Author’s Note: Call me nutters for trying, but this is my crack at a modern day erotic/romantic fairytale. Its content cuts across a few categories here on Lit. but I think it’s best in fantasy/sci-fi based on the overall theme. This story is slow and romantic-y lesbian and, more important to some (love it or hate it), it’s entirely sister-sister incest.

There’s sex aplenty when it gets there, but if your particular needs are more immediate, I recommend you address them and swing on back here afterwards. This is no quick-fix affair.

Read on and, as always, let me know what you think if and when you reach the end.

No, I didn’t forget: everyone’s eighteen or older. Promise.

Macallan Promises: Young Molly can control time but not the desire for her own sister

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ *~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

For what we receive, we swear to you, Brighde. We swear together, as mothers, daughters, sisters, aunts, nieces, wives and widows, to protect the lands and the people of Ireland against her foes. Where shelter is sought, we will offer it. Where aid is sought, we will deliver it. Where vengeance is sought, we will wreak it. For as long as our chests take breath, we swear. We swear together.

— The Maids and Matrons of Clan Macallan, c. 720 A.D. (translation of first verse, others lost)

~*~*~Part 01 — 15 years ago~*~*~

It was going to be a horrendous crash, the kind that would make the evening news anchors pause after they reported the story out of polite respect for the victims’ families. A yellow bus full of elementary school children was headed up one way of the winding mountain road in northern Maine and a propane tanker was coming down in the other direction, swerving wildly as the driver struggled to keep his truck under control on the ice-slicked asphalt.

And it was all happening in dreadful slow motion.

We were safe though. Or should have been.

My mom, my younger sister Tabitha, and I were driving along on a separate road above it all with a clear view of what was about to happen below, well out of harm’s way. That all changed when Mom saw what I’d already seen.

She mashed the brakes of our trusty old Datsun and she turned to look at me. Her eyes blazed greener than the Irish hills on a midsummer’s day. She’d never looked more beautiful.

I knew what she wanted to do. “No Mommy! It’s too far!” I gasped.

She nodded. She knew too. “I love you, Molly. Promise you’ll take good care of Tabitha.”

As the first hot tears streaked down my face because I understood what was about to happen, I swore the most powerful oath I knew. Gram had taught it to me the opening just the week before. I’d practiced well and the old Gaelic flew true from even my young lips.

“Geallaim óm’ chroí istigh, le gach buille, gach trá, gach sruth, le gach a bhfuil agus a bheidh ionam,” I swallowed, feeling the magic gathering and tightening in my chest, “go dtabharfaidh mé aire do Tabby.”

It was an old promise, a mighty promise, and Mom’s eyes were wide even before I finished. She smiled proudly and touched me on my wet cheek. Then she leapt from the car without another look back.

To save the children on the bus. Other people’s children. And yet leave her own.

Honestly, it’s usually some damn children that do us in.

Mom did what she had to do, what she had always forbid me to do, and when it was over, everyone on the road below was a little confused but very safe and alive. Except Mom.

I was ten years old at the time. I could barely reach the Datsun’s pedals but I drove my six year old sister Tabitha home. Along the way I tried to explain to her that even our amazing Mom couldn’t come back from what had happened. And when we got home, I had to tell Dad that he was a widow.

So, basically, it sucks being a Macallan girl. But then it always has. Well, for the last thirteen centuries anyway.

~*~*~ Part 02 — Now~*~*~

The pledge I gave my mother in the car fifteen years ago is called a heart promise. Only one can be given, truly given, in a Macallan’s lifetime. It’s a powerful thing, even in our strange family. That’s why Mom was so surprised when I vowed it.

A Macallan can’t undo a heart promise, or break it. Even if we want to. It binds. It guides. It steers. I’d made my promise and I would be its servant for as long as I lived. So my vow that day in the car was what my Mother had asked for and more.

In English, my promise that day meant roughly, “I promise with my whole heart, with each beat, each ebb, each flow, with all that I am and will be, I will watch over Tabby.”

It was a big pledge, especially for a ten-year old, but I never regretted giving my heart promise away to my little sister. Not once.

I was already mostly awake one night and reliving the day in the car when I felt a familiar weight press down into the bed behind me. I had known who it was as soon as she came in the front door twenty minutes ago. My sister has always walked on her heels. For a petite girl, she sounds a little like a water buffalo.

“Hi Tabby,” I muttered into my pillow and peeked at my alarm clock through one eye. It was a little after 4 am. She’d used her key to slip into my one-bedroom apartment in the wee hours of the morning again. Not a big deal, she knew she was welcome to crash whenever she wanted.

“Dammit,” my sister’s giggle gave her away completely, “there’s just no sneaking up on you is there? What if I were a rapist? Would you have waited here quietly in bed to get ravaged?”

“A rapist wouldn’t have detoured to use my shower first, genius.”

“Hehe, I could have been a very hygiene-conscious rapist.”

I smiled in the dark. My sister had always been funny. “I suspect they’re pretty rare.”

I felt her hand searching across the bed and come to rest on my hip. She scooted herself towards me.

“Couldn’t I have been your boyfriend sneaking in for some midnight luvin’?”

It had been several months since my baby sister and I had talked last and she was out of date on my personal life.

“Don’t have a boyfriend anymore,” I grumbled

“Ick. Girlfriend?” Her second question sounded almost hopeful as her hips curled behind me until we were spooned. Her thighs were bare and her cool skin made me shiver when they met the backs of my naked legs.

“Nope, don’t have a girlfriend either. That’s your thing not mine, kiddo.”

“You could have one if you wanted. A girlfriend, I mean. You’re smart and cute. I bet you could find a hot, talented chickie without too much trouble. One that might get you seriously…”

“Tabitha,” I cut her off. “I’m okay, sis. Really.” It was too late at night for her old argument. My bisexual sibling was pretty sure that regular old heterosexual women were either ill-informed or narrow-minded. As far as she was concerned, I was both.

I felt more of her cool, bare skin press into parts of my back that weren’t covered by my comfy little chemise and I sucked in a breath. “Are you… Tabby, are you naked, honey?”

“Nope.” She snuggled into me tighter and wrapped an arm around my waist.

“What do you have on?”

“Panties,” she admitted.

“Yeah, that’s close enough to naked to qualify.”

Tabby giggled brightly. “Don’t be such a prude, sis. My stuff’s all dirty and I didn’t want to rummage through your pajama drawer without asking. Besides, you know this is way warmer.”

I let out a long slow breath, not wanting to fight. I wanted to sleep. “Fine… just maybe quit wriggling so much against me, Tabs?”

“Sorry, can’t help it.” She giggled again then forced herself to settle. “It’s so nice and toasty in here with you. Don’t you miss snuggling like when we were little?”

“Yeah,” I confessed. Those were less complicated days.

For about ten years, from when she was three until she was thirteen, Tabitha had snuck into my bed in the early morning to curl into me. She used to press her ear to my chest to listen to it beat. She’d match her breathing to mine too. Eventually, it would lull her back to sleep. Mom and Dad were grateful for the peace and quiet in the morning. Of course, her little warm body next to mine usually put me to sleep too.

Tabitha would have kept up those morning visits if I hadn’t put a stop to them. Why? I had my reasons.

That morning, spooned into me from behind, Tabitha fell asleep long before I managed to. I lay in my own bed for about an hour listening to her breathing and feeling her heartbeat thud against my back. Her breasts were mashed into me from behind and her warm breath tickled my neck. It even smelled nice, like cinnamon. Tabby was a TicTac junky and had been for years. She said she always wanted to be “smooch-ready” if she met someone worth kissing.

Dammit. I’d been doing fine right up until I thought about her and kissing. That tipped me right over and my body responded. I pressed my lips together tightly, powerless to stop the warmth unfolding in a very inappropriate place.

As Tabitha began snoring, I fought my horrible arousal. I also fought the urge to sneak a hand down between my legs to relieve it. As sick as it may sound, I’d done it before when she held me like this in bed. My baby sister is an insanely heavy sleeper.

But this time I just pressed my lips together more tightly, denying myself the pleasure and the release of masturbation. It was a good punishment.

You see, I’d missed Tabitha more than I could bring myself to tell her. I’d missed her terribly. I don’t just love my sister. I’m in love with her. It’s been like this for years now. And I hate myself for it.

I won’t claim the Irish invented self-loathing, but I think we can all agree that, as a people, we’ve perfected it nicely.

~*~*~Part 03~*~*~

Grá rúnda. In Gaelic it means “secret love.”

That’s what Gram would have called this awful thing I struggle with whenever I’m near Tabitha. I had fought it, denied it, and raged over it. Even had myself a few good, long “why me God?” cries over it. Lately, I’d focused on accepting that I loved my own sister in every way: physically, emotionally, mentally, psychically, and spiritually.

All of those important -ally’s.

It pretty much sucks. I mean, seriously, how much more taboo does it get than homosexual sibling incest? You know, without involving farm animals. I wouldn’t wish my life on anyone.

When I woke later that morning, my chemise had ridden up in the back. As I’d feared, with Tabitha snuggled so perfectly into me and with so much of her bare flesh against mine, I’d been having the most ridiculously graphic sex dreams.

There’d been hours of kissing and licking and stroking and sucking. I’d never even seen a strap-on dildo outside of a porno film, so why on god’s green earth did Tabitha make me dream of using one with her? Giving and taking? My head is a sick place and getting sicker.

I sighed and rolled over carefully to face Tabby, my only sister, my best friend, my heart’s true and tortured desire. She was especially pretty like this, sleeping, and lit by the soft morning light creeping through my window.

I’m not in love with Tabitha because of the way she looks. Still, it doesn’t hurt that she’s gorgeous from head to toe. My little sister is prettier than me in every way; I’ve always thought so and the boys growing up had more or less shared my opinion. They’d been stopping to look at Tabby even before she hit puberty. Her big, bright green eyes, delicate nose, perfectly straight, white smile and gorgeous blonde hair guaranteed it.

Actually, Tabby’s hair had always teetered between blonde and light brown depending on the season. She was off-schedule with her light hair now, it was mid-January, but she’d spent the last two months in the warm Nevada deserts. As proof, she even sported a few bright platinum highlights that contrasted nicely with her tan. It wasn’t just her color that was pretty though, Tabby’s hair was shiny, incredibly heavy and thick, and silky, silky smooth. She could make a living doing salon commercials.

Me? I inherited Gram’s wild auburn curls and ivory skin. The only commercials I’d ever be able to land would be ones for Irish Spring soap. Trouble is, I can’t whistle worth shit.

But Tabby… oh Tabby. When puberty hit her, and it slammed into her like a freight train, what men did around my sister went from funny to ridiculous. Who could blame them? Almost overnight, her legs lengthened into sleek, mini-skirt quality limbs. By age thirteen, she was complaining about her large, round breasts, already twice the size of mine at seventeen, because they made gymnastics harder. She shut up about them at fifteen when she figured out they were chest-mounted man magnets.

Don’t get the wrong idea, Tabitha was more than just pretty. She was funny and tender and sweet and thoughtful and incredibly, absurdly sensitive. She was also open and honest and free and brave and she’d always been just, well, good in a way little sisters usually aren’t.

When she was eleven, Tabby rescued a squirrel with a broken leg and hand-fed the little thing until he recovered. But even when he was all patched up, he didn’t want to leave. So “Sqeakers” scampered around our house and slept in her dresser for the next six years. He followed Tabby everywhere. And when he finally died at the ripe old squirrel age of eight, Tabby cried for an entire month straight. I missed the little guy too. He was a small, furry, breathing example, living proof, of how Tabby is so many things I’m not. So many things I’ll never be. She touches people and everyone loves her. Even bushy-tailed rats.

I think Squeakers may have left his mark on Tabitha too. My sister had become a talented nature photographer. One of her pics even made the cover of National Geographic last year. At just twenty-two, apparently she’s the youngest photographer to manage it. Yep, Tabby is talented too.

Most of me is proud of my kid sister. A tiny part is jealous. That leaves a couple of parts left over to lust after her. Yeah, they’re my naughty parts.

I sighed and watched Tabby sleep, enjoying the chance to just stare at her freely without concocting some lame excuse. Her mouth hung open a little and it made me smile. I used to tease her about it when we were growing up, calling her “mouth breather” so cruelly that I’d actually made her cry a few times before I finally stopped. There’s no cruelty like sibling cruelty.

Sleep-tousled Tabby has always been my favorite. It was all I could do not to kiss her right then. It would have been so easy, just press my lips to hers, flick my tongue between them, gently trace along her mouth the way I’d wanted to for longer than I can remember.

Oh Tabs, my little grá rúnda.

I had to hold my breath when her arm, the one that had been wrapped around my waist while we slept and later slid down around my hips when I turned over, tightened around me. In her sleep, her hand unwittingly cupped my butt gently and she used it to pull herself closer to me, face-to-face now. Her much larger breasts pressed into mine and her nose blindly found the crook of my neck. Her warm, moist breath puffed into my throat. She wriggled a little, then settled again.

Jesus, she was killing me today.

Still, I reached up behind her and cupped the back of her head, scratching lightly beneath the hair at the top of her neck. She responded with a few lazy sighs before her breathing became even and regular with deep sleep again.

It may sound crazy, but generally speaking, I’m not a lesbian. By that, I mean I’m not really attracted to other women. I’d actually checked, hoping in some perverse way that I was just into girls and that Tabby merely happened to be the most attractive girl near me. Once, I even lured Tabitha’s prettiest cheerleader galpal into my bedroom as a last, desperate test.

Her name was Kendra and she was openly gay and beautiful in a dark-haired, smoky-eyed, olive-skinned kind of way. She’d been giving me come-hither looks for years, so when I shut my bedroom door behind her and asked if she’d help me figure something out, I barely had time to ask her to kiss me before she did it.

Kendra’s lips felt wonderful, and she smelled nice, a little like apples. Plus, I very much liked the way she sighed dreamily halfway through our smooch. But it didn’t move me. Not the way I’d hoped. Kendra was gorgeous, not to mention an amazing kisser, but my body didn’t respond to her. Not like it responded to my own sister.

“Nothing?” Kendra finally asked, opening her deep, dark bedroom eyes and looking up at me hopefully.

I smiled lamely, “Nope, sorry.”

“Don’t be,” she smiled too and squeezed my arm, “you’re a good smoocher. It was fun for me. If you want to make this some kind of annual lesbo check-up, let me know? I won’t tell Tabby.” One corner of her mouth curled up for a naughty smile. “She’d just be jealous anyway.” Before I could ask Kendra to explain, she slipped back out of my bedroom.

It became plain what Kendra meant later because, on top of everything else, it turned out that Tabby liked girls and that she and Kendra weren’t just studying in her bedroom. Marvelous. One more thing for me to picture — the two of them rolling around, naked, hot and sweaty.

Tabby’s renewed stirring brought me back to the present.

“Mmmm, tell me Molly?” my cuddling sister sleepily whispered into my neck.

“Tell you what?”

“You know… the story… the long version.”

Again? “That’s a bedtime story. For when you go to bed. Not when you wake up. And aren’t we getting a little old for this?” I chided.

“Never too old for faerie tales,” she huffed, sounding a little less than her actual age. “Please?”

“Fine,” I caved and took a deep breath for the story Tabby never got tired of.

“Long, long ago in a little village on the windswept coast of northern Ireland, there lived a heart-achingly beautiful young woman named Hannah Macallan. In fact, she was the most beautiful girl that anyone had seen in a thousand years. Her skin was as fair and as flawless as moonlight on a still lake. Her long, blood red hair gleamed like rubies. Her eyes were the deep green of the lushest hills and, speaking of lush, her body was a man’s fantasy made real — tiny in those places men like, round and full in the other places men like too.”

Tabby snickered, “I think you added that last part. But keep going,” she added hastily when I gave her a short look.

“But human men aren’t the only ones with fantasies. Faerie men have them too and Hannah’s beauty was enough to touch even a fae heart. As it happened, when she was born, Hannah’s first cry attracted the great faerie prince Bertolas who slipped invisible into the midwife’s hut to see her. For good or ill, he fell in love with Hannah right then.

For Bertolas, Hannah’s scant nineteen years passed like snapped fingers and yet still he barely managed to wait it. On her birthday, he went to her and he wooed her, singing songs older than mortal ears and offering her tokens of his admiration. He was, like all his kind, beautiful too. They soon fell in love, deeply in love.

But before she would marry him, Hannah begged the fairy prince to promise that he would be faithful to her until she died. She could not bear to share him. It was an almost impossible thing to ask of a faerie. They live and love freely by nature, seeking beauty for beauty’s sake. And yet for Hannah, the prince devised a way to change even this. He gave Hannah her promise, and better. He forged a mighty oath in old faespeak that bound his whole heart like cold iron.

Hannah and the fairy prince were wed soon after. His promise held and he loved her and was faithful to her, not only until she died, but forever after. Bertolas lives still and honors her in his heart. That was how strong their love was, how strong his oath was.