embarrassed and ashamed. Chris knew, though, and confronted him about it one day. Mitchell dragged Chris out to the barn and ripped the shirt off his back, whipping him till he bled with a leather strap. Mama had been terribly upset and Mitchell had quoted Scriptures about foolishness in the heart of a boy and soothed Mama. She seemed unable to cope with the confrontations, and usually lapsed into a worried silence, wringing her hands and crying, but doing nothing to save her children. It got so that Mitchell would take us often to the barn, a caricature of the loving disciplinarian our father had been. He'd make me bend over a hay bale, pull off my jeans and panties, touching me intimately, letting his fingers jab into my exposed sex or into my bottom. Then he'd begin hitting me with a heavy paddle he'd fashioned out of wood, or with his belt, till my flesh was raw. One night he sodomized Chris after beating him nearly insensible. I found him hunched over Chris, my brother nearly too weak to cry any more, and I jumped on his back, pounding away at him with my fists. I threatened to tell Mama or the minister, and he took me by the throat, choking me, his hard little eyes close to mine. "If you tell anyone, missy," he had hissed, "I'll kill your golden boy here and your slut of a mama too." I believed him. The only thing Mitchell seemed to have any tender feelings about were his roses. When he married Mama, he planted a large bed of roses near the front porch and nursed them along. They were his pride and joy and the air around our house in early summer was redolent with their heady scent. To this day, I loathe roses. The church ladies who occasionally called on my mother, tsk-tsking over her pallor and thinness, would smile at Mitchell's roses. He, of course, could turn on the charm when called upon to do so, and would send them away with am armful of fragrant blossoms. Such a dear, Christian man. Margaret and the children are so lucky to have found him. So lucky. How we got through those days, I don't really even know. I've managed to blot much of it out of my memory. But the months wore on, and then years, and we endured Mitchell. It was all really about the money, you see. All the time he was at the farm with us, it was because he knew my mother had hidden Dad's insurance money away for our education. All the time he lurked around the farm, digging in the dirt floor of the barn, searching the outbuildings, he had been looking for wherever Mama had hidden the money. He started in on her about the second year, pressing her to tell him what she had done with it. "It's all gone, Mitchell," she would insist. "It took every cent to pay off the doctors." Weak in spirit as Mama had become, she was unbending about her hidden cache. "Why, Margaret, I heard you had some insurance money. We sure could use it to buy a new thresher, honeybuns." "We don't need a thresher," Chris had said once. "Nothing wrong with the old one. Pat and I can keep in running just fine." Mitchell had beaten him black and blue that night after Mama had gone to bed. Afterward, Chris lay in the thick hay in a corner of the barn, sobbing and holding a rib where Mitchell had kicked him. I crawled over next to him and pulled his head to my chest, crooning over him, rocking him like he was a baby, trying to give him my strength. I leaned down and kissed him. Because of Mitchell, neither of us had any friends. Chris didn't date, neither of us participated in after-school sports or other activities. We were expected back home immediately after school. All we had was each other. Our bodies were changing, we had strange new needs taking command of us, yet no outlet for any of it. The isolation, the shared pain, the common enemy...I suppose they all served to draw Chris and me together. You can analyze it to death if you want to, but all I know is that when I leaned down and put my lips on my brother's, I was gripped with an electric pull such as I'd never known before. The feeling was so sweet, so overwhelming. He kissed me back and my hands went to his face to wipe away his tears. I put little kisses everywhere, his nose, his swollen eyelids, his chin. As I pressed against him, I felt him growing hard, the swelling pushing against my belly. I had seen him without his clothes so often, but this swelling was something new and I tentatively reached out my hand and touched him. Chris groaned and grabbed my hand by the wrist and pulled it away. I kissed him again and move against him, and soon my hand had strayed to the front of his pants again. At last he permitted me to open his jeans and I took his swollen member out, looking at it wonderingly. "Oh, Chris! It's so big!" I remember saying. I had seen Mitchell, of course, but he seemed a thing alien, deformed. This was Chris, the one person in my life that loved me. Anything about him was beautiful to me. "Don't you know about boys, Maddie? Didn't you have it in school?" "Yeah. Sure, I did," I said, with more confidence than I felt. The sex education classes had talked about tadpoles. They sure hadn't said anything about this. No matter what either of us thought we SHOULD have done, our hormones had much stronger ideas. Our awkward touching led us to a long and exciting exploration of each other there in the dim light of the warm barn. Chris looked at me with such longing in his eyes, devouring the swelling of my breasts, already well developed, my soft forest of dark curls at the juncture of my thighs, the moist folds that lay in uncharted territory between. That first night we just touched until his great swollen penis tensed and spurts of white came out on my hand. It marked the beginning of many months of loving each other in ways forbidden by the society from which our isolation and circumstance had barred us. It got so that when I had done something I knew was wrong, I'd tell Chris and we'd wait for a chance to be alone. Then we'd sneak off to the barn and Chris would spank me, just as our Dad had done. Lovingly he'd pull down my shorts and panties and draw me down over his lap and spank me till I cried, cleansing my heart of the bad feelings and the guilt. In time, he asked me to do the same for him, and I'd put my whole body into the swing of the strap on his upturned bottom. Through it all, we never told our mother anything. I think she knew somehow, though in all the years that followed, we never once spoke of it. The year of the The Secret, Chris was 18 and I was 15. Mitchell no longer kept up any pretense of being nice to Mama. He browbeat her daily about that insurance money, keeping her nervous and trembling, withdrawn. One afternoon, late in the spring, just before Chris' graduation, we got off the school bus and started up the driveway to the farmhouse. Pat and Eddy were off in the fields, or it probably would never have happened. As we started up the stairs, Mitchell burst out of the house, his shirtfront covered in blood. He was raging drunk, and screamed at us to get out of his way. There was a look of utter triumph on his terrible features, and he muttered and cursed as he wove drunkenly toward the chicken coop. Rushing inside, both of us felt a sense of dread. There on the kitchen floor lay our mother, her face bloodied, her dress torn off one shoulder, deep scratches along her arm and bruises showing up on her shoulder and neck. She was alive, moaning and trying to sit up. The look on her face when we threw ourselves down beside her will live in my memory forever. It was the look of one who has betrayed all he holds dear in the world. "My God, Mama!" said Chris, through gritted teeth. "What has he done?" "I told him. I told him. He hurt me and I told him." "Told him what, Mama?" but we knew. "The money. I told him. He hurt me." Chris, his mouth set in a grim line, went to the broom closet and rummaged around, finding the old wooden cigar box where Dad had kept a revolver. I'd seen our Dad cleaning his gun now and then, but had been forbidden to even get near it. Chris was white as a sheet, but there was a look in his eyes that made Mama and I not make any move to question him. He put bullets in the gun and stalked out of the house. It was an eternity, or at least it seemed that long, sitting there on the floor of the kitchen with Mama's blood on my hands, until we heard the shot. Just one. All of the rest of the afternoon is a blur to me. Single disjointed images. Me, running to the chicken coop. Mitchell laying face down, clutching the strong box in his arms, blood leeching out of a hole in his head. Chris walked outside when Pat and Eddy came running from the fields. "Go back to work, boys," he'd said calmly. "No trouble here. Just get back to the fields." Both men had seen the cruelties Mitchell had inflicted on the family, both had been the brunt of his petty meanness, and both had tried in their clumsy way to offer comfort or aid to us at different times since he'd come to live with us. Without a word, they just went back to work. As darkness fell, Chris and I went to work too. We bent to the task at hand without a word to each other, moving in concert, single minded. Mama stayed inside, too hurt to move. When it was done, we went to the bathroom and took a long hot shower, again doing it together as the hot water tank was small. Chris held me in his arms and with a fierceness we both felt, took me standing up in the shower stall, entering me brutally, slamming the pain and the fear and the anger away in the steam. Later, Mama filed a police report with the County Sheriff. She told them how Mitchell had been drinking. How he told her he'd taken up with a woman he'd known from before and had said he was going off with her. Took some of his clothes and just up and left. Mama was so worn looking, nobody questioned her very much. Chris and I were never even called upon to say a word, not that we'd have given anything away. It was a close-knit town, and a word to the local minister caused him to declare a flaw in the marriage certificate, a flaw which enabled my mother to get her marriage to Mitchell annulled. It was handled with no fuss at all. We stayed on at the farm through another winter, and then it was time for Chris to go on to college. He had won a scholarship and had to take it or he would lose out. Mama put the farm up for sale. It was Pat who found somebody to buy the farm. His cousin Elvin and his wife were able to come up with the money to buy the place, and it assured that Pat and Eddy would be kept on permanently as the regular hands. People out in that country are set in their ways, and those two had literally grown up on our farm. With help from the bank, they were able to pay us a fair price, and it was a win-win situation for us all. Cousin Elvin's wife was so taken with the pretty old two- story house, but mostly she just raved about the roses, and how she'd never seen lovelier blooms. Chris grinned at her, his big blue eyes dancing, and said, "Yep. It's the fertilizer we use that makes 'em grow like that, Ma'am." She looked puzzled at the unnaturally bright laughter from Mama and me, as if Chris had told the funniest joke. Pat and Eddy even joined in, smiling at the lady's bewilderment. Chris and I got our education, and I like to think we both made a success of our lives. Using the insurance money, and working part time throughout school, both of us got degrees. Chris, always so good with math and so clear-headed, went into business and soon owned several prosperous companies, selling farm implements and equipment. He owns a string of video stores, has an interest in a local glass company, and has a fast-food franchise. I became a dentist and have a successful children's practice. Twenty-two years ago, he and I went in together and bought the cabin in the woods as a getaway place. Mother's health was never good after *that* night, and she suffered a stroke just after I graduated from college. She died the next year. Chris is married and has two sons who are the apples of their Aunt Maddie's eyes. I love Andrea, his wife of 18 years, and we are close in our way. He and his family use the cabin in the summers, and I've joined them there from time to time, teaching the boys to fish and spending the lazy summer nights enjoying a bottle of good wine with Chris and Andrea and taking turns reading with the kids. I married, but the marriage was not a good one, and it didn't last even long enough for a seven-year itch to develop. But I had my work to keep me busy, had a lover or two of whom I was deeply fond, and I had my week with Chris each October. I am seeing a nice man now, also divorced, and I think he'd like to make our arrangement more permanent. I suspect he's a closet spanker, which makes me smile as I contemplate ways to draw him out on the subject. If we were to get together, he'd just have to understand that once a year, I go off by myself for a "family reunion" and will as long as I have the means and health to do it. A family reunion of two. My car rounds the last turn and I see the dirt road winding up the mountain off the main road and turn the car onto it. The weeds and overhanging branches have tried to reclaim the road since we were all here in August, but my car seems to know the way in spite of it. Soon I was pulling up to the house, and my heart gave a lurch, as it always does, to see him standing there, the afternoon breeze ruffling his hair. His blue eyes beamed at me, and his warm grin split his beloved face, as I climbed out and ran toward him. "Maddie!" he called, jumping off the porch to swoop me up in his arms. Soon he'd have me inside, panties down, skirt flipped up over my back, bottom upturned over his knees for the first of many spankings we'd give and receive over the course of our week together. He would possess me, knowing my body as no other ever had or ever would, holding me to him, loving me, protecting me as he always had. And I would comfort him, offering him all, nothing held back, sharing our forbidden moment...our precious secret. The End MissLilyO@aol.com)