บท 17: Falling deep into lust
One evening, as they sat around the dinner table, the air was thick with the scent of roast pork and apple sauce. The candles flickered, casting a warm glow over the faces of his family, their expressions open and loving. Elena's eyes met his, a soft smile playing on her lips, and for a moment, Jack felt the weight of his guilt lift. He reached for the glass of water before him, the condensation a reminder of the chill that had seeped into his soul. As he took a sip, the coolness slipped down his throat, a stark contrast to the fire that raged within him.
In the flickering light, he couldn't help but imagine his mother's gentle touch on his skin, the softness of her embrace that had comforted him countless times. His thoughts grew bolder, his hand straying to his lap, the fabric of his trousers growing taut with the pressure of his arousal. He tried to focus on the food before him, the tender meat and crisp vegetables that had been so lovingly prepared. Yet, with every bite, the image grew stronger in his mind, her vagina, a hidden garden that called out to him, beckoning him to explore its velvety depths. The juices from the pork coated his mouth, and he imagined them to be the essence of her desire, sweet and warm.
Jack's gaze slid to his sister, Lily, who sat across the table, her eyes focused on her plate. The candlelight caught the golden strands of her hair, setting them alight like the sun's kiss upon a field of wheat. In his mind's eye, she was no longer the innocent girl with whom he had shared a womb; she was a woman of passion and fire, her eyes promising a secret world of pleasure. He envisioned her lying beside him, her soft curves pressed against his, her breath mingling with his as they discovered the intricacies of love. The room grew hotter, the air thick with the unspoken tension that only seemed to fuel his fantasy.
The clinking of silverware , the murmurs of conversation a mere background to the symphony of desire playing within him. His heart hammered in his chest, the rhythm echoing the pulse in his groin. He knew the path his thoughts were taking was forbidden, that the love between siblings was a taboo that could shatter the very foundation of their family's bond. Yet, the whispers grew louder, urging him to indulge in the dark bloom of his desires.
He envisioned his grandmother, Edith, her eyes shimmering with the wisdom of the ages, her skin as soft and inviting as the pages of the books she so loved to read. In his fevered imagination, she lay before him, her white hair splayed out like a halo, her body a canvas of experience and knowledge. Her lips, which had so often whispered tales of love and loss, now offered him a silent invitation to taste the sweetness of the fruit of temptation. The curve of her neck beckoned for his kiss, the swell of her breasts an unspoken promise of the passion she had held within her for so long.
Jack's hand hovered over his plate, thoughts played an act of desire. Yet, as he stared at the roast pork, the reality of his situation crashed over him like a wave of cold water. With a tremble that was almost imperceptible, he lowered the fork, the clang of metal against porcelain a jolting reminder of the world beyond his fantasy. He took a deep, shuddering breath, willing the image of his grandmother from his mind.
He immediately let go of his thought, focusing instead on the succulent scents of the meal before him. His eyes fell to the tender meat, the juices pooling like a crimson sea around the mashed potatoes. His stomach rumbled, a stark reminder of the hunger that was far more immediate than his burgeoning sexual desires. With trembling hands, he sliced off a piece and brought it to his mouth, the taste a jolt back to the present, to the warmth and comfort of the familial bond that had always been his anchor.
As he chewed slowly, savoring the flavors that melded together on his tongue, Jack's mind began to clear, the dark whispers of his fantasies retreating to the shadows of his subconscious. He glanced around the table, his gaze meeting the loving eyes of his family, each one oblivious to the tempest within him. Their faces, bathed in the soft light of the candles, were a stark contrast to the twisted visions that had briefly claimed him.
Elena spoke of the town's latest gossip, her voice a balm to his fevered thoughts. She spoke of Mrs. Jenkins' prize-winning roses, her tone filled with warmth and genuine interest. The way her eyes sparkled with mirth at the absurdity of the story reminded him of the endless nights she had spent listening to his childhood dreams, her gentle laughter the sweetest melody that had ever graced his ears. The love in her voice was a gentle reprimand, a reminder that the world was so much more than the cobwebbed corners of his desires.
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