But now I found the sight of my sister in her bathers endlessly fascinating. My Mum told her off for buying bikinis that were too skimpy. “Oh, for...God’s sake, Tabatha, put some clothes on!” she was always saying. Not just about the bathers, but about the short shorts, the mini skirts, the spaghetti straps, the crop tops and the tank tops. In the second dream, I was sitting on my bed, looking out the window at Tabatha lying on a sunlounge. She was wearing a white bikini. She was lying on. Her breathing and gasping was getting heavier, in rhythm with his powerful thrusts. His hands roamed her body, squeezing her breasts mercilessly and pulling and twisting the phallus stuffed into her. Her arms and legs fought a useless battle against the shackles that held her open to his pounding, now faster and deeper. She thrashed about wildly, becoming one with the chains that bind her. She exists only to please as he ravaged her with ever increasing intensity. Her screams of joy crashed. More

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