As she and John grew older, familiar games turned strange, and the rope took on a life of its own. John learned how to make Mary June moan, even cry when the pain was especially sweet. But pain became a weak substitute for the contact that Mary June really craved. None of the horny boys in their muscle cars could do for her what John March could do-if only he would let himself enter her. The rope was the only thing that kept her from forcing her foster brother to do what she wanted.

Even though he refused to touch Mary June's berry-ripe nipples, her swollen pussy, John was the only one who could make her cunt dissolve in a shuddering meltdown. All he had to do was watch her peel her flimsy dress off, then wrap her nude body in intricate knots. Tighter, tighter he pulled the rope, until her tender flesh burned. When she lay on her back in the deep woods, her wrists and ankles bound, Mary June never laughed. She was paralyzed by an arousal edged with fear-fear of wild animals, of other men, of the possibility that John might leave her there with her fear and desire and no place to put them.

"There's no blood between us," she pleaded. "We're only brother and sister by accident. Why can't you just get inside me?"

"It's an accident that the whole town believes in," John March said. "If you want me to make love to you, you'll have to leave with me."

But Mary June would not leave the farmhouse. Although Mary June had never called her foster mother "Mama," a bond had grown between the two women that John March would never understand.

While he talked, John March drove me through the humid night. His hand found my thigh again, dipped down to the silky hot-patch, and rested there, cool and hard.