All characters who participate in sexual activity in this story are 18 years or older.
WRITER’S NOTES: This story contains elements of the Sharing, Group Sex, and Incest, if you’re offended by those elements, don’t read this.
A thank you goes out to NEUROPARENTHETICAL for the amazing editing, and making this story easier to read. And another thanks goes out to SARKASMUS, and others for taking a look at the story and giving me feedbacks.
I hope you all enjoy and I would like any HELPFUL feedback.
“How do you think she will take it when she finds out?” a man, who looked to be in his fifties, asked the woman who stood in front of him.
Her back was turned towards him. He laid on his large bed, his lower back supported by one of several comfy pillows. They were colourful and intricately-designed, just like the bedsheets. A young woman laid by his side, topless, her head resting on his chest and her arms wrapped around his.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” the standing woman said, “but I can be sure that that firecracker daughter of mine will attempt to kill me once she finds out.” Her voice was layered with doubt and worry. She was stirring medicinal herbs in a small clay cup. It was work she was confident in; her worry was for the future.
The hundred-and-three-year-old man sighed. He looked half his age, but he felt old. The magic that delayed both death and ageing, by itself, would have had him looking and feeling twenty-five. Within him, however, it was at war with a disease. The disease itself should have been a trivial thing to cure, but there he was, looking and feeling thirty years older than he ought. Something was very wrong, and no one was quite sure what.
“Then, do you think it’s a good idea?” he asked.
The woman turned and looked at the man. Her eyes were the shape of almonds, and her irises, their colour. She was still stirring the herbs, making sure they had blended together properly. She smiled at him, and that served as her answer.
Her poise, posture, and stoic expression made her look older — ironic, considering the great lengths their culture had taken to preserve all the real, physical trappings of youth. Her body suggested thirty-five. Her carriage and demeanour hinted at decades more. It hardly seemed relevant that she had, in truth, lived for about sixty years.
“Elder Memmaram, aren’t you going to be in trouble with the Grand Patriarch?” the young woman asked, lifting her head from the ageing man’s chest.
Elder Memmaram raised her eyebrow, looking at the pretty, dusky belle. “What is that prick going to do, kill me?” she scoffed. “And don’t call that bastard a Grand Patriarch here, he’s not even a… he’s not even fit to sit on that chair. It’s an insult to the ones who came before him and were actually fit to bear that name.”
“I’m sorry,” the young woman said timidly. The Elder’s stern voice had always had that effect upon her, even when her ire wasn’t truly directed at her. They’d known each other for years, and the younger woman had never found her confidence.
“Hey, now,” the older man said, giving her spherical breast a gentle squeeze and weakly pulling her close to his body. “You shouldn’t be so scared of my niece. Her daughter, well…”
The young woman nodded.
“Listen, Nasirah,” the older woman said, “I promise, nothing will happen to you. No one will find out.” She sat by the bed and put a reassuring hand upon Nasirah’s thigh.
Nasirah’s soft, square chin and wide lips quivered like she wanted to say something, but nothing came.
The older man brought his bulky hand up to her chin, gently pulling it in his direction. He looked into her light brown eyes — which still shone, despite the worry that plagued them — and smiled. “Don’t worry, dear. Everything will be alright.”
“I know…but what if I do it wrong?”
“You won’t,” the ageing man said. “I believe in you.”
“Me too,” the older woman said, squeezing her smooth leg.
Nasirah’s magic wasn’t flashy, or even very useful most of the time. Upon this rare and fraught occasion, Elder Memmaram desperately needed it — even though that need had been born of her own selfishness and greed. Memmaram realised that what she was about to do might sever her already-damaged relationships, but she pushed those thoughts and worries to the side. It’s been eighteen years. There’s still a good chance that she changed her mind…
“Mama [Uncle], are you sure you’ll be able to use your powers without passing out again?” Memmaram asked.
The old man nodded. “I’ll be fine.”
The disease was ageing him progressively; using his powers only hastened his decline. He’d done his best, so far, to restrain himself. Not only did he feel old, therefore, he also felt constrained — trapped in his body. Using his powers, he could see through the eyes of other people, fully possess şişli escort animals, and even share his own sight with others. It had been strange for him to remain so long behind his own eyes. He felt incomplete.
Memmaram looked at her uncle, and could not mask her worry. “Nasirah,” she said, handing the clay cup to the younger woman, “check if everything’s mixed properly.”
Nasirah took but a single glance. “It is,” she said. Suddenly, the confidence she could never find or summon was simply there.
Nasirah had been born with the gift of magical healing. From a very young age, her entire education had revolved around supplementing that gift with all the society’s collected knowledge of medicine, both natural and supernatural. Her late mother had been her mentor; her loss had been devastating to the young woman.
She wasn’t there just to examine the herbs Memmaram had prepared in her stead, though. She was there to use her rarest, most unique power. It was a power that she hadn’t had much practice with — or any practice, for that matter. The old man and Elder Memmaram had helped her with the very little knowledge they had of it, but it hadn’t been much.
She was there to awaken someone — to activate a deep, dormant power that otherwise never would have surfaced. It was the ultimate act of healing, some would say. She didn’t know if she could do it. She didn’t know what the consequences would be if she failed. She didn’t even know if she should try to do it. All she knew was that Memmaram wanted it done, and she could not defy her. She lacked the confidence, and therefore the courage. Memmaram wasn’t evil — or at least Nasirah believed she wasn’t — and she didn’t want to disappoint her.
“Hmm,” Memmaram said, getting up from the corner of the bed. “Make sure to give it to Maman before we leave.”
“Also, where’s your brother?”
“He’s with his umma [mom].”
“Of course,” Memmaram said with a sigh, shaking her head. “Do you know how long he’s been there?”
“An hour, maybe.”
Memmaram cooed a specific, rhythmic, bird-like tune, calling over her pet. It was a rare breed — a member of the tri-coloured blackbird family, but a variant indigenous to Mayalokam. It was much smaller than most other blackbirds, and its colours were inverted — red as the primary, with black spots on the wings. Memmaram felt a deep affinity for these rarities, often using them as her eyes.
“Little Red, go get Rafiq,” Memmaram ordered her pet, using her telepathic powers. The little bird chirped before flying off.
Memmaram turned and looked at Nasirah. “That Houri is spoiling that boy.”
“As if you don’t spoil him,” the old man said with a smile, earning him a glare from his niece.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” she said, walking to the large wooden bedroom door. “Nasirah, we’re going to leave as soon as your brother gets here, so make whatever you two are going to do quick.”
“Oh, if only,” the old man sighed.
Nasirah frowned, and made to leave. The old man reached for her.
“No, please,” he said. “Stay. Just stay for a few more minutes.”
Nasirah put on a kind, gentle face. She tried to hide her worry and her sadness. Still, she was glad he wanted her, even though he couldn’t have her anymore.
She didn’t say anything. She knew that if she did, it would be something empty — something near enough to a lie.
“Don’t lose hope; some day, soon, again; we’ll find a way; there’s always a way.”
She didn’t say any of that. She laid her head back down on his chest. She spent a few more minutes with an old man, whom she loved, who knew he was going to die.
As soon as Rafiq came, Nasirah left the Memmaram Family Patriarch’s bedroom, offering him a quick kiss and the usual nagging about how to take care of the old man on her way out. She didn’t bother covering her voluptuous-yet-perky breasts. It simply wasn’t common to do so in Maya Lokam, though it remained every woman’s choice. Nasirah’s were particularly beautiful, and she felt no shame or discomfort from keeping them bare.
She had a slim body, with slender arms, a narrow waist, and hips that widened just little beyond it. It made her breasts look much bigger on her frame, though not disproportionately so.
“Nasirah,” Memmaram said in her usual stern voice. “Grab a wrap and cover your breasts.”
Nasirah blushed, timidly nodding her head.
Memmaram sighed. I probably said that too sternly.
“The other world isn’t like Maya Lokam,” Memmaram added, trying to alleviate the blunt voice she’d used, “so it’s better to cover up.”
Nasirah nodded again, less timidly.
“Elder Memmaram,” a deep voice called. “I am ready whenever you are.”
Memmaram turned her head towards the voice, nodding. She hadn’t bothered to give the man a proper look, just a quick glance — not that the mecidiyeköy escort man cared. His attention, as usual, was on Nasirah.
“H-hi, Nasirah,” the man said, his deep voice giving off an awkward high pitch.
Nasirah took a single glance at him, giving him a very short and an unintentionally cold reply before walking away behind Memmaram. The man didn’t seem to mind her reaction; he was too awestruck to care. He watched her walk away; though she didn’t intend to hypnotise or tempt anyone with the swaying of her hips — at least not in that moment — they had those effects on many, including the young man.
“Arthur,” Memmaram said, turning to look at the man, noticing that he wasn’t following them. “Stop ogling and come open the gate.”
“Yes, Elder!” Arthur said, running in front of them. He opened a door, which was a little smaller than the bedroom door but big nonetheless, leading the two women in. “I’m sorry.”
“Hmm,” Memmaram said, standing in the middle of the door’s archway, studying Arthur’s mannerisms and looking into his startled, light-blue eyes. “It’s fine.”
Arthur nodded in excess.
As Memmaram walked in, Little Red flew in behind her, almost colliding with Arthur’s face. Arthur ducked in time; he was accustomed to being recklessly disregarded by the Elder’s little pets. He closed the door behind them and locked it, then walked towards the middle of the room.
Arthur looked over to Nasirah, who had walked to the side of the room, within his eyeline, and grabbed a long, red cloth that had been tied to a statue. He mindlessly watched her wrap the long cloth around her dreamy breasts. Eros! She can make anything look good.
Memmaram stood a little off-center from the middle of the room, behind Arthur. She crossed her arms, tapping her finger, as she waited for Arthur to open the gate. Her eyebrows were raised slightly in annoyance.
“You can ogle at her later,” Memmaram said coolly to Arthur using her telepathic power. Arthur’s head shot back to Memmaram, finding her glaring at him. His heart began to beat unnaturally fast, making him feel as if he was going to collapse.
Arthur moved his mouth. In his mind, he thought he had said something, but nothing was spoken. Memmaram’s light-brown eyes bore into him. They looked sharp enough to cut him down with their stare. They certainly cut through his courage. He felt waves and pangs of fear until he jerked his head away, breaking eye contact with the impatient elder.
Without wasting another second, Arthur opened a portal gate. He held three fingers straight out while slightly bending his pinkie. He released a few slow breaths before lifting his arm up, cutting into the air itself. The gate looked like a large mirror of sorts, oval shaped and bigger than the nearly-six-foot-tall Arthur — much bigger, in fact. The end of the mirror-like gate met the Persian-carpeted floor, blending into it seamlessly.
“Nasirah,” Memmaram said, looking over to find Nasirah struggling to wrap the cloth around her breasts. “Come here.” Her voice didn’t sound stern or cold for once. It was almost motherly.
Nasirah walked over to Memmaram, then turned her back to her. Arthur turned to watch them, blushing, and with his lips parted, before he felt the Elder’s eyes glaring at him. That glare shot a numbing chill down his spine, making him regretfully turn away from the dusky-skinned beauty.
Memmaram grabbed the end of the red cloth, unwrapping it a little and loosening it around Nasirah’s narrow waist before rewrapping it again. This time, she wrapped it in a crossover Nasirah’s collarbone, using the excess like a strap around her slim waist, bringing it around twice before tying it in the back. The cloth covered her breasts well, without making them feel too constrained.
“Better, yes?” Memmaram asked confidently, giving Nasirah’s breast a slight heft.
“Yes, thank you,” Nasirah said, blushing.
“Come on,” Memmaram said, walking to the portal. “Arthur, after we enter, close the gate. I’ll tell you when to open it again.”
The two women stood in a bedroom that was much smaller than the old man’s palatial one. Little Red was perched on Nasirah’s shoulder. The bedroom was a mess — the mess of an average teenage boy, living in the better part of Westchester’s suburbs. The sight made both women cringe in shock and disgust.
“How’s a person supposed to walk in here?” Nasirah asked an open-mouthed Memmaram — thinking, rather than speaking.
“I have no idea,” Memmaram replied, shaking her head. “Did Arthur open the wrong gate?”
“I think…” Nasirah said cautiously. She was studying the room, wondering what kind of savage animal could live in such a stay.
Memmaram walked towards the bed that laid in the middle of the room, careful to not trip or slide on anything. Nasirah soon escort istanbul followed behind. She looked at the eighteen-year-old sleeping on the bed like a baby. “Nevermind. Arthur didn’t open the wrong gate. My daughter might have just given birth to sloth-monkey.”
“Mama told me that your daughter was a…clean freak,” Nasirah said, looking at the shirtless teen.
“She was,” Memmaram said, putting her hand out, placing her thumb on the teen’s forehead and her index finger on his curly hair. “Give me six minutes. Until then, try to open a window, and let Red out. He might wake him up if we keep him cooped up for too long.”
Nasirah nodded, turning to find a way to walk back to where she’d stood earlier.
“Mama, can you see this?” Memmaram asked her uncle, her eyes closed, using their Pact Link.
“Just try to ignore the room,” Memmaram said, “and focus on him. Can you see what I’m seeing?”
“Yes,” her uncle said. “If you’re right, he should have the door somewhere in the temporal lobe.”
“Hmm, do you know what it should look like?”
“No,” the old man said with a deep, sickly sigh, “but Nasirah might be able to locate it with her power — to sense it, even if she doesn’t know exactly what she’s looking for.”
“Okay.” Memmaram opened her eyes, turning her head towards Nasirah, who was still trying to navigate through the cluttered mess. Memmaram waited until she had reached the window, not wanting her to panic and trip over something.
She did, finally, then flipped the latch and opened the window, giving Little Red a path to the open sky.
“Sorry,” she said to the Elder.
“For taking so long…”
Memmaram let out a sigh. “It’s fine, dear. Just close the window and come back here, no need to rush.”
“Isn’t he going to wake up?” Nasirah asked, wide-eyed, shocked to hear Memmaram’s actual voice.
“I don’t think so,” Memmaram said, looking down at the hopelessly-slumbering teenager. “He might actually be a sloth-monkey, because he’s in a very deep sleep. A little talking certainly won’t do the job.”
“What about Little Red?”
“Red is fine flying for a while,” she said. “We don’t know who else is awake, or a lighter sleeper. No shouting. I’ll tell him to make loops and keep a lookout.”
Memmaram ran her hand through the teen’s hair, sitting at the side of his bed, looking at him with soft, motherly eyes. The teen didn’t seem to notice. He was still asleep, lost to his own wet dream. As Nasirah carefully walked over, she took notice of Memmaram’s eyes. She’d never seen them like that. She’d grown accustomed to their stern, cold stares.
Nasirah paused, as to not interrupt her moment with the boy.
“You know,” Memmaram said softly, “when he was born, I wouldn’t let anyone touch him, not even my own daughter. It was a selfish thing to do, of course, but when I looked at him, he reminded me of my son. I couldn’t bear to let him go.”
Nasirah stood next to Memmaram with a stunned expression on her face. She’d never heard Memmaram share anything personal to anyone, and certainly not to her. She and Memmaram had sex with, and given blowjobs to, the old man and her brother, together, at the same time, on multiple occasions. That level of physical intimacy was not so uncommon in Maya Lokam, but that didn’t mean that casual sex between distant strangers was the norm. If anything, the sex usually brought everyone closer together in other ways. Not so with Memmaram. It was strange for Nasirah to think it — especially when in the throes of passion right next to her — but their relationship had never felt more than professional.
This sudden change was even stranger.
For a moment there was a silence; it was thick with something that Nasirah could not name. Neither of them spoke, or formed thoughts to transmit to one another. The only sounds were from the outside, coming in through the open window — some of them from Little Red.
Nasirah looked down at the boy thoughtfully. She studied his face, noticing something she hadn’t before. His face looked familiar somehow — as though she’d seen it somewhere else.
“Elder, he looks like…”
“I know,” Memmaram said, cutting her off. “I noticed it too, when we came here.”
Another moment passed, with only Little Red’s occasional chirping to disturb its heavy silence.
“Give me your hand,” Memmaram said, standing up. She took Nasirah’s hand and guided her closer to the boy’s bedside. “Place your thumb on the middle of his forehead, and your index on the top of his head.”
“Uhh,” Nasirah hesitantly listened. She had done it before, when the old man had taught her to use her powers, but those had merely been test runs — on animals, at that. Most of them had been failures.
Memmaram brought her hand to Nasirah’s soft face, looking into her eyes. “You will do fine.”
“Hmm,” Nasirah replied, nodding.
“I’ll guide you in.”
Memmaram took Nasirah’s free hand, bringing her into the eighteen-year-old’s mind. Nasirah couldn’t see anything. The only sight available to her was her own, from the bedroom. But she could feel the teen’s mind, hazily.