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Note from the author:
This is my first ever go after a couple of false starts. I have used a complicated format (A narrator recalls events as she views a video of what happened.) that requires a complicated narrative voice that may not please everybody. I have taken criticisms to heart though and done my best to make it easier to follow. Apologies in advance for earlier sections that I loaded and have now abandoned. This is the whole story. If it still leaves you unhappy, jump to “The Sibling Seduction Session: Afterwards with my Daddy,” which is written entirely from one point of view.
My apologies in advance to those who are offended by my fantastical tales, but ask you to remember that they are fantasies and no one got hurt in the making of my stories, not even the fictional characters. I have made all the usual proof reading blunders and some others through inexperience in submitting my work, for which, big apologies to the administrators. Third time pays for all, I hope. This tale as a whole is about incest between a brother and a sister, though it does not appear to start in that direction.
The Sibling Seduction Session
My name is Anne-Marie. I am slim and have long wavy dark brown hair, which I sometimes dye blond. I like to keep fit, enjoy cycling and dancing, and have a figure which different people have called ‘boyish,’ ‘perky,’ and ‘athletic.” My breasts fitted B cups from when I was 18 and only moved up to C after the birth of my first child last year. I am 34.
As sometimes happens, I completely lost my sex drive. My partner has been understanding, but it’s been tough, because I really loved pushing the sexual envelope before and, though we are happy in every other way, we both miss the ‘real’ me and want her back. Things got so bad we went to see a counsellor, who suggested that I write down my sexual memoirs to get my sex drive re-booted. This is it, or rather, this is the first chapter.
I am my mother’s only child. My real father was a lad who left me as a keepsake of their casual affair when she was just 19. I have never met him and don’t think he even realises he has a daughter. My step-father was there at my birth and has been ‘Daddy’ all my life, just as his son, Dick, 15 at the time of my birth, has been my brother. Dick doted on me from birth and has always been protective.
My Mum, despite being 16 years younger than Daddy, was always more career-driven and progressively became the main bread-winner. Mum worked up from the duty-free shop floor to become regional retail manager of an international airport operator. Daddy was a legal executive, like a lawyer, but one step down. He specialized in conveyancing. My brother, Dick trained as a chef and worked as a contract catering chef for event management companies, travelling all over the place when In work and living with us between contracts.
I was a quiet girl, good at school, athletic and sporty without ever being the star. My friends and I were the ‘good’ set at school, rarely breaking rules and generally becoming prefects and so on. I was typical of our set. My (few) boyfriends were prefects and rugby players. They did not, and probably had little idea how to ‘light my fire.’ I lost my virginity at 17, because that was what my friends were doing, but the experience and infrequent repetitions over the next two years did little to awaken my passions.
The trigger for all that was a patient at the centre where I trained. He was a man who had lost his foot and was learning to live with an artificial limb. He was deemed so confident and well-adjusted that it was safe to let a trainee like me loose on him. Little did they realise that the risks were all mine. He hooked and reeled me in at the end of my first year in training, in June.
About a month before my story starts, my parents told us that Mum had been offered a big promotion to run the retail side of a major European hub. It was certainly well-deserved, but it meant that she had to move there. To sweeten things for her and because he was really good legal executive too, Daddy would be given a job there too in their legal department.
It meant the break-up of our home, my secure nest. I was going to be left all alone in our house. I realise now that such a move was on the cards for years, but they wanted to wait until I had finished school, but I felt absolutely desolate at the time, and furious with my mother and, to a lesser extent, father. My brother took it far better, but he was not tied to (a small English Midlands city that I had better not name.) like I was until I finished my training.
I loved my mother, but she was not my main nurturer, in my teen-age years not even as much as Dick, let alone Daddy. I knew she would always be my mother, but she was also a bit career-driven. She was not always there for me. In fact she was not always be in the right country to ‘be there’ for me. But my Daddy and brother were the ones who mattered the most to me at 19, and they ankara escort were step really. Were they abandoning me too?
So, at the time, I was feeling massively insecure, betrayed and vulnerable; a perfect target for the pornographically ambitious amputee, Simon Pugh, that June. We were an ordinary happy second-marriage family unit in April of 2000. Within three months, I had starred in four porn videos and Dick had co-starred in one. Daddy got our co-starring effort suppressed, but my other three did eventually get out on the Internet. If I’m honest, they had zero negative effects on my life. Only two or three people have ever connected me with them and each time, something good resulted.
It all happened for a mixture of reasons. Like I said, at the time I was feeling really insecure about my family and future, but also I was a very innocent and modest girl, who was attracting the attention of older men for the first time in my life, liked the attention and spectacularly misunderstood the nature of the first real play one of them made for me.
I am certainly not complaining about what happened. My confidence was dramatically raised and my bank balance improved significantly by the end of that summer. More importantly, my family insecurities were all put to bed literally as well as metaphorically! In June I experienced spectacularly good and kinky sex with both my step brother and Daddy (also step, but always Daddy to me). You can make up your own mind about whether or not it was incest. It excites me to think it is. The experience woke me up sexually like volcanoes wake up mountains, and proved beyond a shadow of a doubt how much the two most important men in my life cared about me
Anyway, here goes. I left school with good average A-levels and was in my first year of training as a physiotherapist when my story really starts.
My sexual awakening was kind of arranged by Simon Pugh, who filmed some key moments, particularly the first big one. Thus, unusually enough, I have videos on file here to remind me what happened, like perfect recall.
My awakening did not involve the loss of my virginity. That had gone two years earlier on a geography field trip. However neither the first time nor any of the few subsequent successes boys had enjoyed with me since, had been very special. Sex was like classical music to me. I knew what it sounded like, but it didn’t do as much for me as it was supposed to.
Because it’s my memoir and I like to comment on what was going on as I describe it, I have written my story in the third person. Anne-Marie was me, but she isn’t anymore. I grew up. It has been a long time since I was that innocent girl. In the memoirs I have changed names and disguised locations, but apart from that, it is as true as my memory allows and the video record confirms.
At the start of my adventure, I was 19 years old, training as a physiotherapist in a small English Midland city. I still lived at home with my parents and brother. We had all just found out that As I said, Mummy was being promoted into a big job on the continent and Dad was going with her. My brother Dick was ok with that, because at 34 and with a nomadic job, he was already half gone.
That left me, youngest and probably spoiled member of the family trapped by her course in a place suddenly devoid of all the things that make her feel secure. I was absolutely fine about it – NOT!! I was so unhappy and insecure.
I was averagely intelligent and confident at 19, but naive and inexperienced too, after a sheltered upbringing. I was close to my brother, who, along with my parents, had always been highly (too) protective of me. I felt ready to stand on my own two feet, but was not particularly well equipped to do so. My departed virginity had brought nothing like the satisfaction, masturbation had led her to expect. In short, I was a frustrated teenager. I am not sure if any of this explains what happened next, so I will let you judge.
I was led into porn by someone I met through work. As part of my training, I had primary responsibility for one patient, Mr Pugh. As a trainee I had few other responsibilities, so I often found myself chatting with Pugh, a man recovering from the amputation of his foot at the ankle. Before the accident, he was a self-employed market research consultant, regularly producing and directing corporate films and commercials from his own small studio.
In a way, the accident that cost Pugh his foot was a blessing for him, because it gave him the means stop worrying about work and do what he wanted. He exchanged his left foot for an insurance pay-out that set him up for life and reckoned he got the bargain. He was doubly fortunate in that he had no ongoing complications or pain. He decided to indulge his perverse interests and enter the world of ‘reality’ pornographic film-making. His gimmick was to produce films in which he took girls-next-door and led them by an interview process and progressive cash escort ankara rewards to do more and more in front of his camera. I was his first and (I reckon) most outstanding success.
Pugh seemed an ideal patient for a trainee like me. Despite the newness of the disability, he was cheerful, making a good adjustment and unlikely to be harmed by her inexperience. No one, least of all me, suspected that I was the one at risk. In fact, from the moment he met me, Pugh must have seen I was an ideal candidate for reality porn. I was pretty, slim, inexperienced and with a flirtatious manner. My figure was just transitioning from youthful angularity to adult roundness. I was innocent, but mainly from not knowing what I was missing and lack of opportunity to find out. Pugh helped me fill in most of the blanks. I may have surprised him with the extent of my innocence, but he kept finding new and different ways to test my grip on it.
The week Pugh was due to leave rehabilitation, he made his play to me, telling me about a new project he was starting, “We interview young people over time about their attitudes to fashion, their lives and relationships. It’s really useful to my clients, so they pay participants very well. It takes about an hour of your time per month on average. You are exactly the demographic we want.”
Of course I was flattered by his offer, of course, and even more interested when he told me there was a standard fee of £50 just for showing up. “You can earn much more depending on how the conversations go and how much you tell or show us about different aspects of your life.”
Pugh warned that it would not be money for nothing; that I had to be honest about my life and feelings, so that his clients got value for money. He implied and I imagined that his clients included top brands, so his warning made the offer seem more professional. I certainly agreed readily enough.
Pugh did not actually lie to me, however disingenuous his explanation. He could afford and really did pay girls for interviews in which little or nothing sexual happened, but that was because you strike out more often at the amateur end of porn film-making. When he made his proposal to me, his business plan was only just taking shape, but it soon ran as I am about to describe.
It was a pornography business. His clients were actually subscribers, who paid to see the more eventful interviews. Less exciting ones served as free teasers on his website. As for the market research angle, Pugh did have another business with a few legitimate clients who purchased real market research interviews from him, but, as he no longer needed to make a legitimate living, he let that business slide.
Pugh talked about market research and he talked about his clients. I connected the two and Pugh didn’t correct my mistake. His explanations made sense to the innocent and curious girl I was. “Well, for example, you just left school. Girls are always trying to wear their school uniforms in ways that make them stand out. How did you do it? That could be really valuable to companies that sell to the teen market.” A more sophisticated girl might have seen where he was going, but it made sense to me. I might have smelled a rat if his talk of school uniforms had come after the interviews had become risqué, but he was too clever for that. We had several times talked matter-of-factly without a hint of innuendo about what teens wore, including school uniforms, so my radar, such as it was, had already turned off. It picked up nothing.
In fact, Pugh’s biggest challenge was in convincing me that I was worth the trouble. Part of the problem was that I was used to thinking of my mother as the beauty in the family. As I was usually in the background, while my mother was in the foreground, I had not yet recognized my own attractiveness to men.
Thus, the 19 year-old me started out unconfident, neither dressing nor socializing with confidence, and having just found out that the end of the only home I had ever known was about to break up. In retrospect, I could not have been riper for Pugh’s picking. I told him. “There is nothing special about me or how I dress. My parents and brother would never let me do anything, and I’m not daring!” I had no real idea how arousing males might find that combination of modesty and youthful curves. “I’m not trendy like some of the other girls.”
“That is what we are after,” Pugh replied, “saying and doing what feels natural for you. You are a normal person with normal good taste. You’d be a perfect representative of all the girls in the World who deserve to be seen more and heard! What do you say? I need to re-establish my business after my accident. You’re a perfect example of the girl-next-door and can help me … get back on my feet!”
I remember groaning at his joke, but recognising a physiotherapy moment(!) when I saw it. If I agreed, it would encourage his positive attitude towards living with his disability. It was flattering to even ankara escort bayan be asked, but a little cautious, “What if I don’t want to tell you things that are confidential?”
“I promise you will always be in control. Interviews will never go further than your limits. In any case, my clients have set aside a budget, so I can usually pay more than the £50 basic fee to reward you for letting us explore deeper. The right interview can earn you a lot of money!”
I liked the sound of that. In any case, I did not think there is that much about my life that was worth keeping secret. “You’re sure I will be in control?”
Once I had agreed, Pugh wasted no time establishing ground rules before I had time to reconsider. The first interview would be at his studio, which was, coincidentally, not 15 minutes from home. It never occurred to me as we fixed a time, that I had made a life-changing decision. I was reassured by his professionalism when he explained that he would write up our conversation into an agreement for me to sign. He promised that I would be a perfect representative of young women starting out in life. I barely noticed Pugh’s last sentence, “Of course I have to video interviews. My clients need to see the data. After all, they are providing the budget. I promise not to share it with anyone else.”
We were both smiling as Pugh left the centre, for closely related, but, as it happens, entirely different reasons. Pugh was keen to test out his assumption that he could talk people into doing things they would normally never contemplate with people they would normally never look at twice. I was reluctantly accepting that I would have to make my own way when my family left and wanted to prove to myself that I could stand on my own two feet.
Simon Pugh coped remarkably well with his lost foot and using his artificial foot. He had some sensitivity of feeling in the stump without any accompanying ‘phantom limb’ pain or discomfort. His limp was barely noticeable as he ushered me into his studio just a month later. He looked relaxed and confident surrounded by an impressive array of lights and tripods. I felt quite proud when she saw him, imagining her fumbling physiotherapy was the cause of his obvious pleasure at seeing her again.
It was in fact that I was obviously still unaware of his depraved motives. As the video of my first interview shows, I was dressed in a sky blur over-sized knit top and a knee-length peasant skirt finished off with not-too-sheer black tights and two-inch heels. Just under five feet and two inches tall and eight stone (112 pounds) with dark wavy hair, I look good.
The studio amazed and impressed me, convincing me that Pugh ran a professional organisation. It was a large square room with a high ceiling. Each corner was laid out differently. One looked like a smart meeting room with a leather sofa and chair arranged around a glass-topped coffee table, with floor-to-ceiling book cases behind; another looked like a smart hotel bedroom, while a third looked like a small garden with Astro-turf on the floor and artificial flowers and bushes ringing a park bench. The last was plain white walls and floor with a kind of circular platform settee in the middle, too big to be a bed, with a matching smaller circular layer on top. It looked for all the world like a great big cake.
Pugh ushered me through the studio into a small office where, over coffee, I signed a contract agreeing to do interviews for which I would receive a fee of £50 plus extra amounts that would be agreed on an ad hoc basis. I would be free to stop whenever I wanted. All interviews would be filmed and shared with his backers. She did not guess that ‘sharing’ meant placing videos on a pid-for pornographic website. Within 15 minutes, £50 fee in my bag, I was sitting on the bench in the garden corner of the studio and Pugh was turning on the cameras.
The scene opens in what looks like a park bench on an obvious studio set. A dark-haired teen girl sits tensely looking at the camera. She is beautifully but modestly dressed in a blue pull-over and long skirt.
An off-camera voice Pugh) speaks, “Good morning Anne-Marie.”
“Umm, I didn’t realise that the camera would be right in my face. Is that necessary for market research?”
“Yes… You see … We are interviewing lots of carefully chosen people. I told you my clients want to learn everything you can tell them, and that means your body language as well as what you say. We video all of our interviews. It also serves as proof of contract. If I offer you payment, it’s proof of contract. We pay well. That £50 is not bad for 15 minutes, is it?”
She smiles uncertainly and then with growing conviction. “Yes, you’re right.” She still sits stiffly, but takes a deep breath. The camera captures the resolution in her eyes.
“So, let’s start. First, here is an extra £40, because I want you to take off your jacket and describe what you are wearing. You see how it works? The more you can do and explain, the more you can earn. We want to know your take on fashion today.”
She takes the money hesitantly, but cash in hand is a sure way of quieting doubts. “Sure, that makes sense for a fashion check.”
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