My friend Amy [F19] reads me her review of my sister [F20] fucking me [M18].

Amy has a giant photo of herself, covered in my cum on the screen of her computer, which comes up after she unlocks it with a long password. She closes it and pulls up the article she has written and begins to read it to me:

>***La petite mort du frère et de la sœur*** **challenges our understanding of art, performance, and reality itself**

>By Friday Knights

"You're Friday Knights?" I ask. Friday Knights has been the sex advice columnist in the school newspaper for the last 10 years.

"I am for now. Shut up and listen."

>My dear readers, I confess to having been one of the few to attend the unauthorized, unrecorded, and officially fictional performance of *La petite mort du frère et de la sœur* that took place in one of our freshman dormitories early this year. The audience was a select group. In addition to your favorite columnist, there were four other people, whose identities, as well as that of the performers, I have vowed to keep in the strictest confidence. The administration has denied the rumors of the events, and there are certainly some gaps in the rumors, as I have heard them, so your favorite columnist is here to tell you what really happened, but, more importantly, to discuss the artistic merits of the performance.

"How long have you been Friday Knights?"

"This is my third column. *Shut up!*"

>Please, dear reader, do not mistake my purpose. I do not intend to titillate you, or spread idle gossip. I do not intend to shock you, or reveal some great scandal. My purpose is to grant you, the reader, an insight into this performance, this meta critique of art, pornography, sin, and truth.

"So you write about me?"

"You wish! Do you want a chance to correct the record before this gets published or not?"

"Go on."

>Before we can discuss the themes and the impact, and the success which this performance has in achieving these goals, I must, as one of the select witnesses, recap to you the performance as I recall it.

>The performance took place in a dorm room. As the audience, we were invited to sit on the floor of the room. The brother, *le frère*, was tied with his arms stretched, standing to the top bunk. He was nude, except for a blind fold and headphones. With his svelte features, long, curly, dark hair, androgynous face, the allusion to the crucifixion of Christ could not have been more obvious.

"You think, I'm Jesus?"

"A pretty-boy Jesus. Shut up."

>Once we had our seats, the lights were turned off and a single spotlight was shined on *le frère*. At this point *la sœur*, the sister, came into the room from the hallway. She, like *le frère*, was nude, and was wearing a *mardi gras* style mask that matched her brother's blindfold. In her hands, she was carrying a small whip. I noticed immediately that she appeared to be the demonic twin of her Christ-figure brother. Her dark hair and light brown complexion a perfect match. But, he was bound and still while she was dynamic and moved to a music she alone seemed to hear.

>*La sœur* bowed, announced that "Tonight, I welcome all of you to a one-time performance of *La petite mort du frère et de la sœur*. No recordings. You will be the only witnesses to this performance. *Merci Beacoup*."

>She began to dance, again to this music inside her head, but her movements conveyed the rhythm, and her cracks of the whip formed their own music, matched by the movement of her body. Dear Reader, I must confess to having gone through a phase (one I will go through again :) where I enjoyed a little whips and chains. I have never seen anyone handle a whip like *la sœur*. She turned the cracks into music, above and around us in the tiny space. She played with *le frère*, never striking him hard, never leaving a mark, and somehow making it seem like the cracks lined up with the strikes. After only a few minutes, your favorite columnist was having trouble breathing, and felt like I had consumed on a night I hadn't imbibed.

>She dropped the whip, and began fellating *le frère*, taking her brother's living phallus into her mouth, and shaking in the same hypnotic rhythm, moving her head in a little circle, and moving his body with her. She became a snake charmer, using not a flute to entice the snake, but her mouth and her body, taming the beast.

"It felt like she was spinning on my cock."

"Shut up."

>It is important when discussing the next bit to understand that *le frère* is no slouch in the "D" department.

"Thanks."

"*Shut up!* As I was saying, the brother has a *tiny fucking dick, only 9 fucking inches*"

>What happens next is like sword swallowing. *La sœur* devours the entire penis in her mouth, holds, and pulls away. She proceeds to rapidly take the large member in and out of her mouth, with near demonic perfection, still moving to a regular beat. Despite the show having no musical accompaniment, by this time, dear reader, I swear your favorite columnist could hear the music.

>The sister pulled away from her brother, and revealed his spit soaked organ. She demonstrated no discomfort, she didn't gag. She reached up, put her hands on either side of *le frère's* head, and lifted herself up, moving her breasts over his body. Then, her hands still on both sides of her helpless twin, she raised her legs, hanging from the bunk, and lowerd herself onto his penis, sliding it into her hands free. She wrapped her legs around him, and, hanging there, continued her movements, this time at exactly double the speed.

>The closest athletic performance I have ever seen, lovely reader, was the time I was lucky enough to watch the boxing team train at the speed bag with those sweaty boys and girls, pounding at that bag at unimaginable speeds! She did all this *while holding onto her bound brother with her legs and hanging from the beam of the cross his arms were tied to*.

>As she rode him, we saw her body glistening in the spot light. Her mask comes untied and falls to the ground, floating down off her body like a leaf falling from a tree. She increased her pace slightly and then shoved herself down onto her bound sibling, ripped off his mask and headphones, and stared into his eyes. The eyes flashed with recognition, the figure only now learning that the succubus is his sister.

"I knew the whole time."

"Shut up, it makes a better story, and you did manage to look shocked."

>Dear Reader, I thank you for your indulgence in the next part, as it technically violates the, admittedly generous, style guidelines that this publication requires of me, but it is critical to understand the deeper meaning of the performance.

"Really? Style guidelines?"

"Shut up. I'll cut that later. It sounded hot"

>The two siblings experienced an intense, and loud, orgasm. Their moans managed to carry the beat of the song that had been building all evening. Jesus and the demon were both openly weeping. I could smell the hot semen from my position, feet away from the performance. I, dear reader, must confess that me and *every other member of the audience* experienced our own, small echo of the performers' joint climax. We all felt, at that moment like we had *our brains fucked out.*

"That's the violation?"

"Yeah, I pretend I can't say 'fuck'. Makes it hot to say it."

>At that point *la sœur* unwrapped herself from her brother, turned around. Her eyeliner had made streaks from the tears pouring down her face. She appeared exhausted, ready to collapse. She performed a little curtsy and thanked the audience, "*Merci Beacoup*" and walked back out into the hallway of the dorm, dripping with semen as we applauded.

>The athletic performance, the intentional allusions to the crucifixion, and the intoxicating dance that, quite literally, brought an audience to climax, all of this argue strongly that this performance was high art. Quite honestly, dear reader, I thought this would be the usual fair of this column, gossip about poly-amorous adventures in the dorms, but instead it became a review of a masterpiece.

"You're not going to talk about how you left me, um, crucified like you said, until Jamal came home two hours later?"

"Shut up, you deserved it, pervert. She was your sister! And stop interrupting me while I talk about your sister Carrie's performance."

>And this was a masterpiece, my lovelies. It forces us to confront the relationship between sin and pleasure, love and obsession, discipline and desire. The orgasm, the *brother-sister-fucking-climax*, was *the little death*. We all lost a bit of ourselves in that moment. We all, witnesses, participants, and likely everyone within a hundred miles of that dorm room that night lost something."

"Too much."

"Yep. Will remove that last part."

>We *all* died, just a little. *La petite mort*.

>Is this pornography? It wasn't filmed. It wasn't recorded. This column, my lucky reader, may be the only piece of evidence that the events even occurred, and as I attest to my honesty, my loves, I will not reveal my sources, so the performance may not have happened at all.

>But the performance *did* happen, and the performance *was* between an actual brother and sister. And this, my prurient fellow voyeurs, is where the real question comes in: **How much does it matter that this was real?** Would the performance have worked if it was between two actors, playing the roles of brother and sister, and not two actual siblings? If so, does the performance even have to have happened at all? Is not this story of it, this *reference* to it, enough?

>I am sorry to force these questions on you, my supportive readers, but I have been forced to carry these thoughts since I witnessed these events, since I lost part of my soul, and now I most ask you to assist with the burden. I can't help but wonder if I only imagined the entire thing, and while I know I didn't, I can't help but wonder, *if I had imagined it, would I have lost the same amount of my soul?*

"That's the goth girl I love, Amy."

"You love me?"

"I mean..."

"Shut up, silly boy. Almost done."

>As always, thank you, dear reader for exploring these questions with me. Special thanks this week to Al and Sam, for their helpful comments last week discussing the art of fellatio. I look forward to testing various cough drops and cough syrups, and will report on my findings next week.

"That research sounds fun."

"Hmm." Amy unwraps and puts a cough drop in her mouth. "Come on! Those pants aren't going to take themselves off."