Incest phone sex with your evil twin . . . i.e., ME.
Incest phone sex could start with you knowing you were adopted. Your parents told you when you were very little but old enough to understand, and you’d never had any desire to get in touch with your biological mother growing up so you never did.
But then you got a letter in the mail from me — your long-lost fraternal twin. You had NO idea you had a twin all these years, did you?
I’ve written to tell you our mother is sick, on her deathbed, and has asked me to write to you so she can meet you before she dies. I’ve signed it “with love” and when you look at the sender address, you realize it’s only a 30-minute drive away. How strange that you’ve been so close this whole time and never knew.
You search the small sheet of paper and envelope for a phone number but can’t find one. You decide to take that Friday off work to pay us a visit. The closer it gets to Friday, though, the more nervous you feel. Filled with that bizarre energy of knowing something is about to happen but having no ability to predict what that something might be. Good? Bad? Awkward?
You double-check your hair and collar in your car mirror before heading up to the door of the small, somewhat dilapidated ranch-style house. You knock, an involuntary shiver of excitement running through your body as you hear the knob turn from the inside.
I answer the door, wearing an outfit you wouldn’t have imagined — or at least, less of an outfit than you expected, fabric to skin ratio-wise. I already know exactly who you are (you look just like I imagined) but I ask anyway, in my most coquettish and innocent voice:
“Can I help you?”
You explain who you are, that you’re here because of the letter I sent you. I nod and smile, faking a look of sudden understanding and exclaiming “ahhh!” even though I already know. I also know you sat in our driveway for almost 5 minutes before mustering the guts to knock! Ha ha . . . no need to tell you that, of course.
I invite you inside, apologizing for the mess as I close the door behind you. You tell me not to apologize, don’t worry about it — but Jesus christ it is a FUCKING mess in here. Empty cigarette packs, random trash, old take-out boxes . . . what a dump! You weren’t expecting your twin to live in such filth . . . or to dress so, well, trashy.
You can’t help but be attracted to me though. Yes, I look like I stepped out of a scene from Gummo (think Chloe Sevigny minus the bleached eyebrows) but you find yourself drawn to my raw filthiness and this unfamiliar degenerate landscape I exist in . . . so different from your own stringent, ordered world of nice clothes, the smell of laundry, and wholesome family life.
You watch my tits bounce inside that old threadbare yellow tank top I’m wearing as I get you a Little Kings out of the fridge. I light a cigarette and offer you one, but you shake your head no.
“I don’t smoke,” you say. We both look at each other and chuckle a little.
“Of course not. I hope you don’t mind if I . . .”
But I trail off, pretending to care if you mind my second-hand smoke. I already know you don’t. Not only is it clear that you’re transfixed by me and my world in your eyes . . . but I also already noticed that little bulge in your pants getting bigger. Plus, I’m your twin. I just fucking know.
You watch my smoke rings as they float above our heads before vanishing back into nothing. I redirect your attention to my eyes, to me, telling you how glad I am you’ve come here and how happy “Mom” will be to meet you. You gulp your beer nervously.
You try to pretend you aren’t disgusted or wishing you had some expensive IPA . . . I can tell what you’re thinking even though you thank me for my hospitality. (Did I mention I fucking love incest phone sex?)
Even in the trance-like state, you’re in, you notice a pistol out of the corner of your eye on top of the TV stand just a few feet away. That’s strange . . . well maybe not, a single woman living alone has to protect herself somehow, right?
You feel dizzy. How could you be feeling so woozy after just half a beer? And a Little Kings, at that? Those things are so tiny . . .
“They hit you harder than you think, huh?” I say, finishing your thought. I smile at you over my puffs of smoke. Or am I sneering? You can’ tell . . . you’re getting so dizzy, everything is getting so blurry . . . and then you black out.
TO BE CONTINUED . . .
Can’t wait to hear how this tawdry tale ends or read more of my incest phonesex stories? Have an incest phone sex role play of your own (filthy) mind in mind?? You know what do to — call me!
