Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So pretty,” my little sister Camila sighed, peering behind the heavy curtain over my bed. She was enthralled by the heavy snowfall. Somehow, she was barefoot in nothing but her usual undies and T-shirt, despite the inescapable cold that had gripped our house.

“Close the curtain, dummy. It’s freezing enough in here as it is.” I was under a blanket, wearing my warm flannel pajamas, and still I was shivering. I’d had to shovel the driveway after Mom and Dad left for work. I’d spent nearly an hour out there in that icy hell. The chill had sunken into my bones.

“You should see it. It looks like the moon out there.” She let the curtain fall, then plopped back down on the end of my bed.

I glared at her. She was wearing her favorite pink panda bear panties. She also had on her black shirt, the one that featured a big-headed alien head and the words I WANT TO BELIEVE. Mom had gotten it for her when she was seven, and now she was twelve and the damn thing was practically falling apart.

I couldn't stand looking at her like that. She was a girl, and she was just sitting there in her undies, like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t basically a refrigerator in here. Like I wasn’t a teenaged boy hopelessly enslaved to his overactive id.

I turned away, trying not to look at her.

“You’re grumpy today,” she said, picking at one of her toenail cuticles. She’d painted them Christmas colors a couple weeks ago, but now that paint job was almost gone.

I sighed, still facing the other direction. She didn’t get it. Of course she didn't get it.

Camila was a weird kid. Always had been. She was the only girl I knew who liked playing with Hot Wheels and Legos as much as she liked dressing up and doing her nails.

She was a good kid, though, even if she could be annoying sometimes.

And okay. She was my best friend. Sure, whatever.

We had one more week of winter break. Then it was back to the pits of high school for me, and to one last glorious year of elementary school for her. Neither of us wanted the break to end, of course, but I dreaded while she dilly-dallied.

I watched her little pink toes curl and splay as she idly inspected them.

“I think I’m going to paint them again,” she said. She eyed my one foot sticking out of the covers. It had gotten a little sweaty, so I’d let it out to breathe. “You want yours painted, too? I can do it for you, you know.”

“How are you not freezing to death out there?” I asked. She was seated on top of the covers, barely dressed, and I hadn’t seen so much as a goosebump on her.

Camila shrugged. “It’s not that bad. Plus, your bed is warm.”

She shifted so she was sitting crisscross applesauce. Her eyes were on me now, and her face was all scrunched up. She was thinking something over.

My breath quickened silently.

Then she reached forward and grabbed my ankle. Her grip was icy. I flinched.

“Ew, you need to cut your toenails!” she laughed. “Let me do it!”

I kicked, but her hand stayed firm.

“You want to paint them, you want to clip them, why not just give me a full pedicure?” I grunted, wagging my leg to try and loosen her grip. “Let me go. Your hand is freezing.”

She let me go, then grinned mischievously.

She got off the bed and scampered to the door. Her tattered black shirt barely reached past her bubble butt. I sighed, shivered, and made sure to hide my foot deep inside the covers.

But then she didn't leave. She stayed in the doorway, looking at me expectantly. I peered back at her. She didn’t move, but her eyes flickered toward my TV, where the Playstation was set up.

“Hey. You want to go to the video store today?” she asked. “It’s winter break. I feel like we should rent a game.”

“We?” I said. She never wanted to play. Only to watch.

She was up to something. She was trying to butter me up. She definitely wanted to give me a pedicure. What little sister could resist?

“Um,” I said. I grimaced inwardly at the prospect of venturing back outside. But I had just earned my driver’s license, and I was never not down to go for a drive, blizzard or no blizzard. I’d cut my teeth on snow and ice last year, while practicing with Mom in the Kmart parking lot. “Sure,” I shrugged.

Camila clapped once with delight, then pivoted on her heels to go.

“Where are you going?” I called to her.

“To get the nail clippers! First pedi. Then Blockbuster.”

"No pedi."

"Fine," she huffed. "First pants. Then Blockbuster."

"Good idea."

***

A half hour later, I was standing at the counter of the video rental store, waiting for the clerk to ring up the copy of Silent Hill I had chosen. It had been an unspoken decision, an obvious choice, and I hadn’t argu ed with myself in the slightest.

“Sick choice,” the clerk, Tim, nodded in approval.

My weird childhood friend Tim was the greaseball working behind the counter. He and I were still friendly, but he was an absolute liability to my social status, so these days I only ever saw him in passing at school - or here at Blockbuster.

“Sup, Tim?” I said.

“Nothing much, man.” He noticed my sister wandering the aisles. He called out to her. We were the only ones in here. “Gosh, Cami, you just keep growing, huh?”

Camila beamed at him.

“Hey, so. Definitely play this,” he said to me as the scanner beeped over Silent Hill. “It’s a masterpiece. But also,” he said, and then dug under the counter into his backpack, “give this one a go.” He slid a jewel case copy of some game I’d never seen or heard of across the counter.

The cover art was all anime girls and big blocky Japanese writing against a sky-blue backdrop. It looked dorky as fuck. The complete and utter opposite of Silent Hill.

“What is it?” I asked, frowning.

Tim rolled his eyes.

Camila skipped up beside me. She saw the cover and her eyes went wide. She looked at me and grinned, then back at Tim.

She liked Tim. She always had. She would say it was because he was “just himself.” But he also liked to remind her constantly how cute he thought she was, a fact that bothered and unsettled me as much as it delighted and flattered her. Why were girls such suckers for older boys? Even creeps like Tim had an aura of automatic cool, simply by virtue of their age and proximity to the world of sex.

She smiled and waved at him, and he waved back. Blech.

“Hey short stack,” he said to her, smiling approvingly at her immediate fixation with the game he’d slid toward me. “You seem to appreciate Everyday Young Life more than your big dumb brother does. Think you could get him to play it?”

“Everyday Young Life,” she repeated. “This looks like a game for girls!” she giggled. “What is it about?”

I frowned at Tim. What was this? He knew I hated certain kind s of games. If things ever got too Japanese for me, I was out.

Tim leaned across the counter. His voice lowered. He spoke to Camila like they were partners in crime.

“It’s about falling in love with whoever you want. And guess what?”

She leaned in, too, and he whispered something to her.

I couldn't hear what he said, but the second he told her, Camila looked up at me, her eyes bright.

I groaned and pushed her head down behind the counter.

“Do we owe you for two rentals then?” I asked.

“Naw,” he smirked. “This is my own personal copy. Yours until you finish it. I’ll be curious to know who you, uh … decide to go to the Summer Festival with.” He gave Camila a wry look.

“The Summer Festival?” I said.

Camila cackled with conspiratorial glee.

“Yeah,” he chuckled. “You’ll see, dude. You can thank me later.”

“Okay, Tim,” I said, scooping up the game to add it to the bag along with Silent Hill and some snacks we’d gotten, but Camila intercepted it. “Well, thanks,” I said.

“Don’t mention it, dude. See you next time. Oh and don’t worry about the due date. I’ll keep you guys clear till whenever you bring it back. Just, you know, make sure to bring it back.”

“Nice,” I said, admittedly impressed by the gesture. Overdue fees were a huge factor in how Blockbuster made their money. They could be insidiously steep. He waved ours off like it was no biggie. Camila winked at him as we stepped back out into the cold, quiet, snow covered lot. She also walked differently, like she wanted him to look at her butt. She had fleece lined leggings on. Her butt just looked like a butt. She was twelve for chrissakes.

The plows still hadn’t come by. We crunched through shin-deep snow back to my car. We bundled in, and idled for a minute as the cabin heated back up. I thawed my frozen fingers by the vents. Big giggly plumes of breath billowed out of my sister as she pored through the manual insert that had come tucked into Tim’s game’s jewel case.

“God, there’s so many good choices,” she muttered.

“Choices?”

She held the booklet open where I could see on the console between us. Several pages in a row featured full page illustrations of various characters from the game. Most of them were hypersexualized girls and women. One of them couldn’t have been much older than Camila.

“Wait. Why is this one so young?” I asked. “You can date her?”

“That’s Tomoko! She’s your little sister. She’s just one of the characters you can spend time with, get to know, whatever. I guess maybe you can take her to the Summer Festival? But it’s probably not, you know…” she shrugged.

“Okay,” I sighed. I noted that our windshield had successfully melted all the fresh snowfall. “Alright, let’s head home.”

“Kay, try not to get us killed,” Camila said pleasantly, continuing to scour the booklet. “I really want to play this.”

“Right,” I grumbled. “After we play Silent Hill.”

I drove home through the snow. It was quiet, eerie, almost zen. The sun was shining. The snowfall had slowed to a sprinkle. There weren’t any other cars. Even the weird slippery sled-like feel of coasting downhill in the snowy, unplowed roads of our neighborhood was kind of fun. If only it weren’t so damn cold. Even with the heat blasting, I couldn’t shake the wintry chill the had seeped inside of me.

***

When we got home, Camila immediately popped open the Playstation disc drive, removed the game I’d forgotten was in there (Twisted Metal 2, if you’re like Tim and would want to know), and carefully placed our newly rented game onto the little carousel. She clamped the lid shut. She booted it up. As the familiar Playstation splash screen loaded, she got comfy on the foot of my bed.

I sat behind her against my headboard, butt where my head would go, pillow for back support, blanket draped around me. I was cold. But my shivers were also due to general excitement. I loved that it was winter break, we had a week to hang out, and we were just about to start a new game of—

“Mila,” I groaned. “No. Go put in Silent Hill.”

“Gael. No. I want you to play this.”

“Don’t make me kick you off my bed.”

“Don’t make me tell Mom and Dad what’s hiding in your closet.”

Fuck. She was going straight to the big guns. Goddamn it.

She grinned mischievously and wagged her eyebrows.

I rolled my eyes and sighed.

I was cold, but I also wasn't about to let a stupid girl beat me.

I threw the blanket aside and marched over to the Playstation. I popped open the disc drive.

“Nooo!” Camila complained. She reached off the bed and grabbed me by my sweat pants’ waistband. She tugged as hard as she could to keep me from reaching the Blockbuster bag on the credenza. It was no use. Even as my bare ass came into view, I snatched up the bag, laughing victoriously.

“Gael, pleeease? Just for a little bit! Just to see if you like it!”

“You are welcome to go hang out in your own room,” I said, stubbornly cracking open the plastic Blockbuster case containing Silent Hill. “I hear they give great pedis over there.”

“Pleeease! Just until you get to the first save point! Then I promise not to bug you about it anymore all night! You can play your creepy monster game all you want!”

I was already putting Silent Hill inside the Playstayion.

But then Camila let out a sound. It was a tiny, pathetic squeak. The sound of her losing hope.

“Jeez, Mila, come on. Why are you so desperate to make me play that dorky game anyway?”

“Because,” she said, “it has sex scenes!”

I had to admit, this gave me pause.

But it was freezing in my room, and I wanted to get back under my blanket. Plus, I’d already had sweet lucid visions of us huddled together in the dark at the edge of my bed as we crept bravely through the grim corridors of Silent Hill. Even the promise of “sex scenes” would not be enough to waylay me.

“Please?!” she pleaded, literally on her knees at the edge of the mattress, trying to stop me from getting back into my own bed. She bit her lip. She batted her lashes. She made the face of an angel.“How about if I tickle your back?” she asked as seductively as she knew how.

“Really?” I asked.

In our family, back-tickling was a sacred gesture, a soulful pleasure. This was not the kind of playful poky torture often associated with “tickling.” This was delicate, artful improvisational art. We had both grown up under the loving fingertips and nails of two avidly skilled parents. During family movie nights, or at bedtimes, or on sick days, we could count on them to whisk us away, drawing long, dazzling patterns of nerve-tingling loveliness across our bare backs. It could soothe us at our most frantic. It could put us directly to sleep. It could take our minds of our ills.

It could make me think about swapping Silent Hill out for Tim’s weirdo anime sex game.

“For how long?” I asked, squinting at Camila.

“For as long as you want to play!” she swore, hope rising in her voice.

“So … if I played all night?” I asked.

“Then I would tickle your back all night,” she giggled. “Come!” She patted the bedside in front of her. “Take your shirt off! I’ll prove it!”

I scratched my chin in thought. This was indeed a tantalizing offer. Camila was a prodigy at back tickling. The art came effortlessly to her. Her fingertips were heavenly implements.

“Do I have to do you too?” I asked.

She blushed and shrugged. We’d always respected the law of reciprocity when it cane to back tickling. It was part and parcel of the experience. Every back tickle was a back and forth, a dialog, with whoever went second inevitably obliged to match in intensity and length the back tickling they had just received. This was how Camila had become such a savant at an early age.

But that was the thing. It had been years since our last back tickling exchange as siblings. She had, as Tim had so crudely observed, “grown” since then. In the intervening years, we’d split off into sex-matched pairs, me with Dad, her with Mom. This was never something anybody had discussed. Rather, just at some point, the differences in anatomy had made this the most sensible, obvious way to proceed.

I hadn’t seen or touched my sister’s bare back in years. Nor had she mine. I had pimples I was self-conscious about. And she had - well. You know. She had grown.

“You don’t have to do me,” she said shyly.

“I m-mean,” I faltered. “It doesn’t exactly seem fair. But with your like…” I couldn’t just say ‘training bra’ out loud like some kind of freak. “I mean, I just wouldn’t want to, like, uh.” ‘Ask my twelve year old sister to get topless in my bed,’ was also not about to come out of my mouth.

“Don’t worry about it,” she said, standing her ground amid the awkwardness I’d accidentally created. “Just let me do it while you play. I want to watch you play the game. That can be how you pay me back.”

“You sure?”

“Take off your shirt,” she grinned.

“Shoot. But it’s cold,” I shivered. “Ugh. Alright!” I stripped off my sweatshirt and undershirt, but kept them around my arms. The cold air lapped thirstily at my naked torso. My nipples went rock hard. Camila eyed me strangely.

“Dang,” she giggled. She reached out and squeezed my oblique muscles with her icy fingers.

“Yeek!” I gasped at her touch.

She cackled hilariously.

“Sorry,” she said, “couldn’t resist. You got muscles, big bro!”

I frowned.

She shrugged and smiled.

We both knew this was a ridiculous statement. I was not, and had never been, an especially athletic guy. But I was young. And to be fair, she and I were both handsome kids. We were a handsome family. My body, like hers and Mom’s and Dad’s, was toned and fit without doing much of anything

“Mila, move so I can sit. And get me the controller. Oo, and the Hot Tamales.”

“Ew,” she scoffed as she tossed me my candy of choice. The controller, she was more careful with. While she was up, she also replaced Silent Hill with Everyday Young Life, or what she’d called “EYL.” She’d acronymized the damn title already, as if it were an instant classic, a household name. Inwas the video game expert in this house. I’d be the judge of that.

As the game was booting up, I popped some candy in my mouth and cracked my neck and back. My bones crackled like a tray of ice cubes. Camila climbed into bed and settled in behind me.

The title screen was an idyllic summer scene. Tall green grass bent in breezy waves beneath a neon blue sky. Fluffy white clouds passed both behind and in front of the words Everyday Young Life. I pressed Start, causing a brilliant lens flare as the camera swept up into the deep blue sky and the opening narrative text began to appear, first out of the contrail of a passing jet, then across a banner being flown by a plane, then on a bobbling flock of hot air balloons, one big letter per balloon.

“Wow,” Camila said. “I like the style already. ”

“Weren’t you going to tickle my back?” I said.

Just like that, Camila began to tickle my back. Her hands were still icy cold. But her fingers were nimble and knowing. They danced along my ribs and spine , delicate as snowflakes. Starting gentle. Acclimating to my melty warmth.

I shivered. No, I quivered. All day, the cold had been my chief antagonist. It had slowed and hardened and drained me. But now here was Camila wielding it like a musical instrument , even as she was distracted by the game.

I cleared my throat and focused on the game.

“That feel okay?” she asked softly.

“Your fingers are like icicles.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay. It still feels good.”

“Good,” she said. I could hear the look on her face. That intent, artsy look.

The intro music was an easy, catchy summertime melody. It was very J-pop. The text described the circumstances of my character’s arrival to a new school in a modest town in the Japanese countryside. A nifty montage showed the various girls I would be courting going about their small town lives. My inner animal noted the menagerie of body types on offer: tall and busty, short and sporty, thin and demure, and so on. The girls’ personalities shown brightly on their variously sultry, spunky, and cherubic faces

My character was to be a sullen city boy, your classic fish out of water. He seemed insufferable, and right away I could tell I’d have my work cut out for me. A charmer he was not. Winning these beauties’ hearts would be a challenge.

At last we arrived at our new lodgings. We were to be sharing a small two story home with our dad and little sister, the sheepish Tomoko. She was quiet but kind. She invited me right away to play games with her.

This was where the game really began. A menu appeared. It listed the various girls in my new school, each with their own submenu of activities, interests, and personality traits. Tomoko was listed among them, too, which intrigued me.

“So Tim said there would be … sex scenes in this game?” I asked my sister.

“M’yep,” she said. She drew her nails delicately up between my shoulder blades. Again, I quivered.

“And you’re how old again?” I asked, peering over my shoulder at Camila.

She pouted at me.

“Okay,” I shrugged. “But if we get caught, I’m telling Mom and Dad this was your rental, not mine.”

“They won’t care,” she scoffed. “They’ll be too busy freaking out about all the porno mags I know you keep in your closet!”

“DUDE,” I spun around and tackled her, clamping my hand over her fool mouth.

“Thmnmvnhm!” she giggled.

I kept my hand clasped over her mouth.

“I know they’re not home,” I said. I stared deep into her pale green eyes. “But you don’t. Not ever. Talk. About the STASH.”

She licked my palm.

“Wh-? Gross!” I yucked. I released her to wipe my hand on her shirt. I accidentally groped her bare tit through the worn-thin T-shirt. Got an unwitting palmful of her shirt’s alien’s bulbous left eye. I hadn’t realized she would be braless under there, not that I would have done it then either. It was just a quick, dumb oops.

The silliest fucking thought got stuck on loop in my head. Her nipple, which was small and round, had felt a lot like a Hot Tamale.

I yanked my hand away and apologized. She blushed and waved it off.

She did not apologize for licking my hand, however.

I turned back to the game, blushing, embarrassed. I reflexively popped another Hot Tamale in my mouth. It tasted incredible. It was the sweetest, the spiciest, the most despicable Hot Tamale I had ever eaten. I ate another. Same thing. The heat only intensified.

Fingernails on my back. A crazy haze of scritchy-scratchies all across my upper back, airy and light and ameliorative. She was letting me know we were cool. She could still love a brother who knew how hard her nipples were right now.

“Your breath is horrible, by the way,” she whispered.

“What? Cinnamon?”

“It’s gross. Those things smell like garbage.”

The game had paused itself during the sibling scuffle. I clicked over to the Tomoko page. While I challenged my sister’s mischaracterization of the greatest candy ever boxed and sold, I noticed absently that Tomoko had pale green eyes. So both of my little sisters had that in common.

Tomoko and I played a trivia game. She asked me a tricky one about camels. I got it wrong. She laughed. A pleasant blooping sound signaled to us that her heart score had gone up one point. Tomoko officially liked me one heartpoint.

By way if congratulations, my real life kid sister lavished my bare, lightly pimpled back with a new barrage of tickles. They were like kisses. Tiny, tiny kisses all over my body. They felt good. Really good.

Camila was an amazing back tickler.

In the game, I asked Tomoko a question. A multiple choice. It was about her favorite animals. But then she turned it around on me, pressing me to guess.

I selected the third answer.

A little dinging noise rang out.

Tomoko smiled shyly and looked down at her bare, freckled knees. I had guessed the best possible response. Dings outweighed bloops, apparently. Now Tomoko liked me four heartpoints.

Camila’s fingers traced symmetrical circles like twin spirographs up my spine. I felt like cream mixing into coffee. I was goosebumpy and shivery all over.

Behind me, Camila had begun to hum softly to herself. She was in her flow state.

In the game, Tomoko told me I had lonely eyes.

I thought about my kid sister’s hard little nipples.

I could barely even taste cinnamon anymore. The candy had transcended beyond what my palate could handle—pure sweetness without end or dimension.

I picked a third question. This one was math.

The correct answer was three.

Three what?

Well, I had no idea.

But I knew Camila was only wearing her baggy t - shirt. She had grown, sort of. But she had grown.

Parts of me nowhere near my back tingled with dark, unsolicited delight. Another oops, more private this time. I wondered briefly, almost by accident, if I could get Camila’s heartpoint score - my real life kid sister - to a high enough level that she’d let me see what my palms had felt. What my mind had touched. What my palate had tasted.

Tomoko was talking about her hobbies.

My heart was beating hard. I had a boner. A big one. A literal throbber.

I was so glad that Camila was sitting behind me.

“Can I take a break?” she asked just then. Her fingernails slowed inward to a gentle pause at the center of my being (‘s back).

“Mm?” I mumbled.

“Let’s snuggle. You’re cold. Let’s scooch back and sit under the blanket.”

“Oh, um, right.” I nodded. I sighed. I tried to think boner-killing thoughts. I began to slide my shirts back on.

“Hey,” I felt her bare toe poke my back. She had already scooched. “Leave them off. I’m not done tickling your back.” I could hear her frown. “Unless you’re done playing?”

“N-no,” I said, and shucked the shirts back off. I removed them completely this time. Threw them on the floor.

“Come get under the blanket,” Camila beckoned. She patted next to her. “I’ll keep tickling your back if you want.”

“I do want,” I said automatically. “But you wanted a break?”

“Ya. My fingertips get tingly after awhile. Just give me a few minutes? I promise I’ll keep going.”

“It’s whatever,” I shrugged like a spoiled little baby of a big brother, and clambered over to join her under my blanket.

It was a nice, warm cocoon. Her skin was soft and clean-smelling. My body was a block of ice. My mind was a mess.

We snuggled.

Camila rested her cheek on my shoulder. She was so lovely to have as a kid sister. My cock was raging and threatening to give away my very inappropriate, uncontrollable lust for all anatomies female. But other than that, it was lovely to have her.

Camila had wrapped her bare arms around me. She held me from the side , hugging me gently, breathing slow and sweet. I continued to play as she watched and rested and breathed. She as my own little Tomoko. For the first time all day, I realized I was all the way warm.

A few minutes passed.

I noticed, as the game began to load a new scene, that her hands were no longer resting.

They were moving.

Up and down.

Slow and delicate.

Tickles - the sweet, soft kind - had resumed. This time, they had broken free of their usual borders. My whole torso was now Camila’s canvas.

She even caressed my neck. My ears. My scalp,

The game was good. I got absorbed in the oodles of glorious minutiae that peppered the game’s core loop of making interesting choices, getting to know astonishingly complex young people, and nursing an increasingly unruly boner. It was high school, the video game.

One awkward scene, however, took place in a library. Tomoko, a shy bookworm, was studying. She invited me to study with her. We quizzed each other.

The game was getting harder.

But I somehow aced her gauntlet of questions.

And the game “graced” us with a peek at darling, innocent, beautiful Tomoko’s underwear.

Her pale green cotton panties, they were cute and girlish and conformed tightly to her shapes.

The scene faded to black.

Camila kissed me on the ear.

I flinched.

It was a very soft kiss. I felt, heard, the breath in her nostrils. The sounds lips make up close.

“Ha!” she guffawed. “You flinched!” She socked me on the arm.

My character was now alone with the lovely Tomoko. She was looking at me intently. I had been granted the power to do something. Something big.

I could feel her warm breath.

“No way,” she awed. “That’s so bizarre. You think it would actually let you… do stuff with her?”

Me? Where my mind was? All I could think about was that Camila had elected, unconsciously, to say ‘do stuff with’ and not ‘do stuff to.’ Where my mind was.

The game was waiting.

I made a choice.

My big, strong hand found its way onto Tomoko’s slender, delicate thigh.

It was a simple enough choice, really. But I was sweating.

“Gael!” Camila gasped. She giggled breathlessly. My character’s hand was now beneath Tomoko's skirt.

Camila squeezed me a little tighter. Her bare breasts pressed into my side through her thin t-shirt.

I could feel her nipples again.

Again, they felt hard and hot.

In the game, Tomoko looked down. H er tiny, delicate hand settled on top of mine. It stopped me. Tomoko stopped me.

My cock was a steel bar in my boxers.

Tomoko told me it was too fast. She needed to get to know me better.

“More like you need to call the police!” Camila laughed. I could hear a note of nervousness in her voice.

In the game, my character and Tomoko were holding hands. We were walking home. Tomoko was smiling and blushing. Touching her like that had actually netted me a whopping ten heartpoints.

I loved this sick little game. Godspeed you, Tim, you dweeb.

We reached the tiny hallway outside Tomoko’s bedroom door and mine. She nodded politely before disappearing into her room. My character had some time left in the day. He went fishing. He caught nothing. Then he went to bed.

That night, white text on a black screen infirmed us that we had heard a funny little series of girlish noises coming from Tomoko’s room, through the wall our bedrooms shared.

“Oh God, ewwww!” Camila melted into a writhing heap of giggles. She could not believe how insanely entertaining this game was. Nevermind how intensely fucking awkward it was starting to feel in here. Under this blanket. Practically skin to skin.

That night, in real life, Camila came and cuddled with me. In the old days, she did it all the time. These weren’t the old days.

As usual, Camila was not wearing any pants to sleep in. Just underwear and a t-shirt.

“Mila?” I whispered.

“Mn,” she grunted.

She was lying in front of me, facing away, hugging my pillow.

I was on my back. I hadn’t moved really, had just let her climb in, but how she’d settled, the side of my hand was left sort of touching her panties. They were fuzzy and soft and as warm as a twelve year old girl’s butt. I overthought it. Too long of a moment was hesitated through. I moved my hand away.

“Mn,” she grumbled.

All night, I had the most intense dreams. Dreams about girls, dreams about sex, dreams about Camila. I dreamed I had woken up with my penis accidentally inside of her you-know-what. That part of their kid sisters good brothers don’t let themselves think about. I woke up in a very cold sweat.

Camila had taken all the covers. My naked boner had wriggled out through the fly of my boxers and was flying high in the cold bedroom air. I tucked it back in as swiftly and stealthily as an assassin strangling a mark during the big toast at a soirée. Then I grabbed two fistfuls of MY covers and tugged hard.

“Mn!” Camila whined. I had wrenched hard enough to make her spin halfway over onto me. Her skull bonked my temple. Her elbow jabbed my solar plexus. Her thigh mashed down over my boner.

I gasped and grunted, and literally felt my cool leave my body.

Camila had rolled halfway on top of me. She had settled, repositioned somewhat, but stayed put. She was still dead asleep , if her snoring was anything to go by.

I was pinned. My boner was pinned. I should gave just pushed her off of me. I should have not over though it. But instead I laid there fully freaking out about how smooth and soft and warm my sister’s thigh was on my cock. It felt good. Bad good.

Her head was against my neck. Her mouth was open. She was drooling.

I could not move.

Not a single inch.

I had a huge erection and it was stuck between her bare thigh and my belly. If she stirred even a little she would notice. It was cartoonishly obvious.

I fretted and worried and panicked… and meanwhile both humored and grappled with, abhorred, how insanely luscious her skin and musculature felt. I found I could very, very, very slightly hump it. She was asleep enough, her leg heavy enough, my focus transcendental enough.

But that was probably a bad idea, in hindsight.

I couldn't help myself.

It was such a bad idea.

But it felt so, so good.

I had to get her off of me. I had to wake her up and tell her I was sick or something. Diarrhea. That’d scare her off.

I couldn't stop rubbing.

It was just enough motion, just barely.

Enough.

I began to worry I was going to cum.

I did not want to cum in my boxers. I did not want to cum in the same bed as my twelve year old sister. Who was only wearing panties and a very thin, very soft t-shirt. No training bra.

I tried to calm down. I tried to get myself to stop humping her. But the sensation was too sweet, too forbidden, too perfect.

My kid sister was on top of me, practically naked, sleeping on me. My big, strong hands had full access to the soft, vulnerable flesh of her thigh and hip. I could rub them. I could touch her.

And she would never know.

I was the luckiest, worst big brother alive.

I kept humping. I was going to cum. I was going to cum. I would just get it over with. Enjoy myself now, hate myself later.

It felt like my whole body was being turned inside out.

I came.

The world went black. Any chance I had of ever getting into Heaven went up in smoke. St. Peter sighed his eternal disapproval, shut and locked the pearly gates. I came so hard I heard the noise of it. The little pulse of liquid inside my boxers. My cum.

But the blackness cleared quickly.

There was a knock on my bedroom door.

It was Mom.

I froze. Camila slept.

Mom was checking to see if I knew where Camila was. She wasn’t in her room.

I patted Camila’s slumbering form. I said she had gotten cold.

Mom was quiet for a second. Then she said ‘okay’ in a strange way, and left.

My cum was in my underwear. My sister was sleeping on top of me. And she still didn't have pants on.

She murmured something faintly, spittily, into the meat of my clavicle.

Why on earth had I patted her slumbering form?!

“Um,” I said. “Mila. I gotta pee. Can you…?” I nudged her.

“Mn?” she groaned. She lifted her sweaty, drool-soaked cheek from my sweaty, drool-soaked shoulder. She smacked her lips. She began to yawn.

And then she began to stretch.

She stretched right onto me. Her chest was pushed right up against mine. Her nipples were hard again.

My cock was still half-hard and covered in cum.

She opened her eyes and saw me.

“You need me to move?” she asked.

I nodded.

She yawned and wiped her eyes and began to roll off of me.

Her leg grazed my cock.

I felt the sticky, gooey wetness, and prayed.

Prayed hard.

She rolled the rest of the way off.

I waited, heart pounding.

She did not notice.

She sat up and rubbed her face. She yawned.

I got up and walked to the bathroom as nonchalantly as possible.

I peed. I did not look at the mess in my underwear.

Then I returned to my bedroom.

Camila had left?

The door was ajar.

I closed it. I changed out of my soiled, incestuous, pedophilic boxers and into a fresh pair. These boxers were untainted. They made me feel like I still had a chance to be a better person. I made a promise to myself not to cum anywhere near my sister ever again. I could be my normal self. I laid back down under the covers. I was cold again. All the rest of the night I was cold.

Chapter Text

It was a Tuesday. Mom had the day off. As per their yearly tradition, she was taking Camila out to lunch, then shopping, and finally to the movies. Usually they didn’t get back home until just before dinner.

I was alone for the day.

I ate a bowl of cereal and went to shower. There in the hamper my sister and I shared, in the bathroom she and I shared, resting right on top of the clothes we’d worn the day before, were her pink cotton panda panties.

I looked at them. I practically felt their soft, fuzzy material with my unblinking gaze. They were stained. On the crotch. She had left them here, inverted, atop the hamper she and I shared. God damn it. I was doomed.

I was disgusted, and instantly erect. I shut the hamper lid. I stared at the top of the closed lid, at roughly the spot where the panties lay tangled below. I had a horrible thought. What if I were to take them out?

I opened the hamper lid again. I removed the panties and brought them, in a fist, to the toilet. I sat on the lid of the toilet. I opened my fist. Here were the panties. Pink. Cotton. Panda. My sister Camila had worn these just yesterday, during the Blockbuster trip, during the Hot Tamale debate, during the regrettable bedtime incident. I knew with troubling exactitude how they hugged her hips, encircled her thighs, cupped her you-know-what. Now I was holding them in my fingers. I had no interest in knowing how they smelled. So I could not tell you why I sniffed them, the crusty stains, the stiffly starchy stinky crotch of them.

I did not like it.

I set the panties aside.

I did not know how long I was going to have the house to myself. So I hurried.

I held my cock in one hand and Camila's panties in the other. They smelled atrocious, I now knew. My sister’s secretions were all over the inside of these panties. Her sweat and piss and whatever else. I could not help thinking about that. Thinking about the parts of her body these panties were meant to protect and hide.

My sister's genitals. How about them words, huh?

My cock growled indifferently. It commanded me to grip it tighter, stroke it more deliberately. It dared me to smell them again, smell my sister, whose twelve year old pussy smell was still lingering in my sinuses as I was masturbating.

It was an evil thing to do. But I was an evil person. I was not going to Heaven.

I pressed the awful crotch stink to my nose. I sniffed more deeply this time, wanting it to hurt, wanting the revulsion, wanting myself to feel as bad as I knew I should. They left an odor on my upper lip. My olfactory centers struggled over how and whether to process this new, heinously not-okay information.

‘Camila’s vaginal secretions,’ I thought, trying to turn myself off. ‘These odors cane out of Camila, my twelve year old sister, who picks her nose and eats it in front of me, whose farts smell like aged cheese, whose favorite Star Wars movie is ‘the one with the teddy bears.’

Nothing.

I was still rock hard, pumping faster, my breath coming quicker.

The panties were still pressed to my face.

They smelled bad.

My cock did not care.

The panties smelled like a little girl.

I sniffed again.

They were disgusting.

I inhaled deeply.

My eyes rolled back.

My cock exploded.

Cum shot out of me, onto the tiles, and the floor.

I stuffed the stiff fabric into my mouth. I bit it. I sucked on it. They had warmed in my hand, moistened from my nostril breath, and so their flavors were ready: Camila’s vulva’s pheromone bomb bloomed eagerly in my mouth, flooded my sinuses, coated my tongue. I breathed her molecules down, drank them. I tongued them out of the creasy gusset fabric, tasted salt and acid and umami, felt the texture of starched cotton on tastebud like some gone-stale fried food. My brain, gravidly, diligently, numb with inner resentment, catalogued this heavy onslaught of new, deeply unwanted information. It archived this moment against its will, with traumatic, eidetic, flashbulb vivacity.

I was still cumming. I was still inhaling my sister’s crotch stink. She was only twelve, damn it, but I did not - could not in that moment - care; in fact, I liked that she was twelve. I liked that she was my cute little sister. I liked that I wasn’t supposed to like this. It made the whole thing feel so real. She had worn this very fabric against her naked sex. She was grinding on my face and running her genius fingers around and around my skull and letting me stuff my tongue into the tight dark acid hole, into the wet, pink, secret all little sisters were supposed to keep from their older brothers.

I loved how her awful, atrocious stains tasted.

I loved how imagining her felt.

I loved how tight and wrong and Of Camila her cunt was.

I was her big brother.

I was not supposed to be doing this.

I was not supposed to know how these underwear felt on my face, or how they stunk, or what the fabric felt like between my teeth. I was not supposed to have or want her juices in my mouth. But I did.

I was still cumming. Jesus, the orgasm.

And she was not supposed to be in my thoughts, her twelve year old body, and twelve year old skin and her stupidly young, sweet, beautiful smile and her lean, silky legs leading up to her heart-shaped butt, which really truly shaped like an upside down Valentines Day gift, and her hair that always smelled like strawberry shampoo, and those eyes.

I was done.

I was empty.

I was spent.

My cock was sticky. My hand was sticky. My face was sticky.

I looked at her panties. They were still there in my hand. Their stink was still on my nose and upper lip. And on my breath. They were suddenly nothing more than the used undergarment of my underage sibling. Shame tore down through me. Guilt, and the realization of what a monster I was.

I dropped them. They fell on the tiles. They landed in a puddle of my jizz.

I sat still and looked at my situation from a point way, way up in outer space. Somewhere far enough away the laws of relativity dictated that I had not yet done this awful deed. Information from this sorry event could only travel at light speed. So I thought about a place several light-minutes away. I teleported myself there, into the vacuum of space. And there I screamed at myself as hard as I could not to make that same wrong choice. ‘Don’t do it! Leave the hamper closed! Think of how you’ll feel! What you’ll irrevocably become!’

Meanwhile, back on Earth, in the upstairs bathroom I shared with Camila, I quietly, mutely, scooped up the semen- and spit-damp panties. I used a bit of toilet paper to wipe off what I could of my incestuous leavings. I flushed that, and then put the panties back in the hamper. I tucked them under the top layer of our mingled laundry. There were others of her underthings in there as well. These I regarded not at all.

I had done an ugly, unbrotherly thing.

I had done a monstrous, abominable thing.

And what was perhaps the most painful aspect of all, is that I knew already, deep down, it would not be the last time I humored my incestuous impulses. I had loved way too much how it had felt to cross that line. And now that I was hellbound, irredeemable, where else could I go but further down? I hated myself. I dreaded the inevitable.

Eight minutes later, I went back into the bathroom and did it again. This time I came right into the panties. I had wanted to know how it felt to violate my little sister’s privacy in such a depraved and shortsighted way. It had felt like cumming into a girl's underwear while thinking dirty things for no reason other than I was horny.

***

Mom and Camila came back from their mother-daughter date. I could hear them laughing in the kitchen.

Camila knocked on my door.

She poked her head in.

I didn’t have the stomach to look at her.

She asked if I wanted to see the movie with them.

I told her I was hoping to play Playstation.

“Without me?!” she said.

“Just Silent Hill,” I said.

“Oh. Whatever,” she sighed disappointedly. “Fine. Stay home. Enjoy your video game.”

“Will do.”

“Hey, Gael?”

“Hm?”

“Look at me for pete’s sake.”

I looked at her.

“Holy shit,” I said.

She had gotten her hair cut. She had trimmed it to the exact length of Tomoko’s. And she’d styled it like the video game character’s too, with short fringe bangs, middle part, twin tails. She’d even tied ribbons into it.

She looked like the girl whose skirt we’d stuck our unwelcome hand into.

She asked, smiling, why I was staring at her like that.

I only half-lied, and said it was her haircut.

“Yeah?” she blushed. “Sooo… You like it?” she said, touching one of the ribbons.

“Honestly?” I said, frowning with mock scrutiny.

She nodded nervously.

“You‘re even cuter than Tomochan.”

“Awww!” Camila glowed. She skipped into my room and gave me a tight, scrawny-armed hug and a big smooch on the head.

“Bloop?” I said, winking at her.

“Ding,” she corrected. And she kissed me again, this time on the cheek, and this time with a happy little noise in her throat.

I smiled.

She left.

I played Silent Hill.

But I couldn’t enjoy it. I kept looking at the clock on my nightstand. I kept wondering if I should have just gone to the movie. I saved my game and quit early. I went and found Dad in the basement. He liked to go down there to unwind after he got home from work.

“What’s up?” he said.

“I’m bored,” I said.

“I figure you must be if you’re talking to me,” he snorted. He put down his Popular Science. He took off his reading glasses. He cranked the recliner back into its upright position, then got up and stretched. “Lordy, I’m hungry,” he yawned, patting his stomach. “You hungry?”

I told him sure.

He asked what I was in the mood for.

I said I didn't care.

I followed him up the stairs.

We ordered a couple pizzas, cheesy breadsticks, and a two liter of cola. We sat at the kitchen table to chat while we waited.

“So,” Dad gave me a look. “I heard you took a girl to bed last night?”

“Oh, jeez,” I went blank. “Um. Right, yeah. I guess Mom told you.”

"No?" he said, looking a little confused. "Your sister told me. Wait, Mom knows too?” he said. He frowned. “Your sister told me to keep it a secret.”

“R-right," I gulped. "Guess the secret's out."

Had Mom not mentioned to Dad right away that she'd found Camila in my bed? Weird. I'd rather she have told him. Her keeping it to herself made it weird.

“Whatever, man!" Dad shrugged.

We both laughed forced laughs.

Dad looked at me.

"So. I guess you two are getting along, then?"

"We always do, don't we?" I said.

"That's good," Dad said. "That's what I like to hear."

"Yeah," I said.

"Okay, but seriously," Dad said, his tone changing. "I gotta level with you, son. It's probably not healthy for her to be sleeping in your bed, right? I mean, she's not a little kid anymore. She's twelve. She's becoming a young woman. You know she got her period, right? She told you?"

"Uh, no. Really? When?"

"Ah. Shoot," Dad said, his face dropping. "I am terrible with secrets. Sorry. Pretend you didn't hear that from me. But back to the other thing. Right. So. Don't take this the wrong way, okay? But maybe it would be best for her if she slept alone, or in her own bed, yeah?"

"O-oh. Well, yeah, sure. Of course. That makes sense. Totally."

"It's just. That's how it probably needs to be, for both your sakes."

"Yeah."

"And you! You're a teenager for crying out loud! You need your space! You need your privacy! I'm sure the last thing you want is your kid sister sneaking in on you at, you know, an inopportune moment."

My stomach did a little flip-flop, remembering how I'd cum in my boxers humping Camila's thigh last night, how I'd felt her leg graze my wet boxers as she dismounted me, and how she'd vanished immediately afterwards, while I was gone in the bathroom. She hadn't snuck in at the wrong moment, she'd snuck out. She had left me in horrible, shameful suspense.

"Am I making sense? Is this landing with you?" Dad asked, cocking his head.

"Um, r-right," I nodded. "Yeah. I need my space. I'll, uh. I'll make sure Camila knows to knock or whatever."

"There you go. That's an idea. She should knock. Gotta respect the knock."

Just then, there was a knock at our front door.

"Heh," Dad chuckled. "Pizza's here. I got it. Hey, get us some plates why don't you? And grab a couple for the girls. They should be back any minute now."

***

"You didn't play without me, did you?" Camila said the second she and Mom got back from the movie.

"Of course not," I said.

"Good," she sighed with giddy relief. "Did you want to play more tonight?"

"After we eat," Mom said. "You need to eat first."

"I'm not hungry. I had too much junk at the movie."

"You need to eat, Camila. You're getting way too thin."

"Mommm, I eat like a COW. This is just how my body is. If anything, blame my stupid genes."

"Hey! You have exquisite genes," Dad said. "I've always said you look just like your mother! Haven't I said that?"

"Ew ... Thanks?" Camila cringed. She glanced at me and stuck her tongue out in embarrassment.

I chuckled, burped, and raised my glass of cola to her.

"Hey now. You know what I meant," Dad said, blushing. "I'm just saying you're beautiful. I have a beautiful family."

"Dad, please quit talking about how hot you think I am."

"Well, you ARE!" he chortled.

"Honey," Mom sighed. "That isn't funny."

"Say now, how come you never want to sneak into MY bed, huh, hot stuff?" Dad pressed on.

"Oh God, Daaad, gross!" Camila blushed fiery pink. She glanced at me again, but this time her glance was furtive, self-conscious, fleeting. Had I blinked I'd have missed it.

But I was staring. Here she was, like always. Here she was. Camila, my little sister. Everything was normal. I could simply forget that I had stuffed her dirty panties in my mouth earlier. That I had cum inside them. Right now she had on low rise jeans and a loose comfy knit sweater. As soon as dinner was over, she'd go to her room, strip off all of her clothes except her panties, and slip back into her favorite t-shirt. Then wearing only that, she would come hopping back into my bed. She would tell me to take my shirt off. She would touch me.

I wondered if she would let me touch her. If I asked, I think she might. Wouldn't she?

Oops. It was diabolically easy to forget: no more incestuous impulses. It was back to full-on normalcy from here on out.

"Hey," Dad said to her, a twinkle in his eye. "You know I'm just teasing."

"Yeah, whatever," Camila said, half-hidden behind her own tall, dark glass of cola.

"We can just move on to something else," Mom said.

"I guess she really is becoming a woman, huh? At some point it became not-okay for me to call my own kid beautiful. No one told me when. This is how I have to find out. Is everybody makes fun of me at the dinner table."

"No one's making fun of you, Dad," Camila said. "You're just embarrassing yourself."

"Fair enough," he shrugged. "Okay. Let's move on then. How was the movie?"

"Meh," Camila said.

"I liked it," Mom said.

Camila's toe found my foot under the table. I glanced at her. She gave me a small, sweet look. The look said, "Hi."

I nodded at her. Her toe poked my foot again. "Can I put my foot on your foot?" her face was saying now. I nodded again. She put her foot on my foot. I let her keep her foot on my foot. It was warm, and small, and hers.

***

Back upstairs with the bedroom door fully shut, Camila bounced up onto my bed just like I knew she would. She patted the spot in front of her for me to sit. She gestured at my chest, reminding me to take my top off.

At least she’d kept her clothes on. Jeans and a sweater were a welcome change for my poor, beleaguered conscience.

“Take! It! Off!” she clapped to the beat of EYL’s title screen music.

"Slow down, Hot Stuff," I teased. I took my top off as sensuously as I knew how. It wasn't very sensuous.

"Oh god don't. He really did call me that," she groaned. But my striptease made her giggle.

I tossed my shirt at her and plopped down in front of her.

She was still smiling.

"What?" I asked.

"Nothing," she said.

"If you say so," I said.

"Why are you staring at me?" she smirked.

"I'm not." I turned around. I could feel my embarrassment splashing into my cheeks. Stupid capillaries.

I reloaded our save game in Everyday Young Life.

"I like this game," she said absently as her fingertips faded back into existence on my back.

"Me too," I said.

"Do you think Tomochan's going to be okay after we ... you know?" she asked.

"What do you mean?" I laughed a little uncomfortably. "She likes us more than any other character."

"Rrright," Camila said.

I turned partway around, as if to look at her. Then I realized I didn't want her to see the face I was making. Instead, I pretended like I was twisting side-to-side, like to get my lower back to pop. I twisted the other way too. Nothing popped. I was faking it. But I was committed to the bit.

"Huh?" she said, her hands momentarily paused as she waited for me to stop gyrating.

"My back," I lied. "Just need it to... pop... From sitting like this for so long yesterday. In front of you like this. Upright. It's sore."

"Oh shoot," she said. "Sorry. Need me to give you a massage?"

"Oh," I said. "Uh, no. You're twelve."

"It's my fault it hurts. Let me rub it."

"Sis, you really don't need to -"

She slapped my back.

"Lay down," she said. "Let me try."

"Why do I need to lay down?"

"Just lay down and let me try something.”

Rolling my eyes, I laid down on my stomach across my bed. I held the controller over the edge so I could continue to play. My little sister stood up, the mattress springs groaning, and with one hand on the wall to steady herself, carefully placed one and then the other bare foot on my back. Immediately something down there started to pop.

"You're doing it!" I gasped.

"Shhh," she shushed.

The weight of her feet on me, and the pressure from the arch of her foot pressing down and down, and the way she was wiggling her toes as she tried to balance, was amazing. Her feet were small, dainty, adorable. But the full weight of her pressing into me through them made them perfect massage tools.

She was doing her best. The pressure was intense. My back was starting to hurt. It was almost uncomfortable. I thanked her with a grunt and told her she could stop.

“Aw,” she said. “I was having fun stepping on you.” She plopped down on my back, sat her soft little denim jean butt on mine. “You want to stay like this while I tickle your back?”

My breath caught.

Her butt was so soft. So small. The denim could not hide the fact of her underage butt's fulsome cuteness.

I gulped.

I remembered Dad telling me to work on my boundaries with Camila. I needed to be a better big brother. I needed to be.

Just a couple winter breaks ago, it wouldn't have been weird that she was sitting on my back. But now, she'd reached menarche. Now, her nipples got big and hard sometimes. Now, her panties in the hamper had my cum stains on them.

What would Dad think if he saw us right now? What would Mom say? Would she just pause for a long moment and then say "Okay" again? I thought about it, and couldn't think of any way to explain this that wouldn't sound suspect, especially so soon after Dad's little talk with me.

Or was I overthinking it? She was just sitting on me. And she was wearing jeans, after all.

I had been wrong to assume she'd be pantsless again tonight. She had instead followed me directly to my room from the supper table. Although she was happy to saunter in here without pants on whenever she pleased, I had never once known her to come in here with pants on and then remove them in front of me. There was a huge difference between being undressed, which was whatever, and getting undressed, which was intimate. Back when we'd taken baths together, sure; but it was not something we ever did around each other anymore.

Or so I thought.

"Hey, can I take these off? It's uncomfortable sitting like this with them on."

"Then get off my butt," I said.

"But I'm still doing your back!" she whined. She sat up a little and I heard her start undoing her fly. "Let me take them off. It's not a big deal."

"Um, Camila, wait -" I mumbled. Part of me wanted to nip this in the bud. And part of me wanted to feel my sister's ass in nothing but panties sitting on my butt. I had been wearing a soft warm pair of pajama bottoms all day. It would be so easy to feel her shapes, her heat, her movements. But to be clear, only part of me wanted this. The other part of me knew better, could readily recall Dad's advice, and was freaking out that I was even considering letting her proceed to strip down to her panties in my bed.

There came a knock at the door. I could not have told you if that was great or terrible luck. But I could say for sure my heart almost stopped. Camila hurriedly rezipped and was still fiddling with the button when Mom poked her head in. Not a great look, what with her straddling me in my bed.

"Guys?" she said by way of greeting. It was a strange scene she was walking in on. Not completely unacceptable. Just unusual, bordering on awkward.

"What?" Camila said, sounding annoyed. But I was pretty sure she was nervous. I'd felt how badly she'd tensed up when Mom barged in.

"Um," Mom had to regather her thoughts. "I wanted to ask if you guys wanted dessert. I made a nice oatmeal casserole. It's better than it sounds."

"Oh?" I said. "That does sound good. Anything in it?"

"I made some berries in syrup. I was going to put a little cream. You want some?"

"Heck yeah. Do I have to come downstairs?"

"Did you want some too, sugar?" Mom asked Camila.

"No thanks," she said, shrugging.

"M'kay. You don't have to. Um. I'll just bring you some, Gael."

There was a minute there while Mom was downstairs again where Camila remained seated on my butt in her blue jeans. She squirmed a little. But she kept them on. She also did not, during this protracted interruption, tickle my back. Something about that seemed odd to me, but understandable. I think we were both thinking similar thoughts during this awkward silence, during which I played EYL and Camila stayed silent and largely still.

When Mom returned with a plate for me, she sat it on my dresser. As she was turning to leave, Camila hopped up off me and said, "I changed my mind. I want some."

Mom raised her eyebrows. She said, "Really?"

"Yeah," Camila said.

"And you want me to bring you a plate?"

"Would you? It just looks really good, now that I see Gael's."

"Okay," Mom rolled her eyes. Annoying as it was, you could tell she was just excited to be dishing out this casserole to her appreciative family. "Everybody wants oatmeal tonight," she said with mock exasperation as she headed back downstairs. She was happy.

I heard a zip and turned to see my kid sister taking her pants off.

"Sis, no. You can't."

"Why not?"

"Um," I struggled.

"Because it's inappropriate?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I mean, you're not a little kid anymore, you know?"

"What are you even talking about?" she frowned. "I come in here in my underwear all the time. You can't just start being weird about it all of a sudden."

"Listen," I cleared my throat. "Dad said. He feels weird about us acting like we're still little kids. And he's right that I should have some more privacy now that I'm a teenaged guy. Like, what if you came in here sometime and accidentally saw something you wish you hadn't?"

"Gross. That wouldn't happen."

"It could. Sis, I'm a guy. I can already tell you there have been some close calls."

"Gross. Stop. I don't want to hear about it."

"Well at the very least, at the very least," I struggled to regain that sense of confidence I'd had just a second ago. "At least knock?" I said more gently this time.

"You want me to knock every single time I want to come in?"

"I mean," I thought about this for a second. "Yeah?"

"Even if the door's open?"

"I'll stop leaving it open all the time. Honestly, I could really use the privacy."

"For what?" she pouted.

"You know," I sighed. "For things. And stuff. I'd say 'use your imagination,' but I don't want you to call me gross again."

"Oh God. Okay, fine. You're making a big deal out of nothing, but okay. I'll knock."

"Thank you," I said.

"So pants on, then, huh?" she grumbled. "Even though you're allowed to wear whatever you want in here."

"Oatmeal!" said Mom, knocking once before poking her head back in. She handed a warm plate to Camila.

"Thanks," Camila said unconvincingly, still glaring at me. She took it and set it next to mine on the credenza.

"You're welcome sweetie," Mom smiled. "You guys will have to tell me what you think. This is a new recipe."

"Mom, go away. We're having a fight."

"Ha!" Mom chirped.

"We are?" I said.

"Apparently," Mom giggled, and politely excused herself. She even shut the door behind her, leaving Camila and I alone in one of the most awkward silences we'd ever had.

"There," Camila said. "Now we have our space. Can I take my pants off now?"

"Why do you want to take your pants off so bad?" I asked. "Honestly, if either of us is making this weird, it's you, Sis."

"Oh, am I?" she scoffed. She stepped in front of me, straddling the controller cable. She gave me a catty look. Then she held my gaze as she unbuttoned her jeans.

"Mila," I said.

"Gael," she said. She unzipped them with a single, quick, downward snap of her wrist.

"Sis, you shouldn't -"

"What did Dad say to you again?" she teased. "Oh right, that we each need to have some privacy. Now that we're older. You know what I think?"

"No, and I don't care. If you must take your pants off, at least go do it over there or something. You don't have to do it right here in front of me."

She smirked at me, her thumbs already working their way around, loosening the snug denim waistline from her hips.

"Why not?" she said.

"Because you're my sister, and it's weird."

"They're just. Pants," she said, grunting as she tugged them down her thighs. She had slender legs, but these jeans fit skintight.

"What if Mom poked her head in here again right now?"

"She won't. She knows we're fighting."

"Is this a fight? Are we fighting about this? I feel like it's weird that a brother asking his sister to keep her clothes on is somehow a fight to you."

"Because it's bullshit!" she cried, and by cried I mean holy shit, I'd accidentally made her cry. I hated making my little sister cry. She only ever cried when I was being a genuine asshole.

But how was I the asshole on this? I was trying to control my dark urges! I was doing a GOOD thing, wasn't I?

She had to sit down to peel the jeans all the way off around her feet.

"Mila," I said again. "Camila. Come on. Don't be like this. Listen, okay. You can stay. In here. I don't care. Just please. You said you were uncomfortable in those, and I get that. So go put some comfier pants on. Go put those leggings on that you like. Then come on back in here and let's play."

"I really want us to play," she sobbed.

"Me too, Sis!" I swore. She was in arm's reach. I pulled her in for a sort of hug-type thing. I was still laying on the bed. She was sitting on the floor in front of me. She got up on her knees and let me pull her close. She made a weepy sort of laughing sound as I squeezed her.

"So. Let's. PLAY." She pounded her fist on my back one time, angrily, hard, for good measure.

"Is there really nothing I can do to make you put some pants on?" I said finally.

"Stop," she pleaded quietly, still embracing me.

"Okay," I said quietly, too.

As a joke, I lowered my hand to her butt and gave it a little squeeze. It was an ironic gesture. Just a brotherly joke, you know?

She squealed, then laughed.

"Gross!"

"Mm, I couldn't help myself baby," I said in a terrible voice. "You're just ... such ... Hot STUFF!" I roared as I grabbed her and wrestled her up onto the bed with me. She screeched and hollered and kicked and laughed. She fought back, tickling me under my armpits, which was not where I was ticklish, but which she always tried anyway. "That doesn't tickle, dummy," I said as I stared her down. She grinned deviously as she dug her fingers all the way in, tickling harder, testing my mettle. "All you're doing is getting your fingers stinky with my BO," I chuckled.

"Gaelllll," she whined.

"Wait, wait," I laughed, catching her wrist and bringing it back. "No. Let me smell." I sniffed her writhing fingers. "Yep. That's me. Here you go, you can have them back. Enjoy!" I released her, and she reeled away from me.

But a second later she pounced. Now she had me straddled again, but this time I was on my back. She attacked, and I was forced to defend myself. My arms were long enough to block her from going for the armpits again, so she went for my sides. She had never once in her entire life found a ticklish spot on me. I could not even imagine how badly she wanted to, right at this moment.

She tried the sides. No dice. She tried my stomach. Nothing. She tried the back of my neck. Nada.

She tried humping me.

The second she did it, I knew it had been an accident. She'd gotten excited and her hips had a mind of their own. She wasn't trying to grind her underage pussy on my overactive cock or anything. She just wanted to tickle me. But her body made an honest mistake.

"Ahh!" she gasped. Her eyes met mine. Her hips were already grinding on mine again, this time deliberately. She stopped them. She stopped them.

We froze, her panting, me breathless, both of us wide-eyed. Neither of us knew our next line. This was utterly off-script.

Then her hips started up again. She was humping me. She was intentionally humping me.

I could feel her shapes. Through two layers of cotton, I could feel the outline of her lips. I could feel her heat. I could feel her mound.

I was a horny teenaged guy. I could not have stopped my penis from rising if I had wanted to.

"M-Mila," I laughed uncomfortably. "S-stop, okay. Stop. That - that tickles. You gotta ss-stop," I gulped. I winced. I could feel my face burning up.

"Tickles?" she frowned. She didn't stop, but her hips did slow a little.

"Tickles. Yeah," I murmured a little deliriously. I was experiencing some sort of mental paralysis. If she wasn't going to stop, then it was up to me stop her. But I both did and did not want her to stop. That made it two against one. Me versus me AND her.

I lost.

I lay there, and Camila humped me.

"It tickles?" she said again, incredulously.

"A little," I nodded, not meeting her eye.

"Like when I do your back?" she said.

"Um," I sighed. "Sure. Like that."

"Gael," she said.

"Mila," I said.

"Can I tell you something?"

"Oh God," I said. I already knew what was coming. Or I was pretty sure I did.

"Last night, when you left to go to the bathroom, um," she paused. She paused 'tickling' me. She just sat there on my hard-on, pressing it into me her weight, looking me in the eye as she did so. "I know why you went in there."

"Oh," I said.

"I wasn't asleep. When you. Um. You know."

"Oh," I choked. "S-sorry. I'm sorry. Shit, Mila."

Still her little cotton-soft butt remained stationed on my lap.

"No. It's fine," she said. "I mean. You know. I get it. You're a teenaged guy. It happens."

"It's not fine, Camila. We have to stop."

"Stop what?" She looked genuinely confused to hear me say this. "I read about it. It's just something that happens to guys in their sleep. Like, it was weird, yeah, but that's I wanted to tell you. It's whatever."

"Yes. Right. Wait, you - " I was only just now beginning to see. This was glorious news. From her view, she assumed I'd done something called "Nocturnal Emissions" on her leg. I was innocent in her eyes. "But you left. When I got back, you'd left."

"R-right," she faltered. "Um. Well. It was weird, you know? And I needed to like," she giggled, "clean it off. Sorry. I know that's awkward."

"YOU'RE sorry?" I laughed. God, it felt so good to laugh. "Camila, do you even know what that was?!"

"Um. Semen, right?"

"Well," I chuckled. "I guess that's what like scientists call it."

"Is it weird that we're having this conversation while I'm sitting on you like this?" she said.

I gulped.

"I can't help it," she said, and did another languid grind. "I just like tickling you."

"R-right, tickles," I half-laughed, half-choked.

She giggled and stopped humping me. She laid down on me, rested her head on my chest, just under my chin. I had to brush some of her stray hairs out of my face.

"You're not mad at me for leaving last night, are you?"

I put an arm around her. My hard cock was for the moment free from her bodyweight, but aiming squarely at her crotch just inches way.

"It was cold after you left," I said.

"Aww," she said, and hugged me tight. "Bloop," she said.

I chuckled.

A minute went by, just laying there on each other like that. I was shirtless. She had on a comfy sweater. She was pantsless. I had on a pair of soft pajama bottoms. Together we formed one complete outfit.

"Does it really tickle when I sit on you like that?" she asked quietly.

My heart thudded against my chest wall and hers.

"Um," I gulped. "Are you asking for real?"

"Yeah," she smirked. I could hear her smirk.

"You probably shouldn't do that anymore. For real."

There was a long silence.

"Okay," she said.

I let that sink in. For both of us. We both felt so relaxed. At least we had each other to help each other cope.

"Can we play now?" she asked.

"I need you to remind me of everything we did yesterday," I said. "There was so much. I can't remember all of it."

"Ohmygosh," she said, sitting up excitedly, and dismounting me. "Okayokay. Sit up. Let me tickle your back. I'll tell you what I can remember. Wait. What do you remember? What don't you remember?”

“Um,” I said.

“Well, okay. So like, first obviously there was Tomoko. We went with her ..." she rattled off what turned out to be a complete, gapless recollection of yesterday's hours-long play session. She had somehow paid better attention to the game than I had, despite me being the one actually playing it, and while she had simultaneously been giving me nearly the best tickling I'd felt in years, if not my entire life.

Second only to the tickling she'd administered a moment ago.

Did she really think that was tickling?

Is that all she thought that was?

Because, like, maybe there was something to that. Sorry, conscience. But maybe there was something TO that. When life hands you lemonade, you drink it. You don't say, "I'm sorry, but could you please put this lemonade's pants back on?" And I know what you’re going to say. Lemonade doesn’t wear pants. Well, neither did Camila.

"Can you hand me my oatmeal?" I said as she got up off of me to go pee.

"Sure. You want mine, too?" she said. "I don't actually want oatmeal."

Chapter Text

We played video games. It was a little hard for me at first because she'd turned my boner into a steel bar. But the more I concentrated on the game the less I concentrated on how it had felt to have her precocious little twelve-year-old pussy grinding plumply and intently into me over and over again. For better or worse - I mean for better, just better - the vivid memory began to fade.

It didn't go away completely. Even just the memory of her pussy, the heat, the moistness, the shape of her mound, was apparently enough to keep me semi-hard for a long time. It was like she’d marked me. And now my cock was standing guard. I asked, bravely and suddenly, if Camila would be okay if we switched positions again, so I could lay down on my stomach.

“And I sit on you?” she asked eagerly.

“Right,” I winced, then nodded.

She scooted to the side so I could lay down where she and I had just been sitting. I could feel my own butt-warmth in the covers now pressing against my bare chest, and hers against my navel. The butterflies in my stomach all fluttered down to sip at this sweet pool of warmth. They scarcely even startled as Tomoko - I mean Camila - threw her bare leg back over my butt and straddled me again.

She squiggled around, finding the comfiest place to settle her small soft butt on my large muscular one.

“Hey so like. Other than Tomoko…” Camila said dreamily, fingernails returning to my skin’s canvas, drawing slippery curlicues around and around the soft skin of my triceps and biceps, where I was still boyishly devoid of body hair. “Who else do we like the most?”

I snorted. I thought about it a second.

“I like Luna a lot,” I said.

“Why? Just because she has big boobs?”

My sister’s fingernails turned into backscratchers. She raked them slowly and intensely all the way up my arms, over my shoulders, and then down my back. It felt electric.

I grunted as she scratched open a pimple. It didn’t even slow her down. She declined my apology. Reminded me to answer her question.

“Huh?”

“Do you just like Luna for her boobs?”

“No? I like her because she’s … different. She has like … actual conversations with us. About meaningful stuff, not just likes and dislikes. She’s mysterious. I like her dreamy personality. And yes, her boobs are nice.”

“I knew it!” Camilla slapped my back hard. I felt the vibration of her laughter, as well as the pressure of her little body, all over my butt.

I was getting hard again.

It was her fault, obviously. Thankfully I was belly down. I could be as hard as I wanted and she’d be none the wiser. Heck I could even sort of hump the mattress if I was subtle about it.

Not that I would. But if I wanted to.

“Guys are such! Stupid suckers! For big boobies!” she complained, hopping so as to stomp me with her butt. Hopping repeatedly, like this. Not only did I not need to be subtle with my bed-humping, but I didn’t have to do the humping myself. She was already literally on top of it.

She soon started getting carried away, I realized, as her crotch began grinding lightly into me, a sensation that was so deliciously wrong I could only groan at first.

“It’s really not about the boobs,” I grunted.

“Yeah right!” she stomped. “You just! Like! Her big! Jiggly! Boobies!”

“N-no!” I wheezed and chugged. “Because I also l-like Akari!”

My sister kept humping me into the bed a moment longer, but I felt this admission begin to have an effect. Gradually she stopped.

Her fingertips were back to stroking me.

She sighed.

"Why do you like Akari?"

"Hmm. She's ... nice.” I sighed contentedly. “I like her energy. She’s adventurous. I feel like she’d be a fun girl to date for like a Summer, you know? Go camping, maybe do a road trip or something. She would be fun.”

“She has boobs, too, you know,” Camila sighed. “They’re just small. But they’re bigger than mine.”

I let her tickle me in silence for a minute while I hemmed and hawed my way through a thorny conversation with Tomoko. She had just confessed she was feeling anxious about something, and I had guessed wrong as to what it might be. Someone had been distracting me.

“Hey,” Camila said softly. She sounded anxious, too, now that I thought about it. She drew a little question mark on the back of my neck.

“What?” I said carefully. I could feel her getting ready to unload something.

“Do you think I have nice boobs?”

My mouth was dry. I gulped. I paused the game. This was dangerous ground. I needed to focus. First matter of business: not losing my cool. I needed to act like she hadn’t just weirded me the fuck out with her question. I probably needed to unpause the game. That would be the unbothered big brother thing to do.

The game was still on pause. It was just Tomoko and me in the middle of a forest somewhere. She’d taken me up on an offer to go for a hike.

"Camila, I ..."

"Just tell me," she begged. “Be honest.”

“Honestly,” I said carefully, trying to balance ‘concerned’ and ‘casual’ in my tone, even as my cock throbbed against the bed. “I don’t look at you like that,” I said. It was a bold-faced, but I hoped banal-sounding, lie. Normal brothers didn’t pay any mind to their sister’s boobs.

“Bull,” she sniffed. “You look at me all the time.”

“I mean, what do you want me to say? You’re my kid sister! You only just turned twelve! Nobody your age is supposed to have big, um, big features like that. If you were any older, then yeah, you would. But you aren't, so ..."

"Melanie wears a B-cup. Chelsea told me she’s a C-cup, which … I don’t know, but she’s definitely at least a B.”

“Those bra sizes don’t mean anything,” I said. “And either way, we’re giving this way more attention than it deserves. I already told you, what I like about Luna and Akari aren’t their bodies. It’s their personalities. It’s just fun interacting with them in the game. I like their stories.”

“Is that why you like Tomoko, too?” she asked incredulously. “Her ‘story?’” I could feel my sister’s fingers leave my back so she could make air quotes.

“Yes? Tomoko’s amazing. I thought we were agreed on that. She’s the most fun of all of them. The most adorable. She’s even the most mysterious! Like, that conversation we just had with her? What the heck even was that?”

“Sbe was nervous about her birthday party. She doesn’t like big crowds. Remember?”

“Oh,” I said. I blinked at the screen. I’d kind of missed whatever Tomoko had been saying these past couple minutes as we sat together on a rock overlooking a little creek. “Shoot,” I said. I paused the game. “Can I turn around for a sec?” I asked my passenger.

“Um, yes. You need me to get off?”

"No," I said. "Stay there."

I didn't want her getting off. I wanted her staying on top of me, like a sexy blanket. A sexy blanket whose boobs weren't that big, whose body wasn't yet ripe - or no wait, I mean who was my kid sister, who was my blood relative, and who was my sweetest friend.

She lifted her butt just enough to let me roll over underneath her, then she sat back down. She looked near-tears. Not agitated, just sad. She had on her little black and white polka dot panties and her big cozy white sweater. The latter hung off one shoulder.

"Look," I said. I sat up, and put my hands on her waist. This felt too intimate. I moved them to her arms. “Look. I, um. I do see you. But what I see isn’t this,” I smiled, very gently and playfully jostling her diminutive frame. “What I see is this,” I sighed, then closed my eyes and gave her forehead a warm, brotherly kiss. A little piece of frizz from her hair tickled my nose. I let it itch, unscratched, as I held this simple kiss for as long as felt just right.

I felt her little frame sob in my lap.

“Mila?” I whispered.

"I'm okay," she said. "Just ... hold me. I like - I appreciate it.”

So I did. I didn't move my hands, except to stroke her a few times with my thumbs. She wrapped her legs and arms around me and hugged me.

Uh-oh. I had somehow, maybe out of sheer brotherly love, managed to keep my dick semi-flaccid long enough to roll over and comfort her. But now all of a sudden it came roaring back. It didn't roar. It was quiet and stealthy. But it was determined. And now that it had decided it had a chance at a hot pussy again, it wasn't about to waste any more time.

"Are we still playing the game?" Camila asked. She hadn’t noticed my cock? HOW?

"Um," I said. "Let's - let’s keep playing,” I said.

"Okay," she said.

I began to loosen my hold on her. But she didn’t immediately reciprocate. Rather, she clung on tight even as I fumbled around for the controller, cleared my throat uncomfortably, and grew still harder underneath her.

I finally found the controller, but just before I was about to unpause, Camila spoke up again.

"Actually. Can we talk some more first?" she asked.

"About ...?"

"Things.”

"Um. What things?"

"Like, life, and stuff."

"Sure. Okay. Um. Life is good. Life is ... nice."

"You know what I meant."

I swallowed.

“You’re going to have to elaborate,” I said. Suddenly this felt very much like a high-stakes dialog moment in EYL. I needed her to tell me my response options. Then I needed several minutes to hem and haw over which was the best one to give her. I wished I could save my game here, so that we could quit and reload if I fucked up.

"You know how I feel about you," she said, pulling back.

"I - um - uh -"

"How much I - care for you," she continued, sitting up.

"I know," I said, nodding. "And you know, right? How - how much I care for you, too, sis."

She looked me right in the eyes. She watched my face as she flexed her butt on my cock. I didn't move a muscle.

"Do you ever think it’s stupid that we can’t just, like…” she started, but then trailed off, suddenly seeming to think better of whatever she had been about to ask.

I didn’t say anything. I still didn’t feel like I had any real good dialog options yet. I wished I had my little helper like I did when we were playing EYL. But right now she was busy.

"We're really lucky," Camila said. "That we are so cool, I mean."

"Yes," I said, nodding. "Wait. We’re cool? You lost me.” I made a joky little laugh as I gestured to the heinously dorky game we had been playing nonstop for the past two days. Camila laughed too. It felt forced, though.

“We always just hang out and don’t question why. You know, most my friends? They don’t get along with their brothers at all. They just think they’re gross. They’re jerks. They avoid each other, or else they get in fights. It’s stupid. But you and me, we like each other. We get to hang out and be cool with each other.”

“Always,” I promised. “I love you, kid.”

“Me too!” she said with searing eyes. “Which is why I think it’s so effing stupid, then,” she sighed. I could hear the steam building inside her, frustrating her machinery, eager to power something she was afraid to turn on. I could feel her breath coming and going more raggedly.

"It's stupid that we can't just, you know, go ahead and, like ... just …" she lowered her head, and stayed quiet. She shook it no. She disappeared inside herself.

"Like ... what?" I asked, holding her steady and trying to regain her eye contact.

“Nothing. Nevermind,” she said almost voicelessly.

I held her still. I waited. She peeked up at me, her pale green eyes bloodshot with pubescent angst. I just looked at her. I made a face that I hoped said, “You’re alright by me, no matter what.” I made it as loudly as I could. She held my gaze a long, tense moment.

Gosh. Her gaze. My heartbeat got so intense it started to feel like it was bubbling over, spilling all over the red-hot, nervous stovetop of my insides. I felt things in my belly crackle and pop nervously.

Then, she did the last thing in the world I expected.

She leaned forward, and kissed me.

It was not a kiss on the cheek.

It was not a kiss on the lips, exactly. But it was on the mouth.

It was not a kiss you would give your brother, not unless you were a little girl whose heart was so full of love for her brother, it could not be contained in a kiss on the cheek. It was both the most and the least brotherly-sisterly kiss she'd ever given me. It tasted like pizza and cola.

“Mila,” I murmured. My cock was twitching, throbbing, flexing upward into her soft crotch and butt entirely of its own raving volition.

“Bloop?” she asked me, blushing hard as she dared to look me in the eyes.

I dared not say ‘ding.’ But I figured my silence was a giveaway. I gulped. I shook my head uncertainly.

She panicked. I could feel it. She had been banking on a positive outcome. She had put so much on the line with that kiss, too much even. She looked like she might throw up.

So she did the next, unthinkable, most-unlike-her thing: she kissed me again.

I couldn't breathe. I was afraid to, because I was afraid to break this spell. If I breathed, if I exhaled, or even moved a single muscle, the slightest change would send her running away, and I didn't want that. So I was still. I was as still as a stone.

“Is this okay?” she whispered, too close for me to be able to look at her. I could feel her anxious breath steaming my face. “If we just kiss sometimes?”

“M-Mila,” I struggled again. Where the fuck were my dialog options? I needed Camila’s help!

She took my hesitation the wrong way. She looked devastated.

"I'm sorry," she said, looking about ready to cry. "I'm sorry, forget I said anything, it was dumb. Oh God,” she loosed an eerie, unwelcome burp that instantly stank up the slim, warm space between us. It wedged us apart. She crawled backwards off my lap, onto the covers, hand clamped to her mouth like she was afraid she might burp again - or worse. She was both pale and blushing, her face a splotchy, shattered mess.

"Camila, no. Don't be sorry," I said.

"Please don't tell Mom," she begged. "Or Dad. Or anyone!"

"I won't," I promised, shaking my head. “It was just a kiss, right?” I shrugged, aiming for nonchalance but landing on confused.

“Ohmygosh,” she panicked, and scurried off my bed, over to my door. She very quietly but urgently wrenched it open. “I’m so sorry,” she mumbled. Then she disappeared, leaving my door open. I heard her go into the bathroom. I heard her turn on the overhead vents. Then that was all I could hear for a long time.

I left the game paused. Our main character was still seated on the rock overlooking the creek. He looked extra sullen now. Tomoko had left him there alone, ostensibly to start heading back home. But I knew she’d need my help finding the way. As I stared vacantly at the polygons comprising the images on screen, I wondered idly if this was about to turn into your classic find-your-lost-sister-in-the-woods subplot. I clicked the button to glance at our heart point status. Still really high. Yet she was gone, and I had no idea what I had said to upset her.

“Dish collection!” Mom announced sweetly before entering. I threw the first thing I could find over my stubborn erection. Mom took one look at me, and frowned.

"Everything alright, honey?"

"Um. Fine," I said. "Fine."

"Where’s your sister? You two still fighting?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I shrugged. “Maybe, I guess so.”

“Well that’s too bad.” Her eyes were soft and sad. Then they spotted the empty oatmeal dishes. They brightened back up. “You guys ate your oatmeal!”

“I ate it all. She didn’t want any,” I shrugged, glancing in the direction of the still-groaning overhead vents Camila had left on when she locked herself in the bathroom. “Oh. Right. She’s in the bathroom, by the way.”

“Ah,” Mom said as she gingerly stepped in, gathered up our dishes, and then turned back around to go. “Hm?” She paused. “These are hers,” she said, bending down again and scooping up the jeans Camila had left discarded, inside-out, on the floor. She draped them over her arm and, hesitating on her way to the door, me a quick, inscrutable look. “Don’t, uh, don’t you worry, sweetheart,” she said a little stiffly, like she was reading from a script. “Your sister loves you. She’s just figuring out this whole puberty thing.” Then, without another word, she went back downstairs, bypassing the bathroom entirely, and I could hear the dishwasher open and shut.

Camila came out of the bathroom about fifteen minutes later. She came directly to my room. She stepped in and shut my door quietly.

“What did Mom say?” she asked in a small, terse voice.

I shrugged. “She just came in to get the dishes.”

“Shoot, where are my jeans?” Camila’s eyes went wide. They darted around my floor, eagerly looking for the missing garment.

“Mom, uhm,” I stammered. “Picked them up.”

“Oh my God.” She went pale. Then another wave of tears came. “Could this night get any worse?” she cried, and slid down my bedroom door, collapsing in anguish on the carpet.

She looked at me. I couldn't read her. She was feeling so much, so obviously, that I couldn’t make heads or tails of what. Was she angry with me? Sad? … Ashamed?

“Y-you came back,” I sputtered. It was my best attempt at saying something nice but nonspecific.

“What?” she sniffled, rubbing her red runny nose on her big knit sleeve.

“You came back,” I repeated more confidently. It seemed to have disrupted whatever downward spiral she’d been feeling. “I didn’t think you would.”

“Well… yeah,” she hiccuped, weakly giggled, and pointed to the TV. "Aren’t we going to play some more?"

I laughed a warm, welcome belly laugh. I held my arms out for a hug. She held hers out, too. Sighing with mock exasperation, I got up. I trudged over to her. I kneeled down. I cradled her, threaded my arms under her legs, and then stood up holding her like a baby. I carried her over to my bed. I plopped her onto it.

"No," she said, pointing firmly at the TV. "I want to stay on the floor. Let's do a campout down here."

"A campout?”

“Like, make a pillow fort?” she grinned, shrugging hopefully.

“Oh,” I nodded. I looked around my room. I saw things we could use to make a solid fort. I snorted. “Hell yeah,” I said. “Let’s build a pillow fort.”

“Yay!” she quivered, clapped her arms around my midsection, and hugged her face to my stomach. I was still hard as a rock, but she didn’t mind or didn’t notice. Maybe Mom was right. She was just figuring this puberty thing out.

I pulled her off the bed still hugging me. She clung tight and laughed hysterically as more and more of her slim, rigid body left the bed. I could see her butt cheeks clenching. Her legs were straight as boards. But her arms slipped a little down my hips. Her core started to give from all her laughter. For one supremely weird, deliriously merry moment, she dug her head into my groin as she attempted to bring me down with her. Her fuzzy head ground hard into my steel erection. She cackled and screamed and slid still further until she was at my knees, then at last her inner suspension bridge collapsed. She splashed into a fit of giggles on the carpet. 

I yanked the covers off my bed and threw them over her. She kicked and flailed underneath, and gave a muffled scream of delight. I gave her writhing form a friendly nudge with my big toe and said, “There’s your fort.”

“Noo!” she cackled, and threw off the blanket. “I’ll go get my sheets too. And we need books! Heavy things! To hold the weight. Um. And snacks!” She laid there on her back, panting even as she itemized a to-do list on her fingers.

She was still pantsless, of course. And in the scuffle, her big fluffy sweater had ridden up her abdomen, past her ribs, partway exposing her training bra. I smiled at her as she looked around my room, scanning for usable sheets, blankets, furniture. I smiled not just because I could see her adorable little breasts just starting to blossom from her chest. But because I genuinely admired this person at my feet. I liked the story of how she had gotten there. So what if I liked the slender hourglass shape of her? She was objectively beautiful, sculpturesque. And so what if I liked her black and white polka dot panties? They reminded me of pandas. And so what if I wondered when they might appear in the hamper, and in what state? They were my kid sister’s. It was no big deal.

Then she caught me staring.

I had never seen her cheeks blush so furiously red before. She scrambled to pull her sweater back down, to cover herself. She was mortified. At the same time, we both tried to act like we were fine. Like this was whatever. Like she was just fixing her sweater.

Chapter Text

“So tell me how it went when you talked to your sister,” Dad said as we waited at a green light for the car in front of us to regain traction. Dad’s big truck was well suited to the icy roads. Their little sedan was not.

“Um,” I said, thinking fast about how to answer. I felt like I should give my kid sister some privacy, so I settled on the most harmless thing. "We made a pillow fort," I told him.

He laughed.

"I bet she loved that. But that, um - oh come on, it’s already turning red again!” He thumped his palm on the steering wheel. He sighed. The little car in front of us squiggled and fishtailed slowly out into the intersection, its tires spinning too fast to grab pavement. But there was nothing for it. We would be waiting through another cycle.

“I also made her promise to knock,” I added.

“Right,” he nodded thoughtfully. “And uh, the pants thing. She’ll wear pants around you from now on?”

“Um, well,” I didn’t know what to say. “I tried, Dad. To tell her. But. Like. You know how she is?”

“Yeah,” he said. “Hm.”

That was all he said. A lengthy silence ensued. We watched cars pass. We waited for the light to change again. Dad adjusted the heat, which had become overbearing.

“Listen, do you want me to talk to her?” he asked.

“About wearing pants?”

“It’s not about the pants, bud. It’s about having a little self-awareness. She’s twelve now. Her body is changing. She cannot simply walk around bare bottomed like a little girl anymore.”

“I mean,” I chuckled awkwardly, “she at least keeps her underwear on.”

“Ha,” he said. “Thank God for that. But so here is the deal. Either you get through to her, or I will. And we probably don’t want me stepping in if we can avoid it, right?”

He smirked at me. I smirked back. We were a family of smirkers.

“So just tell her. Just be upfront with her. She’s too damn cute to be strutting around pantsless anymore. Not that, you know, we’re looking or whatever,” he winced at himself. “But them’s the brakes. End of story.”

“Dad,” I cringed. “I can’t say that.”

The light turned green. He pressed on the gas. Our truck rumbled forward into the intersection.

The little sedan ahead of us had made it a few hundred feet further than last time, but had once again slid to a halt, this time halfway off the road. Dad pulled around them carefully, and as we both peered down at the hapless driver they peered back up at us. They waved in sorry embarrassment. I waved back.

“Doggone it,” Dad sighed. He pulled over. He parked. He shut off the engine. “Come on,” he said, clapping me on the thigh before putting on his thick winter gloves and opening his door. “We gotta help.”

“Oh,” I frowned. ‘We do?’ I thought, selfishly.

He climbed out and shut the door. I groaned quietly to myself as I watched Dad in the rearview mirror. He waved as he crunched through grey heaps of roadside snow up to the sedan’s passenger side. I shivered. The heat in the cabin had been off all of ten seconds and already I could feel the cold metastasizing again. I zipped my coat up to the throat, pulled my hat down snug, and climbed out of the truck.

My dad had the passenger door open and was chatting with the other driver, a lady wearing a big poofy down jacket, a thick wool scarf, and a knitted winter hat with a huge pom pom.

"It's fine," she said. "It's fine, I have chains in the trunk, it's no problem. I can handle this."

"Ma'am," Dad said, gesturing politely at the ice beneath her. "You're not going anywhere. Not until this melts, at least."

"No, it's fine," she insisted, and attempted to put her car in reverse. The tires spun uselessly.

"Ma'am," Dad said again. "Please, let me and my boy push you out. Once you're on the road again, you can go about your day."

"Really," she said, "I'm fine."

"You are, and so am I. But my boy is freezing. And, if you'll permit me to be so bold, a pretty thing like you shouldn't be stuck out here alone when it’s below freezing. The quicker we get you out, the sooner we can get back to our days.”

She paused, mulling it over, and then seemed to accept. I rolled my eyes and sort of hopped up and down impatiently, trying to stay warm. Midwesterners always loved giving help to strangers, but then were loathe to receive it.

“Alright? Good! Okay, Gael, let’s get to it.”

With his gloved hand, he waved me around to the front of the sedan.

It was a good thing we helped her. It took both of us pushing her car, and all the weight and momentum we could muster, to get her moving back onto the road.

Afterwards, Dad came around and to the lady’s driver door. She had rolled down her window to cheer us on as we’d pushed and shoved her to freedom. Now she was thanking us, and apologizing profusely for no reason other than it was what Midwesterners did after receiving much needed help.

"Well alright then!" He said, giving her a friendly wave. "Drive safe. Call somebody if you need help again."

"I will, thank you," the woman replied.

And we watched her slowly drive away.

Dad and I walked back to our truck. He opened his door.

"Dad?" I said, and he stopped, looking back at me.

"Yes?"

"Um, can you give Camila the talk about not wearing pants around the house anymore?"

“You sure you want that?”

“No. But just like. Do it please. I think she’ll listen to you better than me.”

“That’s because you spoil her,” he beamed. “But yeah, sure. I’ll talk to her.”

“Where we going again?”

“Hardware store. We’re almost out of sidewalk salt. And we’re supposed to get another big snow storm this weekend.”

“Are we?” I said. An electric tingle of hope flickered through my stomach. A big enough snow storm on top of the foot or so we already had, and just in time for school to resume. We were looking at a potential snow day. I dared scarcely even dream. “Neat,” I said.

“Neat?” Dad scoffed. “You must sure love shoveling our driveway huh?”

“No,” I said bluntly. “It’s the worst. But if we get a snow day in exchange? That’s worth it.”

“We’ll see,” Dad shrugged. “Weatherman is calling for six to ten inches. I don’t know if that’ll be enough.”

“Gosh,” I shivered, both from cold and excitement.

Let's hope it is, though, eh?" He winked.

"Yeah. Let's hope."

The rest of the ride, and the entire time at the hardware store, and on the drive home, I couldn't stop thinking about the prospect of a snow day. I may have been sixteen, almost six feet tall, and in high school, but the little kid in me still avidly adored snow days.

***

When we got back, Dad started telling Mom about the lady we’d helped. She had come outside, ostensibly to help us unload the one bag of rock salt we’d purchased, but Dad had beat her to it. Now he was holding the bag like a baby in one arm, and wrapping his other arm around her shoulder. I got the sense she had something else to talk to him about, but he was blindly regaling her with his tale of chivalry.

Camila, meanwhile, had been in the house the whole time. She was on the couch watching Titanic on TV, still wearing nothing but her sweater. When she saw me, her face lit up.

“Hurry! Hurry! Come watch! It’s almost the scene with the boobs!” She scooted over and patted the cushion next to her.

I sat down in the spot she had herself made warm and ready, and immediately felt the cold in my butt began to melt. She threw her feet across my lap. Her legs were warm. I relished my sister’s heat. I even tried to grab one of her feet, but my icy fingers made her yelp.

“S-sorry,” I chuckled. “Just trying to warm up.”

“Not on my feet! Here, are your hands cold? Gimme.” She reached out her small, hot hands. I gave her my big, frozen hands. She shoved them between her thighs, then clamped her legs together, trapping them.

"How are your legs so hot?" I asked, wide-eyed. My hands felt like they were in an actual toaster oven. Her skin was not just warm, but hot water bottle hot. My mind reeled. My cock unsoftened slightly.

“Oo, oo, hah,” she winced. “Coldcoldcold. Jeez, bro. No d-don’t!” She grabbed my wrist to keep me from pulling my hands out. “I’m warming you! I just need a second. Your hands are like ice cubes.”

My hands warmed so rapidly in the wily warmth of my sister’s inner thighs that they began to prickle and itch. Her thigh muscles were so uncomfortably warm. I loved them. I could feel a balmy sweat begin to break between us. My hands and her legs moistened one another. My fingers felt swollen. The bones themselves itched with temperature shock. But Camila’s inner thighs were still eminently inviting.

"What?" she asked, sensing my attention. "Do I have hair on my thighs?"

"No," I said. "Sorry, sorry. Your legs just feel really good. You're so warm. Thank you."

"It's okay," she grinned. "You can stay."

"Gosh," I exhaled.

We watched Kate and Leo flirt onscreen, oblivious to their inevitable doom. She finally asked him to draw her. It was time for boobies.

“This is on TV? I doubt they’ll be able to show them,” I muttered quietly.

“Shush! This is Cinemax. We’ll definitely get to see -”

“Hey Camila honey, can we borrow you for a sec?” Mom said, sticking her head in the doorway. I felt Camila’s thighs tense.

“Mommm,” she whined, eyes glued to the screen. “Does it have to be right now?”

“Yes dear."

She let my hands drop, then rolled off the couch. She padded pantsless and barefoot to the kitchen. I stayed and watched Jack draw Rose.

There was a moment where his sketchbook was out of frame, so all you could see was her. Her naked body. And then his hands, drawing. Her nipples were soft and pale. She had creamy smooth skin, supple-looking, almost underbaked. Her breasts and hips looked enormous in comparison to the frame I'd been spending so much time with. I wondered about Kate Winslet. How had her breasts looked when she was younger? Say, twelvish? Had anyone drawn a picture of her then, too, perchance? Or would that have been illegal? What if it was for art, not for porn?

I couldn't concentrate. The Titanic was sinking, but I was still thinking about Camila. My hands were still warm. My palms were sweating. I was getting a semi.

My sister and parents were talking in the kitchen. I could hear their voices. The rise and fall of certain emotions. But not distinct words. I hoped they were going easy on her. With Mom involved, things could get kind of stressful. She could be stressful when she was in full-on mother mode.

I heard her voice rise. It made my heart jump.

"Hey," I said, turning around.

"Oh, hi, sorry. You’re needed in the kitchen," Mom told me.

“Am I?” I winced. I stood and followed her.

In the kitchen, Dad was leaning against the counter with a glass of milk. Mom had her arms crossed, her brow furrowed, a stern expression. Camila was sitting at the kitchen table, her hands folded in her lap, her face red.

"Camila wants to tell you something," Dad said, taking a sip.

"Camila," Mom said.

"I'm sorry, okay?" she whispered, staring down at the table.

“Hm,” I snorted. “For what?” I asked, looking more at Mom and Dad than at my sister. Why were they making HER apologize? I was one the who had - well, anyway, there had been no misconduct on my sister’s part. Right? “Wait, what is this even about?”

“I told them,” Camila muttered. She couldn’t even look at me.

My stomach dropped out. The cold vacuum of our kitchen sucked all the warmth inside me out. I went white. If I kept even a shred of my cool, it was because I still wasn’t 100% clear what we were talking about. What had Camila confessed?

“Told them what?” I asked.

Camila was silent.

“Well, someone in this house needed to explain this,” Mom said finally, holding her closed fist out over the table and dropping what appeared to be … a pair of pink cotton panda panties, still dirty. crumpled, and stiff. The little wad landed in the empty spot of table that would normally house my dinner plate. In fact, I’d eaten pizza at that spot just last night. The clenched fabric relaxed a bit as we all watched it, horrifically transfixed.

"Oh," I said. My blood began to boil, practically sublimate, as the vacuum proceeded to suck still harder at my insides.

"Yeah," Camila sniffled.

"So I'm assuming I'm in trouble here," I said.

“Are you?” asked Mom, giving me a look.

"Maybe?"

"I mean, let’s just cut to the chase. You did something, we all know what, to your sister's underwear," said Dad. "I would call that a pretty big violation of privacy."

"Okay," I said, crossing my arms, then uncrossing them again. I nodded enthusiastically. I was delirious with panic and shame. I was committed to the only tack I could think of, simply “Yes sir or ma’am”-ing my way out of this nightmare.

“Gael,” Mom said softly. “You’re okay. We’re your family. We love you. We’re not here to shame you or kick you out of the house. We just…” she suddenly choked on a sob.

“We just need you to help us understand.”

“It was… it was a mistake,” I stated the obvious. I felt like I sounded unconvincing.

Mom kept crying. She held up her finger like she just needed a sec.

Dad frowned. This wasn’t his area of expertise at the best of times. And this, right here, was very seemingly the worst of times.

“It was an accident,” Camila said.

“Excuse me?” Dad said.

Mom paused from blowing her nose to stare at her daughter - who, for the record, was still pantsless.

Camila finally looked me in the eye. Oof. I felt that look. It was incandescent. It hit me like an oven door opening.

“We were asleep. I guess I was on him, sort of? And when he got up to go pee I noticed… that he’d, like…” she struggled with her hands to gesticulate as non-awkwardly as one could to one’s own parents that I had “Nocturnally Emitted” on her.

By jove, you and I both know that’s not what happened, but in that moment I believed it happily and wholeheartedly. Sure! I was just a teen! Us older boys, we sometimes made messes in our sleep. But there was nothing sinister about it!

“You’re telling me,” Dad scratched his chin, “that this mess was made while you were still WEARING the underwear?”

“Oh my,” Mom grimaced breathlessly. “What if you had gotten -” she began to say, but thought better of it.

Dad stared me down. I let him. This version if events had enough truth to it that I could breathe again. My sister had just saved our lives because she happened to remember a factoid she’d learned in fifth grade about male puberty. Dad frowned like he was straining for incredulity, but for obvious reasons he was going to be overwhelmingly biased in favor of accepting this explanation of the facts.

“So Gael, sorry, but just to be clear. Is this correct? What your sister is telling us?”

“Camila,” I said. I waited for her to look. If I was going to lie to Mom and Dad, she needed to be my compass north. “I’m sorry I didn’t say anything when it happened. But I also wish you had felt like you could approach me about it.”

“Ugh,” she rolled her eyes, and I caught a glimpse of conspiratorial relief hidden in the corners of her smirk, “you sound just like them.” She pointed dismissively at Mom and Dad.

“Excuse me?” said Dad.

“Guys. Seriously. Is that what this is then? Was this? Shoot. Was this really just a big misunderstanding?”

Even Mom could not resist the temptation - the need, really - to minimize the seriousness of the situation. Of course their son hadn’t been jerking off into their twelve year-old daughter’s underwear in secret! He had merely accidentally ejaculated on her while they were sleeping! This was a normal family of well-meaning individuals!

Mom laughed even as she continued to ride a pretty intense wave of emotions. She frowned at me. She reached her arms out for a hug. Her face crumpled up into tears of sweet maternity.

“Honey, I’m sorry! Come here! I didn’t mean to - I only thought that - I mean it was just a troubling … thing to find,” she sobbed on my shoulder as I embraced her at length.

Dad wrapped his arms around the both of us, too.

“All the more reason the little vixen’s gotta start wearing pants,” he chortled, high on relief. “Am I right?”

Mom suppressed a snort and slapped him from inside the hug. Not that she disagreed. It was just classically awful timing from him. And “vixen” was maybe not the best choice of word, given the circumstances.

"What?" Camila huffed. "That's not fair! I'll start wearing pants when you stop walking around in your stupid boxers."

"They're briefs," he corrected her.

"How is that better?” she asked.

“Cami,” said Mom. “Do you not realize how important it is that you not get ANYONE’s semen, much less your BROTHER’s, inside your…”

But Mom couldn’t finish her question. All three pairs of our eyes were staring wide at her. She let her face continue on its emotional trajectory, but her mouth just sort of flapped open.

Camila was the first to crack. Then Dad. And finally I couldn’t help but laugh, too.

“How is this funny?” Mom asked.

“I think that will make more sense after we all take a break. Why don’t we tuck in early, hon?” Dad said, putting his big arm around Mom’s little shoulders. “You’re a good Mom. This was a lot for a good Mom to have to go through.”

She let him start to shepherd her toward the stairs. On their way into the hall, she grabbed my Dad’s arm and stopped him. She turned them both around so she was facing Us.

“Listen,” she said. “I know sex is a funny topic. It is. But,” she held up a finger, “it also isn’t. It also ruins lives. Tears families apart. Hurts people. So nobody laugh for a second, okay? Because I need to say this stuff.

“Gael, you’re the older brother. It’s on you to know better. If you know you sometimes make a mess in your sleep, then for pete’s sake don’t let your kid sister stay the night in your bed. At the very least make her wear pants. Better yet, let her sleep on the floor.”

“I’m not wearing pants,” Camila reminded everyone. “Just because I said sorry doesn’t mean you get to control my body.”

“Last time I checked, pants are not part of the female anatomy,” Dad chided.

“Shut up, Dad,” both said in unison.

Dad looked appropriately embarrassed.

“Gael, you’re the one I’m counting on here to keep better track of your bodily functions, and to adjust your behavior around your sister. She’s young. She’s figuring things out. Pants or no pants, I can’t in good conscience blame her for what happened here.”

“I couldn’t agree more awkwardly,” I nodded.

“Hand me those, would you?” Mom sighed at last, pointing to the awful pink wad at my spot on the table. For one crazy second, I thought she was asking me to bring them to her. But Camila grabbed them, scooted back her chair, and brought them to Mom herself. Mom took them swiftly and without fanfare. Camila surprised her with a hug.

“I promise to be better,” she sniffled into Mom’s bosom.

“Aw, honeybee,” Mom melted.

Mom’s greatest weakness? Loving validation.

Mom and Dad exited for the night. Camila blew them kisses. It wasn’t even that late. We could still go play EYL in the pillow fort. My sister and I caught each other’s eye from across the kitchen.

There was a lot contained in her protracted, blinking, blushing look. Blood rushed to both our heads. We’d just survived something truly, potentially traumatic. (I couldn’t even be sure anyone but me knew just how close our family had come to catching the pedophile in its midst. But they didn’t, so let’s not think about that!) We’d survived together. And she still didn’t have to wear pants.

“So … are we … ?” Camila began to say, self -consciously scratching an itch on the top of one foot with her other foot’s toenails. She looked unsure whether she was welcome to address me directly.

“Yooou,” I said, striding toward her and yanking her with a giggle-yelp into a big, roaring bear hug. When I was done spinning her around, she stayed curled up in my arms, leaning into me.

“Sorry,” she whispered.

“Don’t be,” I whispered.

She looked up at me. Her face was as close to mine as a lover’s. She looked like she wanted to kiss me.

“I should be the one apologizing. I had no idea that I had…” I shook my head, remembering this was part-lie, part-truth. Fine, I guessed. This apology would be a test. “I didn’t realize it had gotten on your, like, you know?” I patted her butt, where her current panties resided. She flinched, but then just as quickly relaxed. My hand went right back up to her back.

“I um, yeah,” she shrugged. She looked away again. Then she buried her face in my shirt. As she nuzzled me she tugged at the shirt fabric. “Take this off,” she said.

“Uhm,” I swallowed. I had a weirdly timed flashback to Kate Winslet’s toplessness. I remembered wondering how her breasts at twelve might have differed from Camila’s. “Doesn’t it feel a little soon?”

She snickered. She looked up at me. She stopped smiling when she saw I was being serious.

"You're kidding," she said.

I didn't say anything.

"Oh, come ON," she snorted.

"Hey," I said, putting my hands up defensively, "we were just through an emotionally exhausting ordeal."

“UGH,” she groaned. “Fine. But then no back tickles for you.”

“What?!”

We had already begun heading back to the pillow fort in my room. I couldn’t have told you when this had been decided or by whom.

“Okay,” I shrugged. “No back tickles? No EYL.”

“Gael!” she scoffed, and stomped to a halt. “We are too playing. You’re just messing with me.”

“You know the deal,” I said, stopping a few stairs up to turn and patronize her. “I play for as long as you tickle my back. No tickles? No deal.”

“Bull!” she clucked. “You know it’s just because I’m nice that I don’t ask you to do my back in return! We BOTH like the game. You just get a bonus out of me tickling you!”

“Hey, didn’t you hear Mom earlier? My ‘bonus’ is none of your concern.”

“Gross,” Camila smirked. “But for real. If you can get over yourself, you really do kind of owe me. I’ve tickled your back for like hours and hours. It’ll say. When we load the game. However long we’ve been playing, that’s basically how long I have tickled you.

"You don't have to do anything," she added. "Just touch my back, if that's all you can handle. I'd just like it. And not, like, sexually or anything. Obviously,” she rolled her beautiful pale green eyes. She looked incredible in just panties and a sweatshirt. Her one knee was raised, her left foot on the stair in front of her, which pose opened her thighs a little. Made her look, well, sexy. Even at twelve, her lower half was already more or less shaped like a very fit woman’s, only scaled down a bit.

“Fine,” I said, chewing my lip. I stared at her. “We’ll both take our shirts off.”

She blushed even as she sneered incredulously at me.

“You for real?” she asked.

I began heading back up the stairs.

“Gael?” she called.

I went into my room. I shucked off my sweatshirt. I plopped down onto all fours and crawled under the flap that constituted the entrance to our fort.

“I’m not joking!” she said, and I heard her enter my room and shut the door. I saw her bare feet appear beneath the flap. Then she squatted and poked her head in. “I’m serious, Gael. Are you going to do my back?”

“I mean, maybe, yeah? What if we just did like a little bit of a trial run type thing. Like, just take your shirt off and come sit in front of me.”

She faltered at the entrance. I’d simply up and welcomed her to dress down to her bra and panties in my room. Well, in OUR fort, to be exact. But still, the stakes gave her pause.

“I’m gonna,” she curled an eyebrow at me. “You seriously won’t flip out?” Her fingers went, now, to the hem of her sweatshirt. Prepared to lift upward in T-minus three, two, one…

“Mila, wait!” I said.

She froze, and her cheeks went pink.

“Naw, just kidding. Go ahead,” I grinned and beckoned her inside. “Come sit here. Let the master show you how it’s done.”

“You stinker!” she whined. She was still pink with embarrassment. “I’m really doing it now. Don’t laugh, okay? I know they’re tiny.” She lifted up her shirt, unthreaded both her arms, then carefully tugged the garment off around her head, minding her new twin-tails and ribbons.

Her training bra was pink. Her skin was olive. Her nipples were erect. She was twelve.

I wasn't sure how to react.

"They’re cute," I gulped. "C'mere."

She smiled. She crawled forward and turned, positioning her back between my knees. She had tiny freckles here and there across her back. No pimples yet. That phase of puberty was yet to come.

"Yeah, uh," I said, offering to hand her the Playstation controller. “I guess, do you want to play then? While I do your back?”

“Oh? Should I?” she asked. She didn’t sound all that enthused. “But it’s your game.”

“It’s Tim’s. He loaned it to both of us. You can play all you want.”

“Um. Is it okay if I don’t? You can just do my back for a little, until you get bored or whatever. And then we’ll play.”

“Okay,” I said strangely. I made a face she couldn’t see me make. She just wanted me to tickle her mostly bare back in total silence? Did she not realize how sensuous that would make things? I might as well have warmed up some massage oil while we were at it!

I touched her bare shoulders. They were soft and warm. She shivered. I began.

I let my fingertips fall like rain down her back. Let them wash away the awkward. We were here, now, in one of the best ways either of us knew how. My thumbs found her spine, and my fingertips the sides of her torso. Her ribs were like piano keys. I ran my fingers along them and played. I watched her breathing deepen and felt her body relax.

The training bra was a distraction. The straps were digging into her shoulders. So I hooked one and pulled it down her arm. She let me. I tickled that now fully bare shoulder. I scratched it. I massaged it. Then I tickled it again as I returned the strap to its place. I proceeded to do the same on the other side. Symmetry was key in back tickling.

Afterward, I felt a little braver slipping my fingers under and around the fabric of her training bra wherever it felt most appropriate for the current tickle technique. My intentions were careful. I was in a monastically pure flow state. I relished the trust she was giving me more than the silky sweet skin she was letting me touch.

“Want me to just take it off?” she asked all of a sudden. She began to grab at it and shimmy like she was going to remove it. I woke up from my flow state, already flush with arousal. My cock as raging hard, I was sorry to discover. And my sister was taking her bra off. “It’s not like there’s much for you to see anyway,” she murmured with a self-conscious giggle in her voice.

“You do you,” I said carefully. “I’m not going to tell you what to do with your body.”

“Uh-huh,” she scoffed, trying to sound cool as she did in fact finish fully removing her bra.

My little sister, now, was sitting mostly naked between my knees, facing away from me. She held her pink bralette in her lap. She waited for me to continue.

“Wow,” I said, a little smugly.

“What?” she cringed.

“I can’t believe you’re letting me see your naked back,” I said.

She chuckled uncomfortably.

“I mean,” she mumbled. “I really don’t care if you see me like this? You just can’t tell anyone, ever. No matter what.”

“See you like th…?” I started to ask.

But then she turned around.

My mouth went dry. Her eyes were wide. She was holding her breath. Her shoulders were drawn up a little. Her nipples were hard.

She had the tiniest, cutest tits. They were olive like the rest of her. Her nickel-sized areolae were stippled brownish, her thick nipples mauve tipped pink. She caught me staring of course. That had been her point. She blushed and loosed a goofy, childish giggle. She had her eyes fixed on mine, but not with any confidence or authority.

"So just say it," she said, trying to shrug. "They're barely there. They hardly count as boobs."

"No," I said, clearing my throat. “They’re good.” I gave her a thumbs up. A thumbs UP?! I shrugged, too. I nodded and made a face like, ‘Nice tits, kid.’ If you can bare to imagine. It was a scorchingly awkward little moment for both of us. I think we both half-wished she’d kept her top on.

“Are you done looking?” she asked. She was smiling, her cheeks still blazing. “Can I turn back around now?”

“Y-yeah,” I forced a chuckle. “Go ahead, Sis.”

“God,” she said a moment later, once I’d resumed tickling her newly naked back. “I can’t believe I just did that.”

“Yup,” I chortled.

“You said you wouldn’t laugh!”

“I-I’m not!” I chuckled again, entirely by accident.

She turned around again, and this time she was genuinely mad. She grabbed her sweatshirt and balled it against her chest. I mean her breasts.

"Screw you," she declared. "I knew this was a dumb idea.

"No, no, no, no, no," I said, grabbing her by the upper arms. “Look at me. Mila. Mila. Look at me.”

Begrudgingly, she did.

“You are beautiful, okay?” I said. “I will always, always believe that. Not just because I’m your brother. But because you are just…” I pulled her hands down into her lap, re-exposing her cute little baby breasts to me, “… lovely. Gosh. Look at you, girl.” I smiled, not forcibly, just fondly. “I don’t ever mean to creep you out, but right now I feel like you need to hear this. You are the prettiest girl I know. I can’t even get myself to want to date the girls in my grade anymore, because I feel like I’m just waiting until I can find someone on your level.”

“You can - um - you can let go,” she whispered, wriggling her wrists in my grip. “I won’t, like…” She made a face that meant I could look at her boobs if I wanted. She wasn’t going to hide them again. She liked what I was saying.

“I have been single since eighth grade,” I reminded her. “Since Lisa Williams. Remember her?”

“She was so beautiful,” Camila sighed enviously.

“She was,” I blushed proudly. But I was frowning. “Too beautiful,” I said. “Only took her a month to realize it, too. And that’s my curse. I don’t want anyone but you, basically - or, wait, that came out wrong.”

“Awww!” Camila swooned. She put her arms around me and squeezed. She was naked to the waist. I couldn't help feeling her breasts squash against me.

"Uh," I said.

"Don't ruin it," she warned, leaning her cheek against my shoulder.

I gingerly patted her back. She had goosebumps. My cock twitched inside my sweatpants.

“What I meant was,” I cleared my throat, “you ruined me on beauty. Still an awkward thing to say to my kid sister, granted, but it’s the truth. I’ve had to accept that I’ll be single my whole life, because there’s just no one like you. And even if there were, they'd be miles out of my league.”

Camila made a noise like a giggle and a snort and a sigh.

"Geez, Gael," she mumbled. She squeezed me again, tighter. "I really love you, too."

We held each other in silence. We were a little sweaty from our hug. Camila was breathing kind of hard. My heart was racing.

"Should we just go back to tickling?" she asked after awhile.

"Sure," I said.

“I do you now?” she said. But she pointed to the TV screen, which presided like a high stained glass picture window over the whole of the inside of our fort. “We’ve been wasting precious time when we could be getting closer to Tomoko!”

“You really are horny for our little sister, aren’t you?” I teased as I booted up the Playstation.

Camila put her hands on my thighs. She gave my quadriceps a playfully vigorous squeeze. "Yes," she grinned, leaned in close, and planted a kiss on my cheek. "Yes we are."

Chapter Text

Some languid, lovely, well-tickled hours later, we'd reached a stopping point. I had gotten too sleepy to continue.

"That's a wrap, I think," I said, and stretched my arms. I was laying on my stomach, feet kicked up, toes wriggling. My back was warm and tingly from all the attention. Camila had switched at some point to using me as an ottoman. Her feet rested across my back. I turned over, now, and grabbed her legs. I gently removed them from my person.

“K,” said Camila. She yawned. She had leaned over to the side, and was reading something that lay open on the floor. I couldn't see what. I could see her nipples though, as she and I were both still topless. That was something I had definitely not gotten used to, yet. I wasn't sure I wanted to get used to it.

"What you reading?" I asked, sitting up and rubbing my eyes.

"Um," she hesitated.

I blinked, and peered at the magazine she had open beside her.

It was one of my porno mags. I recognized the page she was open to as one I had masturbated to several times.

"Where'd you get that?" I growled.

"Gael, chill," she frowned. "You kept dozing off and not playing. I got bored. What's even the big deal? It's not like these women are showing anything I haven't seen."

"So you snuck into my closet and - and ..." I pointed angrily at the pilfered magazine.

"And took your creepy magazine. Yep. Deal with it."

"Mila," I tried to snatch it up. She slid it out of my reach, and then used one of her feet to pry herself away from me. She pressed her sweaty foot against my cheek. One of her toenails almost scratched my eye. I sat back, juked around her foot, and pounced again for the mag. She rolled over on top of it, clutching it underneath her for protection. I wrapped myself around her from behind. So now she had the magazine, but I had her.

Neither of us moved.

At the outset of the grab, I did not have a boner. But a few moments in, I realized that was at risk of changing.

Camila realized it too. I felt her butt press itself down against the bulge that was growing inside my sweats.

"Oh my gosh," she said.

"Sorry," I grunted.

"Are you for real right now?" she giggled.

"No," I lied.

"Do you, um, maybe want to let me go? Before this gets weird?"

"Give me the magazine."

"Oops, sorry," she said, and wiggled her butt against my cock. "My bad."

"Mila," I gasped.

"What? I'm not doing anything." She wiggled some more. It felt amazing. I mean it felt horrible. IT FELT HORRIBLE.

"You're wiggling."

"You're the one who's got his hard-on all squished between us," she laughed. "Just let go, you sicko! I'm your sister!"

"You're the one who's all naked," I argued.

"I have underwear on!"

"You don't even have a bra," I said.

"Well, neither do you," she countered.

"Why were you even looking at my stash?" I asked. "You suddenly into women?"

"No!" she cackled. She had, for the moment, curled her butt downward, away from me, giving my cock a little breathing room.

But still too little room to grow.

"I wouldn't judge you if you were," I added. "I think you'd make a cute lesbian."

"If anything, I'd be bi," she scoffed. "But so what if I was curious? You're not the only one in this house who's allowed to be interested in porn."

"This is getting awkward," I grunted, trying to keep my hold on her while now dodging her attempts to bump my cock with her butt. "P-please just let go of the magazine. You're twelve. Dad will kill me if he knows you - "

"Dad?! Is that where you get these? DAD gives them to you?" she was suddenly convulsing with laughter.

"What?" I said, not seeing was so funny.

"That's so gross!" she cackled. Her laughter rocked her whole little curled up body. My body bounced along with hers. "That's disgusting. My brother gets his porn from my dad!"

"So?" I said, a little pissed, but mostly embarrassed. "Lots of dads give their sons these. They're not a big deal."

"But they don't give them to their daughters!" she said. "It's not fair! That's why gotta share. You're the only one of us who's ever going to have them otherwise."

"Mila, I - I don't know how to counter that. That's a fair point."

"Let me go now?" she said, reverse-humping me one last time for good measure.

"Fine," I grunted.

"Finally, you perv," she said, and opened the magazine, and began flipping through the pages.

I rolled back onto my haunches. My sweatpants were egregiously tented right now. My boner was insane. It had just dry-humped my sister's butt. What had I done? How was I to live this down?

"Want to come look with me?" she asked. She patted the floor beside her, and peered at me over her shoulder. Her gaze dipped down toward the tent in my sweatpants. She blushed, and failed to suppress a giggle.

"You sure?" I said. "I didn't mean to - "

"It's fine," she smirked. "You're just horny. So am I. It's whatever. Come on."

"Okay," I said.

I crawled over. Camila sat up on her knees. We were facing each other. Her tits were small and brown, and she had no idea how cute they were.

"Here," she said, and opened the magazine wide enough for us both to look. "This one's my favorite."

The photo was one of those where a model was posing for a fashion photographer. Except, here, the model was an Asian woman in a black leather dominatrix outfit. Her skin was the color of dark caramel, and her eyes were green contacts. Her jet black hair was long and silky, and parted over her eye on one side. She had a slender face, a long neck, and a body so curvy it was hard to imagine she was the same species. She had a thick, shapely ass, and an ample chest.

I shrugged at her.

"What?" Mila scoffed. "Not hot enough for you?"

"I can tell she's hot," I frowned. "But she's not my type."

"What's your type?" Mila said.

"I dunno," I said. "Like a ... I don't know."

"Show me your type, then," she said, and slid me the magazine.

I looked at the pictures. The girls in them were all gorgeous. But of course, I had two or three pages I frequented most often in each of my porn mags. I flipped around to the nearest one.

"Here," I said, and pointed to one of a couple girls both pictured on the same multi-image page.

"Oh, yeah," Camila smirked, and leaned in close to scrutinize the page.

The model had a slender, athletic build. A nice smile, too. She had straight, light brown hair that fell around her shoulders. Her breasts were small, almost flat, but still invitingly cute. She looked almost too young to be in this magazine.

"You like this one," Camila nodded. "What is it about her?"

She had her bare side resting alongside mine. As she leaned in close, her shoulder pressed firmly into mine. Her hair fell against my arm. She smelled like strawberry shampoo and day-old sweat.

"I like her because she looks happy. And not in the way where they're trying too hard. This one looks like she's just being herself."

"Okay," Camila nodded. "And you're okay with her boobs?"

"Yeah," I blushed.

"She has no ass, though."

"You can't really tell from this angle," I chuckled. "But wow. Okay. You're a big talker all of a sudden."

I leaned to one side and gave her booty a playful spank. Nothing terribly unbrotherly. Except that she had no pants on. And except that I was still rock hard from having humped this particular booty.

Camila giggled, and squirmed against my side.

"Don't be mean," she pouted. "I'm not done growing."

"Fine," I said. "Touché."

We spent the next few minutes flipping through my magazine, and taking turns pointing out our favorite parts of each girl. We laughed and smiled a lot. We also made each other blush plenty.

Camila shook her head. "What's wrong with a girl who wants to call the shots?" She was awing at her Asian domme again. Her finger traced the leather straps binding the lady's plump breasts to her torso.

"I'm sure that's cool," I chuckled. "But it's just not my thing."

"You're sixteen," she giggled. "How would you even know?"

I shook my head. "I just know," I chuckled.

"What about this, though?" She was pointing at a second picture, now. One that showed the domme wielding a whip, and leering over a chained, blindfolded blonde man. She was shoving her naked, waxed vulva into the man's stuck-open mouth.

"What about it?" I said.

"This doesn't turn you on? This isn't, like, a fantasy?"

"A little," I admitted. "But it'd have to be the right girl."

"Fair," she shrugged. She flipped over to the page with my modestly-endowed brunette. "So if she had you tied up and wanted to put her susie in your mouth, you'd let her?"

"Her susie?" I cocked my head at her.

"Gael, I call it a susie, okay? I don't like any of the other words."

"Susie," I repeated the word, feeling its shape.

"Don't make fun of me," she frowned. "Answer the question. Would you let her put this in your mouth?" She pointed to the brunette's slightly fuzzy, beautifully plump vulva.

"I mean. If she wanted me to do that to her, yeah."

"But would YOU want to?"

"Mila, this line of questioning is getting a little uncomfortable."

She bopped my hand with her fist. "Just answer the question."

"Yes," I said. "Geez. Can we move on now?"

"Yes, yes, fine," she said, and flipped the page.

"Whoa," I said.

Camila looked down at the page and started to laugh.

It was the final page in the magazine.

Here was a photo that had been slipped in like a bookmark. One that had been hidden. My first instinct was to try and snatch it before Camila could see what it was. But obviously that was futile.

"Gael," Camila murmured.

"Yeah," I said, my heart thudding to a halt.

"You have this in here...?"

It was a photo of her from last Summer. Taken by my disposable camera. She was standing on the beach. She was holding her hair up like a model, and was wearing a green and yellow two-piece swimsuit. She was looking over her shoulder, squinting mischievously, and blowing a raspberry at the viewer. Her tawny back muscles were flexed, salty sunlight glowed in the space between her thighs, and the precocious swell of her butt - meant to be a playful yuk for the camera man’s saje - was instead a plump little vision of twin-cheeked splendor.

"It's a photo of you," I explained, weakly.

"Why … do you have it in here?”

I couldn’t answer that. I had, for one, utterly forgotten that I’d hidden it in this particular issue. And I had, for two, used it for masturbation purposes. Obviously.

"I use it like a bookmark," I muttered, my eyes locked on her own, as if staring hard directly at her made my panicky lie less unconvincing.

"Gael, this is a photo of ME ..."

"Listen,” I cleared my throat, “this right here,” and forced the magazine shut on her hands, “is why I need my privacy!” I wrenched it away from her, ripping the page she still clung to, and bending the poor book’s spine. She still held a piece of a page in one hand, and the photograph on the other. The little girl in the photo wiggled her butt at me and blew a raspberry.

“Give me that,” I said quietly.

“Why should I? It’s a picture of ME. I should get to decide - hey! Gael, ow!”

I snatched it away. She hissed in pain. I’d given her a nasty paper-cut between her thumb and forefinger.

“It’s my bookmark!” I grumbled defiantly. I had my shitty story and I was sticking to it. I held my shameful belongings away from her and began to shuffle on my knees toward the fort’s exit.

“You gave me a papercut!” she winced, tears rising in her voice.

“I’m putting this back,” I announced as I exited the fort. “And I’m putting my stash somewhere you can’t reach it.”

“If it’s just a bookmark then why are you acting so super weird about it?” she called from inside the fort. I could hear her biting back tears.

I couldn't answer that. I could barely think straight.

"Because," I said, and flicked the light on in my closet. It blinded me momentarily. The only light in the fort had been the TV’s backlit gray input screen.

My eyes adjusted. Here in my hands was the latest notch in my shame belt. And what a doozie, this one. My sister had caught me dead to rights. What had possessed me to LET her peruse my porn mag?

“Gael,” she said again, clearly trying not go sound distraught. “Come back.”

"I'm your brother, and I shouldn't be looking at porn with you!”

“So then don’t! Hide your stash again! I don’t effing care!”

“If you don’t care, then why did you break into it in the first place?”

“God, just leave me alone!” she sobbed.

I stuffed the stash on the highest shelf, tucked it way back into the corner, and then stacked a heavy box of baseball cards on top of it. I flicked the closet light back off. I turned and regarded the dimly glowing fort inside my dark, blacked-out bedroom. I heard Camila sniffle inside.

“You have a picture of my butt in your porn mag,” she muttered.

I glared at the fort.

“I’m going to bed now,” I growled. “You can sleep in there, or you can go sleep in your own room. Stay out of my bed.”

There was an uncomfortable beat as I crossed the room. I knew she’d be able to see my feet as I stepped past the fort’s entrance. I climbed self-consciously into my bed.

“Fine,” she answered after that long delay.

I heard her nesting around in there, ruffling blankets, fluffing pillows, moving discarded clothing and snacks and controllers out of her way. She clicked the TV off. The fort went dark.

It was freezing out here in my room. My sheets were so icy cold they felt almost damp. A dry wintry wind slammed the side of our house, stirring the glass in my window, and blasting it with sand-like grains of icy particulate. I felt a draft of cold pour out onto my bed from under the heavy curtains.

The fort was silent.

I rolled onto my side and tucked the covers tight around me. I lay facing the wall. I clenched my eyes shut.

But I wasn’t about to fall asleep. I kept seeing visions of Mila on the beach. Seeing her ass wiggling for me, her pretty pink lips blowing me a raspberry.

She hadn't meant it. She was just playing around. She wasn't actually inviting me to stare at her butt. I, her creepy older sibling, her trusted protector, her closest ally, had chosen to take things over that line. I had secreted away the photo, transforming it from innocent to illicit in the process. And I had used it as a wandering bookmark across all my porno mags, as the vital accompaniment to so many masturbation sessions, as the image beside the imagery, the supplementary visual meant to help me triangulate what I was, in my sick, private head, actually attempting to masturbate to.

No wonder I preferred images of slimmer, younger women. Why my favorites were the ones who smiled authentically, genuinely, carefree for the camera. These were what worked best in tandem.

"Gael," I thought I heard Camila mutter from down on the floor inside the fort.

I did not respond. I blinked my eyes. Had I hallucinated her voice? Wind howled. The room was pitch-black. I could only just make out the contours of my room, the fort, the locations of each wall’s doors and windows.

“Gael?” she called again, but still softly.

I didn't reply. I couldn't. My throat was closed. I was too terrified to speak.

"Fine," she sighed.

I lay awake, staring at the wall, for a very long time. I could hear her crying. She wasn’t trying to be quiet about it. She wanted me to hear how hurt she was feeling.

Just as I was about to doze off at last, I had a lucid, hypnogogic recollection of Dad clapping me on the thigh and telling we had to help. We had to get out in the icy cold and help the poor, lonely driver spinning her wheels helplessly on the side of the road.

I got quietly out of bed. I softly opened my bedroom door. I tiptoed to our bathroom. I didn’t turn on the lights. I didn’t want to disturb my weary, sleepless brain any further. I found the band-aids in the dark of the medicine cabinet by memory. I slipped one out, then replaced the box. Some sort of small glass medicine bottle tumbled off the shelf and into the sink. The clatter as it bounced and spiraled around the porcelain bowl was heinous.

“Fuck,” I spat into the void.

I angrily retrieved and put the now wet, dewy bottle back on the shelf. It tinkled as it scooched against some other little glass bottles. I braced my fingers against these, cursing them, commanding them to stay. Then I shut the mirrored cabinet door again and left the bathroom.

When I got back to my bedroom, I quietly shut the door again behind me. I tiptoed over to the fort. I lifted up the flap.

“Hey,” I whispered into the pitch black.

Silence.

“I got you this,” I said.

No answer.

“I’ll just leave it here by the entrance, yeah?”

I set the bandaid on the carpet just inside the fort and dropped the flap again. Then I laid back down in bed. A minute later, I heard the little rustling sound of a bandaid being unwrapped.

The wind continued to howl outside. Our house creaked and moaned in its foundations. I tried not to think about the fact that Camila had found the photo.

At some point, the wind must have finally died down. I stirred from a nap I hadn’t realized I’d fallen into.

There was a hot arm across my cold belly. It was warm and small. I put my hand on it. I very delicately palpated the narrow musculature of its thin, peach fuzzy forearm. Its delicate fingers twitched, froze, then relaxed again. It gave me a soft, short tummy rub. Then it went limp again.

I fell back to sleep.

***

When I awoke, the sun was shining. The storm had passed. I was alone in my bed.

“Mila?”

No answer. The room is was silent. The house was silent.

I got out of bed. I threw a hoodie on. I put clean socks on.

I peered into the fort. Empty. There by the entrance were the leavings of an empty bandaid wrapper. I scooped them up, then stood and deposited them in the waste-bin that normally lived under my desk but was currently seated in my desk chair, pinning down a corner of the fort’s ceiling.

I left my room. I emptied my bladder and brushed my teeth.

I paused outside Camila’s bedroom door. It was shut. I stood there and listened. No signs of life. I trundled downstairs to see if Mila had beaten me to breakfast.

The kitchen was dark and uninhabited. Our house was chilly and silent.

“Hello?” I called.

No answer.

I did a slow, eerie search through every room. The only room I didn’t, couldn’t, check was Camila’s. When I had finally circled back around to the kitchen, I spotted a note written on the whiteboard on our fridge. It read:

> Power’s out

> We’re getting supplies

> Stay warm + safe

It was written in Mom’s feminine, hurried cursive.

I took a seat at the kitchen island and waited.

About ten minutes later, I heard the front door open. Normally the side door, into the garage, was how we came in and out of the house. It banged against the stopper. Cold wind blew in.

Mom came in first. She was bundled in a puffy green parka and had her hands gloved. She had arms full of grocery bags.

“Hey,” she said, shivering. “Dad needs you out there. The garage door won’t open.”

“Yeah. Power’s out,” I said.

“We’re aware,” she said. She set down her things on the kitchen counter, then unzipped her coat. She turned to look at me. Her cheeks and nose were red. “He needs help pulling it open manually. Go give him a hand, would you? It’s awful out there.”

I must have looked resistant. Mom frowned at me and pointed. “Get dressed. Hurry. He won’t be happy if you lallygag.”

I made for the hallway, then paused at the foot of the stairs. I could see through our entryway windows the snow had drifted up to hip height. And it was still coming down. I shivered. Then I hurried upstairs.

Dad was staying warm inside the truck. Its engine idled, its tailpipe spewing a heaping plume of white exhaust. As the plume billowed upward it cast a long shadow across the crisp glistening belly of snow that was our front yard. From inside the cabin, Dad waved at me. I went and got in with him.

“Hey bud,” he said. “Donut?” He proffered me a powdered donette from a bag in his lap. I took it. I scarfed it. I was famished. I’d eaten nothing but junk food for dinner last night, as Mom and Dad had left us kids to fend for ourselves when they tucked in early.

Dad smiled at me. Then he gestured out at the snowy weather. The truck’s wipers squeaked across the windshield. “We gotta shovel this as soon it lets up. I can lend you a hand.”

“Okay,” I said, resigned to my fate.

“That sound alright? Better than doing it alone?”

I nodded at him.

He gave me another donette.

I ate it.

“Your sister up yet?” He asked around his own powdery mouthful.

I shrugged, shook my head no. I chewed and swallowed. “I doubt it,” I said.

“Yeah,” he sighed. “She wouldn’t have been much help anyway.” He leaned forward and peered up at the sky. It had turned blue. The sun blazed through pretty, scattered clouds of various shapes and thicknesses. There were like twelve different kinds of cloud up there today. “I think it’s done for now.”

I shivered preemptively.

“Come on,” he said, unbuckling and opening his door. He left the keys in the ignition and the truck running. He pointed his gloved hand at the closed, snowbound garage door. “Help me get this sumbitch open.”

We each traipsed toward the door along the sunken, snowed in tracks left by his truck’s earlier departure.

“Why’d you shut it?” I grumbled. My voice was muffled by my scarf.

“Eh?” he asked, pretending not to have heard me. “Here. Grab the handle over there. You gotta dig in the snow a bit. You’ll find it.”

He stationed himself at the other handle. On the count of three we hoisted. The door creaked and cracked, but didn’t budge. Something my back smarted from the foiled effort. I readied for a follow-up effort, but this time felt a stiff cranky pang in my left side.

“Squat with me,” Dad instructed. “Lift with your legs. Don’t hurt your back.”

“Already did,” I grunted.

“Eh?” Dad said.

We lifted on the count of three. The garage door clattered and grumbled at us as we got it partway up its tracks.

“Good,” Dad said. “You got it? Ready to go again?”

I gave him a gloved thumbs up. He nodded. We counted to three and lifted. Up went the door. Past a certain point it sprang up on its own, rolling most of the way open by its own mechanical force. Dad and I whumped our gloved hands together in a high five. Then he told me to grab the shovels off their hooks in the dark garage while he finished parking the truck.

Mom opened the door into the house and stood there wrapped in a throw blanket as we watched Dad roll the truck into the garage. She clapped for us when he had finished parking.

“Good work, men!” she chuckled. “I’ve got the camp stove going. There’ll be hot coffee waiting for you whenever you finish up out here.”

Dad blew her a smooch.

Mom shivered, kept her blanket wrapped tightly around herself, and pretended to catch it with her mouth.

We left the garage door open as we shoveled the driveway, and then the sidewalk and the porch. Then we got in the truck and drove slowly down the street to see if anyone needed a hand. Plows hadn’t come by yet. Tree limbs had fallen here and there. We moved them out of the road. Dad and I chatted about random stuff as we drove around the snowy neighborhood. I felt pleasantly distracted by him, by our mission, by the beautiful quiet scenery.

I remembered Camila saying the other day how it looked like the moon. That had been Monday. It felt like a week ago.

But now it was the weekend. We were nearing the end of winter break. The snow storm had come too early to guarantee a snow day. Plows would probably have it cleaned up by the first day of school.

I shivered and thought of Camila. I thought of the photo. The band-aid leavings. The shut bedroom door.

“Shit,” Dad said all of a sudden.

“What?” I asked, startled.

“We forgot about the coffee!”

We doubled back to the house. We parked in the garage. I helped him shut the door again. We bundled inside, kicked off our boots and shucked off our warm smelly outerwear. Then we went and sat and thawed in the frigid, but comparatively warm kitchen while Mom brewed us a fresh pot.

Camila appeared from the hall. She had on two layers of pajamas and a bathrobe. She sat quietly at the kitchen table, pulling her feet up onto her chair and sitting criss-cross applesauce. She declined a cup of coffee, but asked if we had hot cocoa.

“One chocolate soup, coming right up!” Mom sang. It was her perennial wintertime Mom joke. “Will you be taking that in a bowl or a mug?”

“Mug,” Camila muttered. She glared listlessly out the backyard windows. She didn’t even roll her eyes.

“You okay over there?” Dad asked, concerned.

“Just cold,” she answered. And that was all she had to say on the matter.

She’d removed the ribbons from her hair. She’d brushed out the twin-tails. With her new fringe bangs and her shoulder-length hair, she looked like a sulking, preteen Cleopatra.

She caught me staring. She squinted icily. I shrugged, acted nonplussed, and looked away.

***

I eventually excused myself to my room. Once inside, I saw with some heartfelt pain that the fort had been destroyed. Everything Camila had contributed - sheets, blankets, pillows - was gone. The rest was my own mess to clean up. I let out a sorry little moan of self-pity. Nobody was around to hear it.

The tidying task felt good though. It felt right. Here now, bit by bit, was my bedroom. My sanctuary. My bastion of normalcy. I stood in the center of the carpet and smiled at the hyper-familiar space encircling me once I’d finally restored it to its baseline level of lived-in disorder. I also realized as if by epiphany that I had a lockable bedroom door. I locked it just to see how it felt.

Then I went and sat on my half-made bed.

It felt lonely. I got up again and unlocked the door.

There came a knock. I jumped, my hand still hanging on the the knob. I watched it turn in my grip. I stood there staring like a deer in headlights.

“Oh!” Mom flinched at the unexpected nearness of me to the door. “You startled me!”

“I was just getting up,” I said.

“Yeah? Hey,” she said, chewing her lip. “Do you mind if we step in for a quick second to chat? I need to ask you something.”

I must have made a face.

“N-nothing like that,” she added quickly. “Promise. May I?”

I let her in. She entered swiftly and succinctly. She went and stood over by my closet and pretended to admire the posters I had up on the door. I shut my bedroom door. I went and sat on the edge of my bed. I sighed, unable to relax in my own space.

“So?” I said.

Mom stood there shivering and smiling at old pictures of me on the wall over my desk.

“You were so cute,” she sniffed. “You still are. But I mean, now you’re all grown up.”

“I know Mom. What was it you needed to ask?”

She chewed her lip again, looked thoughtfully at me, and then came and sat beside me on the edge of my bed.

“Dear, I’m sorry if I mishandled that whole situation yesterday.”

In the sheer cold of my heatless room, I felt a rich warmth flood my cheeks.

“It’s fine,” I assured her.

“You know, that’s what your sister told me, too.”

“Well, then there you go,” I shrugged.

“Except we both know something’s wrong, don’t we?” Mom squinted at me. “You two seem to be not talking today. And I see you guys took down your tent.”

“Fort,” I corrected.

We both quietly regarded the fortless room.

“I’m not trying to breach your privacy or anything,” Mom said carefully, “but I want to know what you’re really thinking. I want you to believe I’ll understand.”

I gave Mom an incredulous shrug.

“I don’t know what to tell you. I’m good. If she’s upset about something, you should ask her,” I pointed at Camila’s room through my bedroom wall.

“You’re good,” Mom repeated flatly. Her mouth shut into a straight line. She nodded once, curtly. “He’s good,” she sighed as she stood up again. She went to my door. She paused. She looked over her shoulder at me.

“You know,” she said very quietly, “it’s odd. Your stains weren’t on the outside of her underwear. They were on the inside. You guys must have really been snuggled up tight, hm?”

I gulped. I blinked. I had no response.

“But you’re good,” she reiterated. She turned to look at the closed door in front if her. “He’s good,” she said again.

Then Mom excused herself, leaving my door - and my jaw - hanging wide open.

***

“Mom, wait,” I called. Some force had moved me to the bedroom door. I caught her at the top of the stairs. She stopped and looked back at me. I beckoned her back into my room. She eyed me strangely, almost disbelieving, even as she returned.

I closed the door behind her.

We sat on the bed again. Take two.

Then I said, “I took them out of the laundry. In the bathroom. They were right on top. And I … well…”

“Masturbated with them,” she said calmly. I suddenly got this vertiginous feeling, like Mom was a steep cliff I was standing uncomfortably close to. You ever stood close to a lethal drop and had this weird fear that you might accidentally, but completely on purpose, throw yourself to your death?

“Right,” I mumbled. Somehow, I was able to look at her as I confirmed her worst suspicion. She looked like Mom always looked.

“You confessed,” she said.

“I don’t know what got into me,” I said. “I didn’t even want to do it. I saw them in there and my first thought was, ‘gross.’ They were clearly dirty, you know? But then a minute later I had them in my hand. And… and…”

Mom had put a soothing hand on my thigh, sending my thoughts tumbling all over themselves.

“I don’t need a play by play,” Mom said gently.

"R-right," I gulped.

She withdrew her hand.

"I'm not, like, I'm not going to make any excuses. I know it was gross. I know it was wrong."

"Gael. You can stop beating yourself up. I'm proud of you for telling me," she said. She was keeping such an insanely level head about this. Where were all her big feelings? Her ugly emotions? Was she going to walk out my bedroom door and explode all over the hallway?

"I'm sorry I lied about it."

"Well, your sister lied too, didn't she? She covered for you. With that story about nocturnal emissions."

"She, ahm, right. Yeah. She made that one up on the spot," I nodded.

"Didn't she?" Mom asked, furrowing her eyebrow.

"Well," I cringed. "No. No, I really did accidentally, um . . ."

"Good heavens, honey. You really are having a rough go of it, aren't you?"

"You're telling me!" I said, my voice cracking, emotion suddenly and surprisingly close to breaking through my adolescent levee.

"Aw, honey," Mom smiled, and tried to fold me into a hug. It was an awkward attempt. I wasn't feeling huggable.

But still, it made me start to cry. My greatest weakness? Loving validation, just like Mom.

"Listen," she said, her arm around me like a coach. "I'm not okay with what happened. You're not okay with what happened. Let's agree never to do it again, okay?"

"Loud and clear! Erm, deal! I mean - okay! Okay." I slipped and stumbled, my crying in front of her completely throwing off my focus.

"In the meantime, maybe we can get you some ... alternative underwear to use. Um. I would offer to loan you some of mine but I have a feeling you wouldn't be interested."

"M-Mom?" I blinked at her. My cock, too, twitched in confusion underneath my double layer of sweats and pajama pants.

"Right, no. Bad idea. But so how about I buy you a couple pairs. You can use them however you want. And we never have to talk about it again."

She looked at me expectantly as she held me under her arm. I had regained control of my tear production. I was sucking it up. I was staring at my lap.

"Y-you are offering to buy me girls' underwear?" I asked, seeking - needing, desperately - clarification.

"Women's. Women's underwear, Gael. But yes. I'm here to help. Not to shame you for being a horny teenager. You're young. You're hormonal. You're experimenting with ... boundaries. That's normal, and healthy. But I also need to protect my daughter. She needs to know she can leave her dirty laundry in the hamper without worrying what might happen to it."

Again, my cock picked a peculiar moment to fidget in my lap. Speaking of being a horny teenager. But she was speaking so plainly about it all!

"It's not a great day to run to the store for underwear," Mom sighed. "Think you can hold out for a little while?"

"Um," I blushed. I nodded. "Okay. Sure."

"Yeah? I don't need to put a padlock on the hamper?"

"Mom," I chuckled.

"Sorry," she giggled, too, and hugged me again. "I really am proud of you, kid," she sighed. "Thanks for talking to me. For telling me the truth this time. That was brave." She pulled me out of the hug and held me by the arms so she could look me in the eye. "I like that you trust me to be a good mom," she said matter-of-factly. Then she looked at me as if waiting for a response.

"Oh," I fumbled. "Um. You are a good mom."

"There we go," she grinned, and kissed me on the cheek. "I'll leave you alone now."

She stood up and went to the door.

"Want me to close this?" she asked.

I nodded.

She smirked at me.

"Of course you do. Probably got you all excited talking about panties and stuff, huh?"

"M-Mom," I gasped.

"Kidding! Geez. Relax," she scoffed, exited, and shut the door.

But the thing was, I did immediately tug both of my layers of pants off, and my boxers, and I hurriedly excavated my cock. It was semi-hard, bewildered, but ready for whatever. Classic teenage cock. I started jerking off without even a clear image in my mind. This was an adrenal act, for me. I had just navigated one of the most fatally awkward conversations I could ever conceive of having with my Mom. I had humbled myself. I had shared truths so uncomfortable they threatened to disrupt my self-concept.

I had also withheld much. She still didn't know the real reason I came in Camila's panties. She didn't know I'd smelled them, tasted them. She didn't know I'd done this not only once but twice, back to back, in the space of fifteen minutes. She also didn't know about the particular circumstances of my "nocturnal emission." She didn't know her son and daughter were playing a game in which they were sexually pursuing their imaginary twelve-year old sister. She didn't know her daughter had spent several hours topless in her son's bedroom the night before. She didn't know about the Stash (nor would she ever). And she didn't know about the incident last night with the porno mag and the photograph.

God, the incident last night.

Suddenly I could feel my horniness lose its forward momentum. I teetered backwards into self-loathing and regret. I felt my cock soften in my grip. I tried to change channels, mentally, back to something kinky and arousing.

Mom had very casually offered to loan me a pair of her underwear. Her ... clean underwear? Or the other kind of underwear? I disliked this proposition very much. Didn't I? That was disgusting to think about. Wasn't it? Mom's panties were for grown women. I'd seen them in passing while helping with the laundry sometimes. I was aware of their existence. They were supple and silky. Some of them had lacy components. All of them were huge in comparison to Camila's. But ... was that a bad thing? More supple, silky fabric to play with?

Oh God. Why was I hard again? How was that even possible? Was there nothing the teenage cock could not crave?

I went to my closet. I got down my stash. I winced at the sight of the bent, torn issue Camila and I had looked through. Maybe I should have just gotten rid of it. I was never going to be able to use it again. There, too, was the photograph. I definitely, unquestionably, absolutely had to get rid of this photograph. It was beyond creepy. It was borderline illegal. At least that's how it felt. I pulled it out of the stash. I put it in my waste-bin. I left it there. I grabbed a fresh magazine from the stash. One that Dad had just slipped to me at the start of winter break.

I sat back down on my bed and started jerking off to a photo of a woman who looked about a million miles away from Mom.

But then a few minutes later, I got up, went back to the trash bin, and pulled the picture back out. I returned to my bed.

"God damn it," I groaned.

It was freezing in my room. The little splats of cum all over my stomach swiftly chilled, leaving me no time to simply lie there and come down from cloud nine. I wiped myself off with a tissue. I threw the tissue and the photo away, back in the waste-bin under my desk. Then, with a brave sigh, I scooped out the mostly full trash bag. I tied it shut. I took it all the way downstairs and dropped it in the big trash bin in our garage. I closed the lid on that memory once and for all. It felt - well - not good exactly, but freeing.

Then I went back upstairs, returned the freshly used magazine to the stash, and plopped back down on my bed. I regarded my dormant Playstation. EYL was still in the disc drive. I suffered a sharp pang of desire. I wanted to play. I wanted to keep getting closer to Tomoko. I wanted her to let me do things "with" her, like how Camila had phrased it.

I shivered violently. My toes and fingers and nose and ears were all painfully cold, the parts of them that weren’t numb. I crawled under my covers. I shivered violently some more. I missed my sister.

I didn't get out of bed until dinner .

When I did, though, it was time to face the music.

I found Camila in the family room, reading a book. It was dark in there. But she had a booklight she'd gotten for Christmas.

"Hey," I said, standing over her.

"What do you want?" she said. She didn't look at me.

"I want to play," I said. "I miss Tomoko."

"You miss Tomoko," she echoed snidely.

"I miss our little sister," I clarified.

"Oh no," she mocked me.

"I miss my little sister," I conceded.

She scowled up at me. We made eye contact. We held it. Neither of us blinked. In fact, a few moments later both of our eyelids were twitching, as we'd locked ourselves into a staring contest. Finally, I cracked. My eyeballs were already so dry from the terrible cold in here.

"Yeah, I'll BET you miss me, you big stupid creep," she scoffed. She spoke softly, though.

"I do," I admitted. "I'm sorry about last night. I didn't mean to - um. I don't know. I'm sorry you saw that photo."

"Why? It's just my butt. I see it everyday."

"You know what I mean."

She pursed her lips and gave me a once-over. She was thinking. After another beat, she unclipped her booklight from her book and aimed it up at me.

"I have questions for you," she said. "I want you to answer them truthfully. No bull this time."

"Um, okay," I grimaced. The old bright light in the eyes trick was really effective. I felt like I had nowhere to hide.

"Okay?" she asked insistently, holding the flashlight even closer to my eyes. She was smirking now. Enjoying my discomfort.

"Yeah, fine," I said, praying I wouldn't come to regret this.

"Good," she said, clicking the light off. We were suddenly alone together in the dark family room. The sky outside was purple. Snow fell. "But not here. Upstairs. My room."

"Your room?" I cocked my head, surprised. Confused. Problematically aroused.

"Come," she said, and stood. She slapped her little haunch at me like I was a dog she wanted to follow her.

***

I closed the door behind us. Camila's bedroom was a mess , even in the dark . There were clothes everywhere. She was a slob. Her bed was a queen size. It was nice. She didn't have to share.

"Sit wherever you want," she said, pointing to the dark forms of her bed, the beanbag chair, the little bench at her vanity. I chose the beanbag chair. It was the easiest thing to stumble into over all the detritus on her floor.

"Comfy?" she said.

I shrugged. I wiggled my weight a little bit into the beans, tried to get the chair to cup me just right. I nodded.

"First question," she said, standing right at my feet and shining the booklight down on me again. "Why did you hide that photo of me in your stash?"

"Y-you know why," I muttered.

"I SAID. NO. BULL," she commanded, and stomped her double-socked foot directly onto the beans between my thighs. I flinched wildly. She held her foot there menacingly, leaned her weight onto it, and tilted herself closer to me. I did not move a muscle. "Answer me for real. Why did you have it in your stash?"

"I used it, okay?" I confessed meekly. I could barely look at her pants, much less her face. I felt my skin crawling, disgusted with the organism to which it belonged. And despite my confession, there was no immediate relief. If anything, I felt worse. The shame was so palpable now. I felt her toes clench between my thighs. I winced. I looked up. She was staring at me with an inscrutable look on her face.

"You used it for ... what?" she said.

"You know what," I said.

"Say it," she said.

"Please, come on, Mila - OOF!"

She swiftly shifted her foot into my groin. I yelped. I waited for the awful pain, that gut-deep hurt, to kick in. But it didn't. She hadn't kicked me in the balls, exactly. But whatever she had done had sent a message. It had been sudden and uncomfortable. She now held her foot there, mashed under my taint. I could feel her socked toes wriggling under my butt. A little smirk flickered across her face.

"I masturbated. With it. I looked at it and jerked off."

She slid her foot out from under me. She stood up tall. Well, tall for her. She perched her hands on her hips.

"I believe you," she said matter-of-factly. "Next question."

"Oh God," I groaned. "Seriously?"

"Why did you do it?"

"W-why?" I repeated, not sure what she meant. And desperately eager to remain unsure, if she'd let me.

She wouldn't. "Why did you jerk off to it?" she clarified to my horror.

"M-Mila, what ... You're my kid sister. Why do you want me to say this stuff to you?"

"Answer the question, buttwad."

She glared at me. I made a noise of some sort. I don't know how to describe it. It was a frustrated, cornered, self-hating noise of animal anguish. Kind of a "Gggllyeaughh!" But that didn't begin to capture it. It was like my brain was trying to embarrass itself into submission. It didn't want me to have to explain my incestuous impulses to my preteen sister.

But the good brother in me, the noble part of me, rose to the occasion. That fucking square sold me down the river.

"Because," I said, using my wibbly-wobbly hands to convey how hard this was to put into words, "you're attractive. I liked looking at your butt in that swimsuit."

Camila's hand flew to her mouth as I finally said this awful truth to her out loud. There it was. Plain as day. Spotlit under a booklight on a beanbag chair in the dark. Her very own brother was an incestuous pedophile.

I'd really just come right out and said it. All she'd had to do was shine a flashlight in my eyes and threaten to kick me in the balls. I was a creep AND a pushover. My brain, meanwhile, resumed attempting to self-destruct inside my skull. My gaze slithered back down to my lap. My language centers went off-line. I think Camila was saying something. I couldn't have told you what. I groaned in agony, loathing being stuck forever inside this awful vessel called Gael. I would have preferred death. Gael was tainted. Ruined. I wanted a new, cleaner host. I wanted a do-over. I wanted to reload my save from like a week ago and start fresh from there. First order of business: throw that fucking photo away. Second order of business: get myself to a therapist, stat.

"You want me," Camila smirked. "You want to daaate me. You think I'm cuuuute," she sang and did a horrible little dance. "You think I'm, like, CUTE-cute. Even though I'm your SISTER!" She cackled with childlike glee.

"Please," I simpered, holding my hands up in surrender. "I mean, I basically already told you, didn't I? When we talked about Lisa Williams, and why I'm still single, and how I don't want to date anyone who isn't at least as pretty as you are? I'm ... I'm seriously bad news, Sis. There's something wrong with me. I'm a bad brother. I'm a bad person. I'm going to Hell. You still have a chance, and you should take it and run."

"Wow," she rolled her eyes. "Drama much?"

I blinked at her. She had cocked her weight to one side, now, and stood sassily before me, smugly even, amused but hardly moved to action by my desperate plea to be excommunicated.

"But I just told you-"

"Gael, calm down," she giggled . "You're just a guy. You're allowed to have a crush. And I'm not THAT grossed out, by the way. You're my big brother, and I love you. Even if you ... well." She cracked up all over again.

"No," I said breathlessly. I was shaking my head no. I disagreed emphatically with her nonchalance. I had just confessed to jerking off to a photo of her. She was TWELVE. I was her BROTHER. "No, no, no. Camila, listen."

"Shush, you!" she laughed. She clapped her hands once, to get my attention. "I have more questions."

"Oh God," I groaned. "Can I change seats first?" I asked. I was starting to feel the effects of her towering over me like this. And it was so easy for her to kick me from up there.

"No," she said. "Next question. Do you, like, actually want to date me? Is that what this is?"

"Jesus," I spluttered. I was sweating now. It was freezing in this room, but I was positively stinky with anxiety. "I'm a full-blown creep. We've established this. Please no more questions like this." In my defense, she'd even made herself blush, asking this one.

"Just answer!" she pleaded.

"What I want is ..." I reconsidered. "What I NEED is for you to let me go. Forget you ever knew me. Let me stop existing. It's the one good thing I can still do as your brother."

"Gael," she shook her head. She stepped back onto the beanbag chair. Then she stepped with her other foot. She crawled onto me, in point of fact, joining me on top of the creaking, shifting beans. She nuzzled me until I finally agreed to hug her.

"You really shouldn't be on top of me right now," I warned her, high stakes nervousness taut in my throat.

"I know," she giggled. "But you're my big brother. I'm allowed to cuddle you. And you're supposed to let me."

"Mila, I'm serious - I-I'm ..."

"No, I'M serious. I know you have a boner. Like, obviously! But I don't care ! That's not even why we're talking."

"We're not TALKING," I insisted. "This is torture."

"Gael, seriously, please chill out," she said.

"How am I supposed to 'chill out' with you sitting on my f-fucking hard-on ?"

"You're just going to have to figure it out, okay? Now stop being a baby."

She wriggled her hips, getting herself comfortable on my lap. She put an arm over my shoulder. She caressed my cheek with her hand. I felt her band-aid.

"Mila, I can't. I can't! Enough!" I shoved her off of me. Now she was on one half of the beanbag chair, and I was on the other. "There. We sit like this. It's close enough."

"This isn't snuggling."

"We CAN'T."

"Yes we CAN! This is MY beanbag chair!"

"And this is MY body!" I cracked. "But like, for REAL this time!" I gulped, clawing at my chest in the dark. I hoped she couldn't see how melodramatic I was being. But I needed to make a crazy point. "You can't just - You can't just - Mila. You can't. We can't."

"Fine, then leave," she harumphed. I felt her cross her arms and stiffen. She kneed pokily at me to go.

"Okay," I said. I got up. I left her there on the beanbag chair. She refused to look at me. She glanced once. But then she refused to look again after that. "Is that okay, Mimi? I'm not like - I'm not trying to hurt you. Your feelings. I just seriously need a minute to go cool down. You've got me sweating bullets. Those questions, Mila. Those QUESTIONS."

"I still have more," she smirked. She graced me with another look. To be clear, even in the dark, her gaze was twinkly and bright.

"Maybe hold onto them for now," I said gingerly. "Three at a time is plenty."

"When do we continue?" she asked.

"When?" I blinked. My vision was finally starting to adjust. I could see a path through the mayhem to the door.

"I want to play EYL," she admitted.

"Oh. Yeah," I smiled. "Me too. Can you give me like half an hour?"

"Then I come hang in your room?"

"Yeah."

"I can sleep over?"

"Um. Well."

"I'll tickle your back!"

"Geez. Alright. But we're telling Mom and Dad. No being sneaky anymore. It's too stressful."

"Okay, okay, go away. I'm setting my alarm clock for half an hour from now."

I made it to the door.

"Oh, by the way," she said. "I like your butt, too."

"Okay," I nodded blankly, and excused myself from her interrogation chamber.

When I got back to my room, I shut the door and gazed like an astronaut finally home from a lunar landing mission. Here was my good old room. My hidey hole. My nucleus. My masturbation station.

I flopped onto my bed, right on top of the covers. I was content to be cold for one half hour. It would be how I looked forward to the return of Camila's inextinguishable warmth to my inner sanctum.

My little sister liked my butt, too. A crazy factoid. It should have meant less than it did. It should have been funny, and nothing but.

A distant but almost certainly accurate recollection played across my mental theater as I laid there sedately respooling my brain back onto its spindle. Here was little Mila, standing with her back to me, showing me her wet naked butt while I also showed her mine. We stood there in the bath, water lapping quietly at our shins, dripping and glistening and mutually curious about each other's convolutions. We were maybe four and eight years old. She had pulled her cheeks apart. That memory was especially vivid. I had seen through her skinny legs how this also pulled apart the puffy lips between her thighs. She didn't have "nothing" down there, like some boys were apt to put it. Where no penis and no balls were my little Mila still had something interesting, something cute, something mysterious.

But even back then I knew I wasn't supposed to take such thoughts any further than the bathtub. Back then, I never crossed such lines. Back then, I was a good person.

Hang on a sec. Something odd caught my attention on the bed next to me. It shimmered faintly in the dark. I touched it. It was silky. I picked it up. It was women's underwear. Tossed there nonchalantly, not even laid out neatly or with any sense of ceremony, was a pair of Mom's underwear. I shuddered and threw them away into the dark. They landed somewhere I did not care to see. I laid there breathing rapidly, feeling overheated and frozen at the same time. My cock stirred of its own awful volition. I felt it come to life like and stand like some sort of predator who's just caught a mark on the wind. I cringed and groaned and hurt inside.

Then I got up and went looking for the panties I'd thrown.

Chapter Text

Most moms have underwear. Most moms have children. Few moms loan the former to the latter. Fewer still loan their underwear to their children for use in masturbation. So I knew I was rare. But was I lucky-rare, or unlucky-rare?

These were clean underwear, thank God. She hadn’t loaned me a dirty pair. But still: Mom’s underwear. This soft, clean-smelling garment had housed nature’s single most forbidden fruit. If I could just get past the whole irreparable psychic harm component, I might actually have found it freeing to let myself see Mom - a beautiful, healthy, physically fit person by any objective metric - as a sexual being. A person whose nudity was an appealing proposition to probably nearly all femme-attracted people who encountered her, except me. And yet here I was, seeing how her panties felt on my cock. Lucky me? Or unlucky me?

My cock throbbed appreciatively, while my head spun with confusion and dread and disbelief. The silk was luscious. Even the cottony gusset was a finer fabric than anything my sister ever wore. The gusset was slightly worn, with the faint indications of past moisture stains and perhaps the odd dried spot, but otherwise the pair was mercifully light on anything too vividly biological. I held it up and inspected it the dark. It was a black pair of hip-huggers with a pink spandex waistband. They were silky but also sporty.

Mom had thankfully not given me a “sexy” pair of underwear. Gosh, to think she must have thought about this, about which pair was best-suited to the predicament: not too cheap, not too fancy; not too Mommy, not too sexy; they had to be the pair that best said, “Yeah, he won’t mind these;” because heaven forbid a mother choose the wrong pair of panties for that inaugural mother-son loan.

Initiative. Initiative. She had to have taken the initiative to do this. This was not a spur-of-the-moment decision. She had not simply discovered her son masturbating inappropriately and immediately volunteered her own panties as a potential aide. She was up to something. Shit. Shit.

I stroked harder, faster. The silky fabric was equal to the task. I could contain my whole cock in silk. I wondered if Mom had planned to let me cum in these? She must have, right? I had cum in Camila’s. This whole situation was about cumming in panties, wasn’t it?

I didn’t have time to worry about it. A half hour had nearly elapsed since I had made it back to my room. Any second now, Camila would come knocking at my door, ready to spend the whole night with me in here. That is, she had damned well better knock.

My dewy precum had begun to stain the fabric. A little dark spot appeared. That felt like a green light to me. Where there was smoke, there might as well be fire. I made, deep in my gut, in my subconscious, the decision to cum in Mom’s underwear.

I didn't need a lot. I was a young, virile stud with a long-overdue load to blast. Three or four quick jerks did the trick. I felt the crackling beginnings of my orgasm, that final gasp of dark suspense before the big boom. Nothing was off the table anymore. I tried the unthinkable, almost as a dare, I tried thinking about fucking Mom herself. I succeeded. It was too late not to. It was too late for this to turn me off. I had slipped silkily past the point of no return. Dark lightning cracked inside me, lit my inner cosmos. Neurons forged terrible, previously only theoretical new connections, warp-like wormholes from one disparate corner of my mind to a far, far distant one.

I envisioned Mom’s bare pussy riding my cock. In the dark of the power outage it was too easy to imagine her here, seated on me, hunched over, huffing and puffing and staring lovingly into my eyes as I filled her with cum. I rocked my hips, thrashed irrepressibly. I clutched her imaginary hips and shot my load deep inside her.

I came inside Mom's panties.

The relief was profound.

And then I panicked.

"Shit. Shit."

What the fuck had I done?

"FUCK,” I groaned. I still held the panties around my cock as pulse after pulse of regret erupted into them, filling them. "Shiiiit."

I could see the wet spot, illuminated by moonlight, growing, soaking deep into the fabric. I could smell my seed, hot, gooey, sticky, and wet, and feel it glooping and seeping as I continued to milk myself into it.

"SHIT," I whispered. "Oh God. Oh fuck. FUCK."

I was an animal. I was a pervert. I was a disgrace.

When I was finally spent, I pulled the underwear off, balled them up, and hid them in my closet. An additional tissue was needed to fully dry my cock off. I’d absolutely slathered myself.

Then, as I stood there catching my breath, holding the used tissue in my fist, staring dumbly at the cum-filled panties’ hiding spot in my closet, Camila knocked.

"Gael, open the door!" she sang. "It's me."

I shut my closet door.

"Come on in!" I called back.

She came in and shut the door. She had ditched her robe, but was still layered up against the awful cold inside our house. She had her backpack with her, too.

She looked cute. Her hair was freshly brushed; she still hadn’t put the ribbons back in, but even without Tomoko’s twin-tails she looked sleek in her new do. Like an underage, Latina Audrey Hepburn. She had a small, goofy smile on her face.

"Heyyy,” she said, delighted by my staring.

"Hi," I nodded, blinking back to reality. “What’s with the backpack? You bring your homework or something?”

"No? Ew. It’s for the - hrnm - sleepover,” she grunted as she dropped the heavy bag into my desk chair. She did a little stretch, then bounded onto my bed. She stripped off her sweatshirt and chucked it at me. She had her old black I WANT TO BELIEVE shirt on. Her small warm sweatshirt smelled so potently of her. I wagered it hadn’t made it off her floor and through the laundry in weeks. I sighed fondly.

“Can we play now?” she huffed. “Come on come on! Turn on the Playstation and come sit!” She slapped the bed eagerly where she wanted me to sit and resume being her fingernails’ canvas.

I sat. She tugged at the fabric of my outermost sweatshirt. She grunted her wish that I remove it.

“It’s legitimately freezing in here,” I said.

“Gaellll,” she whined. “I can’t even feel your back through all these layers. Do you not want your back tickled or what?”

“Ugh, no, I do. I do. What if we get a blanket or something, first?“

“Like to wrap around both of us?”

“Sure, if that works for you.”

“Hm,” she nodded. She hopped up off my bed. She glanced around. She went to my closet and opened it. “In here right?” she asked.

“N-no, wait, why not grab one of your blankets?” I stammered, deathly afraid of her finding Mom’s panties. Just think of the questions she’d have for me. Yikes. “Y-you have that really soft one. That we used for the fort, remember?”

“Uh-huh,” she nodded, ignoring me. “I can’t see a thing in here. Do you have a flashlight or something?”

“You know what? Nevermind the blanket. I’ll just be cold. Come back,” I said. I clicked the remote. Nothing happened.

Oh, shit. Right.

“Why are you acting weird all of a sudden? It’s not like I’m looking through your stash in here. Let me just find a blanket.”

“Camila.”

“Are they up here?” she asked, feeling around.

“Camila,” I said more sternly.

“For pete’s sake, Gael, I’m not - oh. Ohhh. Shoot,” her shoulders slumped as she realized how silly we both should have felt, trying to plan a video game night during a power outage. “Awww man,” she pouted, and trudged bitterly back toward my bed. She climbed on. “Can I have my sweatshirt back?” she grumbled. “I’m cold.”

“I didn’t know you GOT cold,“ I scoffed, handing it to her.

“I can see my breath in here,” she said. “I think your room is the coldest one in the house.”

“Want to relocate?” I offered.

“To where? My room’s a mess.”

“Basement?”

“Are you kidding? It’s like an igloo down there.”

“I don’t really care where we go,” I finally said.

“But I wanted us to do a sleepover!” she complained, stomping her feels on my bed like a little girl.

"We can't really sleep in here. You’re right, you really can see your breath.” I exhaled a misty whorl of disappointment into the moonlit air.

"Sure we can. We can use candles. We can make a campfire or something. We can cuddle for warmth."

"Hm,” I said tersely. Must resist. Urge to. Cuddle for warmth.

"We can talk. About anything. Everything. It'll be so cozy."

"You guys in here?” Dad’s voice suddenly came through my door. He knocked once, perfunctorily, then opened the door. Warm light poured into the room. He had brought a battery powered lantern. “I brought light. It’s even kinda warm, too. Just be careful not to leave it by anything that could catch fire.” He mansplained basic lantern safety to us as he came in and perched it on top of my TV. “Is here good?” he asked.

We shrugged and nodded.

“You guys bunking together tonight?” he asked.

“Uh-huh,” Camila answered before I could beat her to the punch.

“Probably a good idea. No telling when we’ll get the power back. Stay warm, you two.”

“Oh, are we all in here?” Mom chimed in from my bedroom doorway.

“Oh yeah,” Dad chuckled. “We’re having a slumber party. Everybody get in bed!”

“We were going to play our game,” Camila admitted. “But then we remembered.”

“Aw,” Mom giggled. “That’s cute. You guys haven’t had to deal with a full on power outage lije this, have you?”

“It’s annoying,” Camila said.

“Yeah?” Mom shrugged. Dad came over and wrapped his arms around her from behind. They did a flirty, swaying dance in my doorway. “I don’t know. I think this is kind of fun. It’s like a little survival adventure in your very own home. Mm, sweetie, don’t,” she snickered, and stopped Dad’s hands from groping her in front of us.

“Yeah, buck up kids. Have a little fun with it. Remember when we read that book Hatchet to you guys as kids?”

“Yeah, and I hated it! It was scary!” Camila said.

“I remember,” I said. “But I don’t think we’re quite as bad off as that kid was.”

“Exactly,” snorted Dad. “Come on, hon. Let’s go have our own slumber party. We’re clearly not welcome here.”

“Okay, okay,” she said, laughing uncomfortably. “Um. You two need anything before we go? I could boil some water on the camp stove if you wanted a hot water bottle or something?”

“Hey, now there’s an idea,” Dad said, nibbling on her neck. “But do you need to do it right now?”

“We’ll be fine,” Camila said. “Gael knows how to use the stove thingy.”

“And you guys clearly need your privacy,” I said, cringing at the sight of Mom getting sexually aroused right there in front of me. Shit, and now I was thinking about her panties again. Right on cue, Mom uttered my name.

“Gael,” Mom said breathily. Dad was literally grinding on her backside in front of us. “Did y-you have any laundry you need me to grab?”

“I have plenty in my room,” Camila interjected.

“Babe,” Dad chuckled in her ear. “Power’s out. Forget laundry for once. Come, let’s leave these kids be.”

“Oh, right,” Mom blushed at me in the yellow lantern light. “Well. Laundry will have to wait. Sorry Cami,” she sighed.

“It’s whatever.”

And at last, they split apart long enough to exit. Out in the hall I heard Dad spank Mom, and Mom yelp with giddy surprise.

Camila and I were left alone.

"Your parents are weird," she said.

"Yours too,” I said.

"They’re definitely about to go eff.”

“Yeah. You know you can say ‘fuck’ around me. I don’t care.”

“Can I?”

“Fuck,” I replied.

“Fuck,” she grinned deliciously. “Don’t tell.”

“I wouldn’t,” I shrugged, and laid down on my bed with my feet still on the floor.

Camila laid down alongside me. I put my arms under my head. She snuggled in close and put her head on my arm, too.

“You kind of smell,” she whispered.

“Yep,” I said.

“Like onions.”

“Okay.”

She laid there awhile, unmoving, apparently tolerating the smell wafting out of my pits. I hadn’t showered after my outing with Dad. I knew I stunk. But I couldn’t well take a shower without heat.

“But like,” Camila continued as though she had never stopped talking, “good onions.”

“Good onions?”

“There’s this guy, David, in my class. He’s on the basketball team. Whenever he has practice in the morning and comes to class all sweaty and gross, he stinks like BAD onions. I don’t know why he doesn’t shower like the other guys do. It’s the worst, too, because he sits right next to me.”

“Poor kid,” I said. I didn’t laugh, because it wasn’t funny. Every post-pubescent guy you ever meet has their own sordid story of being the last to learn he smelled. “Does he not know he stinks?”

“I don’t know how he can’t. It’s putrid. He smells like bad onions. Like rotten soup.”

“But, so … you’re saying I smell better than him?”

“Don’t get me wrong, Guy. You still stink,” she chuckled. “But yeah, I don’t hate it.”

“Good onions,” I nodded to myself.

“Guy?” she said sweetly.

“Hm?”

“Can I say something cheesy?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

“Awww, Sis!” I chuckled and unhooked one of my arms from behind my head so I could hug her. As were both laying down on my bed, this was probably more accurately a cuddle I was giving her. But she’d earned it. And the warmth of that much more of us pressed together in the icy room was a luxurious bonus. “I love you too,” I almost forgot to add. She hugged me back with her whole body. She even draped a leg around mine, then tightened all its muscled, pulling me in harder.

We stayed this way not nearly long enough.

“Can we get under the covers?” she shivered.

“Uh, I guess,” I said, still holding her. “We’re just going to bed, then?”

“I mean,” she scoffed, sitting up and scooching hurriedly to get under the covers on her side. “We don’t have to go to sleep. I still have LOTS of questions for you.” She shivered excitedly under the blankets. I rolled off the bed, stood, then climbed right back in under the covers on my side. Camila slid sideways onto me, returning her head to my shoulder, and her leg to my legs. One small arm wrapped across my tummy. I hugged her tight to my side, and she hugged back. We made noises of happy affection.

“It smells extra under here,” she snorted.

“Well yeah,” I shrugged, “that’s cause you’re under here.”

“You!” she cackled and tried once again to tickle me.

I let her try for a sec. Then I retaliated. I got her good in the soft meat of her belly, then pivoted to her underarms when she maneuvered to defend herself. She was just no match for me, and never had been. Maybe at sensuous back tickling she could be queen, but of the standard variety of tickling I was reigning king.

A woman’s cry cut through the icy stillness of our home.

“Stopstopstop,” Camila begged.

“Shh,” I put a finger to her lips.

“Huh?”

There came another whimper, followed by a moan.

“Ohmygod, is that -”

“Mom,” I muttered, my eyes wide in the dark, my ears like sonar devices all of a sudden.

Mom screamed.

“Geez,” Camila gasped. “It sounds like he’s hurting her.”

“Nah, they’re just keeping warm.”

“Oh,” she snickered.

Mom made a protracted heaving noise as if whatever she were doing was being done with great difficulty.

“I’ve never heard her this loud before. It’s kind of gross, right?”

“It’s whatever,” I said, my mind admittedly struggling to place exactly what should be gross about our objectively pretty mother relishing her capacity for pleasure.

“Hey. Are you warm?” Camila asked. She was still shivering.

“Ish,” I shrugged.

We snuggled tighter. I was on my back, with Camila clinging to my left half. She had both her arm and leg wrapped around my frontside. Her face was buried in my shoulder. I was still wearing two layers. So was she, to my knowledge. But now those same layers that had helped us survive the arctic cold outside the covers were insulating us from each other underneath them.

Mom moaned and cried out again.

"Guy, can I ask you a question?"

"You can always ask," I said. “I might not answer if it’s another one your zingers, though.”

“Do you feel like Mom … likes me less, lately, than she likes you? Like, does it feel that way to you at all? Am I imagining it, or is she actually...?"

"Huh," I grunted, thinking about it. “She just took you shopping and to the movies didn’t she?”

"But does she, like, ever talk about me the way she talks about you? Does she ever praise me the way she praises you?”

“Uh,” I frowned. Actually, she didn’t. “Sometimes,” I lied.

“Nuh-uh,” Camila scoffed. Her hand traced pretty shapes on my chest. I wished I were topless so I could feel them better.

“Yes she does!” I pressed.

“Really?” she said dubiously. “What does she say about me?”

“She says, um,” I gulped. “She wants you to be safe.” From me, your resident panty-sniffer. “She says she wants you to follow your heart, and do what makes you happy. Like, that your happiness is the most important thing to her, and to Dad, and me, and the whole family.”

“That does sound like her,” Camila rolled her eyes.

Good. I was lying as earnestly as I could.

“You feel like she doesn’t like you?” I asked.

“Just… I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like, when she’s talking about us, it’s like you’re the main character, and I’m just your little sister. You get to go out and like accomplish things. But I have to stay home, stay safe, and like, brush my hair. She expects so much from you. She expects, like, not much. From me. I don’t know. Maybe I’m just being a brat.”

“Of course you are,” I grinned, and squeezed her hard against me. “But I love this brat.”

She let me hug the wind out of her. She stayed quiet. Her hand stopped drawing on me.

There was a soft little knock at our door.

“May I enter?” asked Mom.

“We’re decent,” I called back.

She stepped in. She was down to just her bathrobe.

“Where’s Cami?” she asked quietly, seemingly checking to see if it was safe to close my door.

“Oh-?” I began to answer.

There was a small pinch on my arm. Camila was hidden and dead silent under the covers, and wished to remain incognito. I understood. She wanted me to lie and cover for her. Was this a bit? Was she planning to pop out and surprise Mom?

“Um, nah. I think she got up to grab a snack or something.”

“That girl is always looking for something to eat,” Mom sighed as she shut the door with her bum. Her hair was tousled and her face damp with afterglow. She smiled bizarrely at me. I would almost have called it flirtatious if it wasn’t Mom. “I um, came to see about that laundry?”

I tensed up. Camila must have felt it, too. I prayed Mom wouldn’t give away our new, fatally embarrassing secret.

“Oh, right, uhh,” I swallowed dryly. I pointed at my closet.

“In here?” Mom smirked. She cracked my closet open. She flicked the light-switch, too, to no effect. Power was still out. “Can you show me where? I can’t see a thing in here. And I’m trying to hurry while I have your dad winded.” She giggled proudly to herself as she rummaged.

“Mom, I’ll just… Can you leave it for now? Please? I’ll bring th- erm, it, to you later.”

I felt a little fidget from Camila under the covers.

“Honey, you know I absolutely don’t mind if you used them. That was the point, right?” She winked at me, then frowned back at the closet. “Are they hidden or something? I really don’t see them.”

“Mom,” I groaned.

“What, am I intruding?”

“Just go!”

“Gosh! Fine!” She flicked the (useless) light switch back off and shut the closet door. She turned to face me with her arms folded across her abdomen. This pose had the troubling effect of bolstering her cleavage. Mom was modestly but pleasantly endowed.

I grunted, shaking my head to dispel the surprise, unwelcome image of Mom’s naked, jiggling tits as she bit her lip and moaned up and down on Dad’s lap. No! I needed to stop imagining it. It was trouble enough hiding my little sister during such a blisteringly awkward intrusion, much less my own ghastly thoughts.

“Do you … want another pair?” she asked as if offering me seconds at dinner.

“M-Mom,” I cringed.

Camila dug her fingers into me, gripped me white-knuckled all of a sudden. She was listening, of course. So that would be another fucked up question I’d have to answer later. Huge thanks, Mom.

“What? You obviously didn’t mind using the first pair. How about we mix it up this time? I brought you two to choose from.”

“What?”

I gaped. Mom reached into the big pouch-sized pockets of her robe and withdrew two pairs of her underwear. She came closer to the bed now and held them out to me.

“Blue or white?” she asked softly.

“I d-don’t care,” I winced.

“Well,” she smirked. “These,” she held up the blue ones, “are lacy and soft.” Then she let out a funny little laugh as she held up the white ones. “And these I just took off.”

“Ohmygosh,” Camila gasped into my armpit.

My eyes went wide as dinner plates.

Mom’s did too.

“S-sorry!! Too much?!” she cried, suddenly scarlet with embarrassment. She clumsily, hurriedly stuffed the freshly worn white panties back into her robe pocket . “God, I am so sorry, Guy. Please forget I did that. I never meant to - I am so sorry if I… I just thought - I just - oh my God. Gael, what have I done? Are you okay? Are we okay?” I could only stare, speechless, as Mom sobbed into the warm fuzzy crook of her elbow. She held in the next racking wave of guilt, but soon thereafter began to hyperventilate. All semblance of post-coital cool evaporated instantaneously, leaving a very small, very ashamed, barely dressed woman in its place. “I need to go. I’m so sorry. Please don’t hate me. Please don’t see me like - like…”

“Mom,” I murmured. “It’s f-fine.”

“Honey, I’m just so, so ashamed. That was so wrong of me. I don’t know what got into me!”

“B-blue ones,” I stammered.

“I need to leave. I need to leave you alone. But. We’ll talk tomorrow, yeah? I think we need to talk about this. I’m sorry-”

“Mom. I’ll take the blue ones.”

“-just such a crazy thing to do. Am I losing my mind? My own SON!”

“Mom!” Camila shouted, finally throwing back the covers. “Quit freaking out! He said he’ll take the blue ones!”

“CAMILA?” Mom said, her voice cracking, her face going slack, her whole panicky apparatus going stock still. By the light of the lantern, we watched the blood drain from her face. She stumbled a bit, her mouth forming not-quite-words as she reached out to steady herself on the back of my desk chair.

And then Mom fainted.

***

She was awake again already by the time we got down to the floor to see if she was okay. She had buckled in on herself, collapsed straight downwards, but still managed to clock her chin on the corner post of my bed. Her tongue was bleeding, and now she spoke with a lisp.

“Camila,” she squinted up at her daughter.

“Mom, are you okay?” Camila asked tearfully. Mom falling had scared her. Mom bleeding from her mouth had made her start to weep.

“I bit my tongue,” Mom said woozily as she felt gingerly at her tongue and then inspected the blood on her fingertips.

“Can you sit up?” I asked.

“Um, yeth. I think tho.”

Camila supported Mom’s head, I grabbed her arm, and we helped her sit upright. Her robe fell loose around her bosom. It was a terrible moment for her boobs to be distracting me. But they did just that.

Mom’s boobs were small and plump with thick fat nipples, presently soft, with little creases in the nubbins.

Mom noticed me peeking. She blushed.

Camila noticed her noticing me peeking. She blushed, too.

I felt my heart squeak and try to jump out of my ribcage like a bunny caught in a just-sprung trap.

Mom closed her robe up again. She sat still, holding the front of her robe closed. She looked visibly bewildered at her predicament.

“I was trying to protect you, and help your brother,” she mumbled to her daughter, as if Camila had demanded an explanation. But this wasn’t like that. Camila had left her interrogation book-light in the other room.

“Huh?” Camila shook her head and sniffled at her.

“I know, I know, it was a gross thing to do. That’s painfully obvious to all three of us.”

Mom suddenly froze. She glanced up at both of us. Her face was stern, desperate.

“You can’t tell your Dad. Either of you. Please.”

“Never,” I swore.

“Tell him what exactly? That you’re letting Gael play with your underwear?”

Mom’s face crumpled.

“I feel so gross!” she sobbed into her knees.

“Mom,” I muttered helplessly. I put my hand on her back. She flinched and sobbed some more.

Camila hugged her.

The two women shared a hug while I patted Mom on the back.

Mom calmed down and dried her eyes. She was smiling faintly.

She was beautiful. It was a fucked up fact of nature that women in tears were extra lovely. It pinkened them, bedewed them, and highlighted their humanness.

My cock was, without any decorum, erect. I was grateful for the extra layers I had on. I was grateful, even, for the power outage. The piercing cold in my room would send this boner back into hibernation before too long.

“So what happens now?” Mom chuckled listlessly, more at herself than with.

“We stand you up,” I said gently. “And we get you some ice for your tongue.”

“You can stay in here with us until you feel better,” Camila offered my bed to her.

Mom glanced strangely at the bed, and then at me, before shaking her head at Camila. “No,” she said. “I need to get back to your father. I told him I was just coming to check on you guys. I meant to say, ahm, sorry. I-if we were a bit noisy earlier.”

“You were,” Camila snickered.

But Mom was looking at me. Waiting for me to say something. I noticed she still held the blue underwear tightly in her grip.

“It’s whatever,” I shrugged. “You guys are allowed to love each other.”

“Well,” Mom blushed, and played idly with the blue panties - that is, until she remembered how ashamed she was supposed to be feeling about offering them to me, at which point she balled them up tightly again, trying to hide them in her dainty pink fist.

“Mom, go fuck Dad,” Camila said.

“Cami!” Mom spat, severely disapproving of her little girl’s potty mouth.

“What?

I couldn't help but laugh.

Mom glared at me, too, for not keeping my mouth shut.

I had no business laughing, of course. If Dad found out about what was going on between Mom and me, the whole secret panty arrangement, there was no telling how he might respond. God, no wonder Mom was falling apart. She had really introduced a gorilla to her own back by deciding to cure me herself, and offering me her panties in place of Camila’s.

Mom and Dad had a good happy marriage. This frivolous choice she’d made risked undoing twenty years of love and hard work. One misplaced pair of panties could wind up costing her everything.

“This is just a temporary thing,” I explained to Camila. “She’s going to buy me some, um,” well this was awkward to explain, “women’s underwear to use instead of, well, you know?”

“Mine,” Camila smirked.

“R-right,” I said. I cringed redly.

Mom stood. For a second, while we were still kneeling, the diminutive woman towered over us. She put her hand, hesitantly at first, but then calmly, on my little sister’s head.

Camila looked up at her.

"I guess it’s better you know,” Mom sighed. “This was all for your sake to begin with.”

“Aw, Mom,” Camila grimaced, but then hugged her around her robed legs. “It’s gross, but also sweet.”

“Th-thank you,” Mom said. She patted her girl’s head. Then she looked at me. “You said blue?” she smiled uncertainly, holding the underwear out to me.

I stood up, knees crackling, and faced Mom eye to eye. Well, okay, I was a full head taller. But we did look each other in the eye. And us both standing did help things feel more businesslike.

I held out my hand, palm up.

She dropped the bunched up garment into my hand. It was luxuriously soft. I had never known lace to feel so supple. My cock fidgeted excitedly, unseen.

“Okay then,” she sighed, clapping once like she’d just finished a quick chore, “guess I’ll get out of here?”

Camila climbed up onto my bed. She held her arms out for a hug. Mom obliged.

She hugged her little girl.

Then she hugged me.

Then she kissed me on the cheek.

“Remember,” she whispered, and pantomimed zipping her lips shut.

We nodded and zipped ours shut too.

And then she was gone.

Camila and I watched her go, both a bit stunned. As soon as she’d shut the door, we looked at each other. She grinned. I blushed.

“Give me,” she demanded, holding her little tan hand out for Mom’s underwear.

I did so, but not without a grimace.

She smelled them, and made a funny face.

I blushed and shook my head. “They’re clean, remember?”

She shrugged, and put them on her head like a hat.

“Mila, don’t be weird,” I groaned.

“ME be weird?!” she scoffed, slapping away my hands as I tried to snatch her ‘hat.’

“Not only does Dad give you porn, but Mom gives you her freaking UNDERWEAR! So that you don’t go sneaking around with mine anymore! And I’m the weird one HOW?!”

She kept the underwear on her head. I glared at her. But she had won this one for now. It was easy for her. She was the non-creepy sibling. All she had to do to win a fight was be her genuine self. Me, I had to do backflips.

“How many of her undies has she given you, anyways?” Camila asked as we climbed back under the covers. It was too cold to bicker anywhere else.

“Two,” I answered.

“These are number two?” She plucked her hat off and inspected the goods Mom had delivered.

“Yeah. Honest.”

She eyed me.

I eyed her.

She tossed me the panties. They landed on my lap. She giggled while I blushed, grabbed them, and stuffed them into my bedside table. Though the secret was 75% out, I still had to hide them from Dad.

“Try and tell me now that you’re not the favorite,” Camila huffed.

“This isn’t about - that’s not even, like…” I spluttered, forearms waggling, arguing more with my hands than with words or logic.

Camila sat up and leveled her piercing pale green gaze at me, and waited for me to concede.

I heaved a jagged sigh. I shrugged at her, then kept shrugging as hard as my feeble, pathetic frame would let me until I could feel my shoulders quake and start to strain. I needed to scream. I needed to bellow and roar and smash. Instead, I slumped down under the covers, hid my face, and groaned like a dying man.

Camila laughed.

***

“So I can ask you another question yet? Or are you still dying?”

Camila lifted up the covers and peeked in at me.

“Ngh,” I groaned facedown into the mattress.

“Is that a yes?”

I shrugged.

“Good enough! Okay, here it is.” She waited a second. “Are you going to turn around?”

Slowly, begrudgingly, I turned. My face was hot and sweaty. The cold air quickly saw to that.

“Okay,” she grinned. “Do you want to tickle my back?”

“S-sure?” I said. I gave her a puzzled look.

She grinned still, blushing hard now.

“Right now?” she said.

“I don’t see what else there is to do.”

“Yeee!” she squealed and clapped and began pulling off her multiple top layers. I squinted at her. The first sweatshirt was the trickiest. The sweatshirt one inside of that one got bunched up inside the sleeves. I helped her tug it off. She thanked me and then shucked the next one off no problem. She was down to a mint green camisole now, one of those soft stretchy ones with a built-in bra. I worried for a second that she was going to strip this off, too. But she didn’t. Whew. After all, hadn’t we mutually, telepathically, without needing to discuss the particulars, agreed to dial back the sexy stuff and just act like normal brother and sister again?

Instead, she kicked the covers back and started tugging off her bottoms.

“Whoa whoa,” I said, putting up a hand as if to ask politely that she desist.

“What?” she giggled, threading her tiny feet and skinny legs out of both bunched up leggings simultaneously. That fast, she was down to just panties and a cami.

If you must know, this pair was lavender.

“Oh come on,” she rolled her eyes at my rictus of displeasure. “Here, I know how to cheer you up!” She spun over onto her stomach, wiggled her lacy lavender butt at me, and giggled hard at my inability to look away. “Tah-dah!” she sang. She slapped herself hard on her behind. The sharp crack made my eyebrows jump.

Then, her face turned red. She was still grinning, but more shyly now.

She cleared her throat. She looked me in the eye.

She slapped her ass again.

Her smile was a little smaller.

“Now you?” she proffered.

I did not. Could not. Would not.

“Come on. You like my butt.”

“No,” I whispered, turning my head away like she was trying to feed Baby Me a spoonful of mashed peas.

“Spank me!”

“No!”

“MOMMMM! GAEL’S TRYING TO STEAL MY UNDERW-”

I rolled on top of her back, clamped a pillow over her head, and held it there while she bucked and cackled underneath me.

Camila had an excellent, compact little body, especially her taut, toned rump. She could be a model for one of those sports underwear lines. In lavender lace, however, it looked almost too sexy for a kid her age. That’s right. I kept having to remind myself this was a kid. I was sitting on a kid. A nearly naked kid. With an impossibly lovely ass.

I was a horny monster, and she knew it.

She stopped struggling and relaxed under me.

I felt her warm little body breathe and shift under mine. I was careful not to lie down on her. I was bone-hard.

“Tickle time?” she asked sweetly when I finally lifted the pillow.

“You’re not going to yell again?” I asked carefully, pillow at the ready.

“Nope. I’m good,” she smirked over her shoulder. “You’re touching my butt now.”

I glared at her. But she just lay there serenely.

“You may beginnn,” she sang, and wiggled her hips underneath me. The mattress springs whinnied. My center of gravity wobbled. Down in my saddle, my cock throbbed, aching for us to take off at a gallop.

I straddled her firmly. Stilled her wiggly little skeleton. And began tickling her back.

The silky cami hugged her softly but tightly, and was lovely to touch. I felt like it scarcely intruded on the techniques I was using. I felt no need to move its fabric out if the way. So why was I stuck on endless loop, thinking up countless dumb excuses I might deploy to persuade Camila to remove her sole remaining top?

Good question, me!

Well, first of all, I was obviously an idiot, no longer in control of his own mind.

Second, she was beautiful.

Third, she had an amazing, plump, squishy butt that was profoundly comfortable to sit upon.

Fourth, why not? Why not ask to see her tan little body topless again? Why not ask to go further this time? Maybe she would let me tickle her front as well as her back. Maybe she would let me show her something Lisa Williams had taught me to do to make a girl’s nipples stand up. Maybe she would let me -

“Guy?” she wheezed.

“Huh?”

“Can you get off for a sec? I can’t really breathe anymore.”

“Oh! Shoot, s-sure thing, sorry Sis,” I sputtered as I rose up off her butt.

She rolled over, still lying between my legs, and rested her hands on my thighs while she took big, calm breaths and smiled dreamily up at me.

I wouldn’t have needed to show her Lisa Williams’ nipple trick. She was already popping. My cock practically whimpered inside its multilayered confines. My sister’s body was amazing.

She was looking right at me. Right between my legs.

I couldn't tell if she was smiling or smirking.

Maybe a little bit of both.

She reached up.

“N-no!” I heard myself gasp, and my big panicky mitt caught her fingers just inches from their target.

“Take these off!” she pouted. “You’re still dressed like a snowman and I’m practically naked!”

“M-Mila,” I panted, reeling from the adrenaline spike. Dressed like a snowman? I gave her a wild, disbelieving look, and burped a nervous laugh. “Y-you scared me.”

“What? Ohmygod. Sicko!” She wrenched her hand free of my grasp. “I was NOT trying to do THAT. I just wanted you to get like me. You-you can’t just stay like this all night!”

“The power’s out! It’s literally freezing in here!”

“So? We’ll be warmer if we take our clothes off!”

“Nope,” I said. I unstraddled her and scooted back over to my side of the bed. “That’s a stupid idea.”

“Is not! It’s the same as how mittens work! Your fingers keep each other warm better than a glove does!”

“I like gloves,” I shrugged invincibly.

“And they say if you’re stranded and it’s someplace cold you’re supposed to huddle together naked to stay warm!”

“Right,” I nodded. “But we’re not stranded. We have shelter, Sis. We have blankets. We have,” I clutched my hoodie’s pull strings, “CLOTHES.”

“FINE!” she screamed, and got up. She got out of my bed. She stomped half naked, through air so frosty I could see steam rising off of her slim, bare shoulders, to my door. She threw it open.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To get something!” she growled. And she stomped off into the darkness. She left my door wide open.

I got up and shut the door. Then I returned to bed, got under the covers, and pulled them up tight to my chin.

This was my fault. I should have known better than to sit on Camila while she was nearly naked.

I should have known better than to think it was ever okay for me to be around my little sister even partly naked.

I was such a buffoon.

When she came back, she had a pair of scissors in her hands. She shut the door. I admit, I sort of feared for my safety, especially when she turned and looked at me how she did. She looked disturbingly ready to use those scissors.

“Mila…” I said cautiously, raising my hands up protectively. Was she about to try and cut my clothes off of my body?

“Where is it?” she hissed.

“Where is…? Wait, where is what?”

“The picture. MY picture. That YOU stole.”

“Oh-ho!” I laughed with relief. “It’s gone. I got rid of it. I threw it away.”

“No you didn’t!” she snorted, stamped her bare foot. Her breath fumed dragonlike.

“I really did!” I said, trying to convey earnest. “I put it in my waste-bin trash, then took it out.”

“I don’t believe you,” she scowled. “Show me the Stash.”

“It’s gone, Mimi, I mean it!” I said, pleading with her to believe me. I didn’t know how to sound like I wasn’t lying.

“Get it down. Show me.”

This little girl in her underwear was scaring me.

But not enough to actually get me up.

Camila stood at the side of the bed, looking at me with a grim expression. Her pale eyes glinted. She held the scissors out to me.

“Take them,” she said. “I’ll get the stash down myself.”

“But it’s -”

“It’s not too high for me,” she muttered as she threw my closet door open and stepped right in. “Fuck,” she spat a second later. “I can’t see.”

Camila stomped back over to the TV and grabbed the lantern Dad had left for us. Shadows all around her swooped and swayed as she stormed back over to the closet holding it. She set it on a shelf inside. She began to climb the shelves.

“Cami, please, let me just get it,” I said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.” I got out of bed. I walked across the refrigerated carpet over to the closet. She had located the stash and was busily trying to reckon with the problem of how to move the heavy box of baseball cards I’d stacked on top of it. She needed to use both hands or else the box might…

Fall. It thudded, cracked, and disgorged its hundreds of laminated rectangles.

“Oops,” Camila scoffed. She grabbed the stash box and threw to on the ground, too. The lid flew off in mid-fall. The magazines spilled out higgledy-piggledy onto my closet floor.

“Kids?” Mom called from down the hall. “Everything okay in there?”

“Peachy!” Camila yelled.

“Gael?” Mom called back, sounding uncertain.

“All good!” I hollered. “I just tripped in the dark!”

“Oh!” Mom laughed. “Well be careful! Use the lantern Dad gave you if you’re going to be up and about!”

“Okay Mom!” I hollered.

Silence returned. Camila climbed back down to the messy floor of my closet - but her bare clammy foot stuck to and then slipped on the pages of one of my porno magazines, then as she stumbled to regain her balance, her other foot did the same on my baseball cards. She banged her head and bonked things with her flailing arms, bringing the lantern down with her. This all happened in the space of a second. She hit the ground hard on her butt, back, and elbow.

“Shhhucks,” she groaned, unmoving on the floor.

“You did that to yourself,” I said. I lovingly suppressed a chuckle.

“I like how I told her we were fine,” she grumbled, “and her response was to ask you if I was telling the truth.”

“Well,” I offered her a hand, “you weren’t.”

“But she didn’t know that!”

I helped her up. She was cold to the touch. I tried to shepherd her back toward the bed. She stubbornly resisted.

“Face it. She doesn’t trust me. She trusts you. She’s not giving you her freaking panties to protect me from you, she’s doing it to protect you from ME. That’s what she thinks of me. That I’m a slut.”

I did not have a response to this. She stood there quivering, as much with emotion as from early stage hypothermia, in nothing but pastel colored underwear. The lantern in the closet behind her back- and up-lit her figure, casting her many subtle shapes in flattering contrast. Her slender silhouette glowed heavenly, like she was a figment of my dreams, freshly escaped from the closet.

I had never seen her look more beautiful.

She was not, however, in any way happy.

I was holding her hand. I squeezed it.

I could see her swallow.

She looked me in the eye.

“How come nobody wants me?” she asked, and broke down crying.

Well now, that would never do. No ma’am. I folded my weeping sister’s chill bones into my warm, oniony embrace. She clawed at my chest, headbutted it, and then apologized profusely. I didn’t stop gently holding her. I didn’t stop rubbing and patting her back. I hugged her through the worst of it.

“I want you,” I reminded her.

“You don’t count,” she snuffled. I felt her wipe snot and tears and her whole weeping face on my shirt. Then she peered up at me from inside my hug. She made a happy face. “You only want me for my butt.”

“That’s not true!” I blushed. “I also like you for your back tickles.”

“It is true, though,” she said, oddly seriously. I stopped chuckling. She looked me over studiously.

I let her look at me.

“You,” she frowned.

“Me,” I said, not sure what face to make.

Then she stood up on her toes, curled her hands under my chin, and kissed me.

I felt the wet, salty softness of her lips. She tasted of salt and mint. Her kiss was hungry.

I realized with a shock, as I kissed her back, that I was no longer kissing a little sister. I was kissing something else. Our sacred roles, the only two we’d ever known, had shifted just like that. Just like that, we were now a boy and a girl who wanted to kiss each other.

Her tongue darted in and out of my mouth, then swirled around mine. It was a clumsy but determined kiss. I had a moment to wonder whether or not I was a better kisser than she was before we parted, breathing hard.

We stared hard at each other. The thin tender skin of her eyelids twitched ecstatically.

“I’ve - I’ve n-never d-done that before,” she confessed breathlessly.

I blinked.

My poor mostly naked sister was shivering hard now, her knees shaking, her jaw clattering.

“Bed,” I said.

“C-c-cold,” she said.

“Yeah, dummy. Let’s get you dressed.”

“N-n-n…” she stammered, her teeth chattering. I guided her to the bed. I gave her clenched, lavender bum a friendly pat, urging her to climb in. Even her tight little rear was chill to the touch. “N-n-n…” she continued, stuck on some sort of ice-brained repeat.

I got under the covers with her and rubbed her back. She had gooseflesh and her muscles were rigid with cold. She was squinting at me, her cheeks pink, her eyes not quite focused.

“Y-y-you," she chirped cricket-like. She tugged at my clothing. "Off-ff-ff."

The sun was down. The power had been out for a long time. The temperature in my bedroom was plummeting. I was loathe to admit it, but she wasn’t wrong about the mittens v gloves thing. If we were going to sleep at all comfortably, I would inevitably need to shed some or most of my clothing. I dreaded it, even while the creepy horny side of me thumped my chest with primal joy. I knew nothing less than our combined body heats - her little furnace in particular - would permit us a decent night's sleep.

And yet, despite the mounting urgency of the situation, I was reluctant to comply. My sister, after all, was still only a child. I was a grown-up, in terms of years and inches. So to speak. I was sixteen. If you had sex at my age, it was normal. If you had sex at her age, it was criminal. Also, it bears repeating, the child in question was my sister. You might be reading an underage erotica story, but I was living a real fucking life.

And yet, here was the way she was looking at me. There was the way her lips had felt. There, too, the way her tongue had tasted. I could have more, I realized. It was still in there. She would let me, if I asked. She would let me, if I didn't ask.

There was something happening, or that had already happened, between us, and it wasn't just lust. Even our eye contact had changed. Colors looked different. Had her eyes always been this pretty? Our sibling bond had sprouted a new bond. Something new was blossoming. Something maybe dangerous. Something alien.

I didn’t know what to do.

"Guy?" she said. "Why did you do that?" She was warming up. Speaking softly.

"D-do what?" I faltered.

"Just then," she stuck a finger in the direction of the closet, "you ... kissed me."

"You kissed ME," I corrected.

"Yeah, but, you KISSED me. I didn't expect you to kiss me back. You weren't supposed to."

"Oh, but. Well. No... I-I didn't..."

"I mean, not that you weren't ... allowed to," she added.

"... Allowed to?"

"I mean, does it have to be weird if we kiss? Or can it just be allowed?"

"Mila..."

"'No, Mila, we can't, we're family, blah blah blah!'" she did a terrible impression of me.

"Seriously," I ignored her good mood.

"Do you have a problem with it? Kissing me?"

"It's not that," I sighed.

"Then what is it?"

"It's that... Well. We're family."

"So?"

"S-so?" I frowned at her, disbelieving. She really was pushing hard this time, wasn't she? She knew I could bend. She knew I might be breakable.

"So! All that means is I get to be here with you and there's nobody to stop us kissing however we want."

"That's not what I meant," I said.

"What if I tickle your back?"

"No."

"Will you if I say please?"

"I won't, because... you can't just change the way you kiss your sibling, Cami."

"But what if I say please AND tickle your back at the same time?" she giggled. She poked me. She nudged me.

"I am not - h-hey, stop it," I chuckled.

"Pleeease! I'll let you take more pictures of my butt!" she squealed.

I have to admit, this threw me for a loop. I did have a half-used disposable camera somewhere in my desk. But ... she was twelve. And I would have to get the photos developed at a drug store. No way. They'd catch me. Not a chance I'd get away with it.

"You're thinking about it!" she teased me.

"Am not," I laughed.

"You know you're gonna kiss me again, right? You love me. You want me. You even said! You WANT me!"

"Wh- NO!"

"Please?" she asked, suddenly quiet and meek again.

"Stop asking."

"Why not?"

"Because," I growled.

"Is it 'cause I'm twelve?"

"Yes."

"Not because I'm your sister?"

"That too."

"But I can't help either of those!"

"Exactly."

"Then why can't I kiss you?"

"I'll let you kiss me if you stop asking," I muttered.

"Really?!" she beamed.

"Really," I said, and rolled my eyes. "And then that's it. No more. We go to sleep."

"Fine," she nodded. "You have a deal. Now gimme."

We were under the covers, but she shimmied on top of me. She planted her soft warm butt on my rock hard lap. She laid her soft camisoled top forward onto me. She held herself up on her elbows, gazing into my eyes.

"You ready?" she asked.

"No," I said.

"I can feel your boner," she whispered gleefully.

"Shut up."

"Okay. Ready? One ... two ..."

"Three," I said, and closed my eyes.

We kissed.

My heart thudded.

This was no peck. This was a kiss. Her mouth opened. I tasted her saliva. She moaned softly. Her tongue explored mine. I couldn't help myself. I kissed her back, and the world went away. She was on top of me. She began to lose herself to her feelings. She grabbed my head in her hands and whimpered as she kissed me as hard as she could. She pressed her tongue into mine. Our taste buds met, and greeted each other. She giggled inside my mouth. Her body couldn't seem to help but move and squirm against mine. She was moaning.

"Mm. Mmmm. "

"Nnn. Nnnnn..."

I realized, with a jolt, that I was moaning, too.

I broke off the kiss. We panted.

"I thought," I wheezed, "this was just going to be one quick kiss."

"More," she beamed.

"What is this, Mila? What do you want? Because I'm pretty sure I'm not-"

"MORE," she squealed, and stuck her tongue back into my open, arguing mouth. Her lips found their way to mine. Her mouth was so deliciously wet and hot, and full of the taste of her. Her tongue was a slippery little animal. It explored my mouth. Then I was exploring hers. She was moaning, whimpering, gasping. Her hips were moving. They were rocking against my stiff cock. She was pressing her pelvis, her lavender clad you-know-what, into my hard dick.

"Oh fuck," I panted as her tongue slipped out of my mouth. She licked my lips. She licked my nose. She licked the corner of my eye. She was going off the rails. With each lick, she ground hotly against me.

"Camila, stop, or..."

"Or what," she giggled, grinding against me.

"I will make a mess," I admitted, "if you keep that up."

"Then I will keep this up," she grinned, and ground herself harder against me.

"Cami," I whined, helpless, and bucked my hips.

"You want me," she said, thrilling palpably on me. "You want me so bad."

"Cami, you can't," I groaned.

"I can't what," she gasped, riding the ridge of my bulge.

"C-cam..."

"Tell me," she said, and looked me in the eye. "Tell me."

"I... "

"Tell me what I can't do," she said. She bit her lip. She stopped humping me.

I couldn't look her in the eye.

"Say it."

"Cam," I said.

"Say. It."

"We can't have sex," I muttered, humiliated.

"Oh?" she blinked. Then she giggled. Then she laughed. "DUH!" she giggled. "Gross!"

"B-but, Sis, what you're doing ..."

"I'm tickling you, weirdo! Like before!"

I bucked my hips into her.

"This is tickling?" I grunted.

"Yeah," she nodded.

"This?" I thrusted into her.

"Yeah," she giggled.

"I don't see either of us laughing."

"That is because it's like a back tickle," she smiled, and met my next hump with her own mini-muscular pushback.

"A back tickle."

"Mmmhm," she moaned, and did it again.

"I'm not convinced."

"Want me to stop?"

"Yes," I growled, and humped her.

"I don't think you do," she said, and did it again.

"I can't think."

"It's just a back tickle," she smiled, "for your front."

"My front."

"For your penis."

"Penis?"

"Your d-dick," she blushed.

"Mm," I grunted. "I actually c-call it my cock. God why am I telling you that?"

"It feels good when I rub it, doesn't it?" she mewed. "When I rub my susie on your ... cock?"

"Susie," I moaned.

"Y-yeah," she bit her lip, and rubbed me.

"M-mil-"

"Shhh," she said, and did it harder. "It's okay. I like it too. You're not hurting me."

"You're not hurting m-me either," I grunted.

"G-good," she panted.

"You're gonna make me-"

"Me too," she gasped.

"Cam-"

"Oh god," she whispered.

"Cam!"

"Yes! Yes, oh my gosh, Guy, y-yes, ooooh god ..."

I couldn't take it anymore.

"Nnngh," I cried, and came.

"G-GUY!" Camila yelped, and came.

It was sudden, and messy. We had made a mutual mistake. My cock throbbed and twitched and shot a load of cum inside my sweltering pajamas, and then Camila promptly slathered it all over my dick with her slow, forceful, mid-orgasmic thrusts. I couldn't see through the dark, but I could smell that her panties were soaked, and knew from the little bit of moisture I was feeling through my multi-layered defenses that she was steamy hot and wet. She was still humping me, even after I'd cum.

Even after the clarity hit.

We looked at each other, breathing hard.

"I came," she panted.

"So did I," I admitted.

"I came with you."

"So did I."

"That was..."

"Intense," I finished. I wanted to call it a mistake. But she looked so happy.

I kept my molten hot remorse to myself. She was just a kid. I didn't want to scare her.

"Wow," she gasped.

I just held her quietly on top of me, wincing inwardly.

"I'm s-sorry," she said after a second. She brought her fingers up from under the covers and blushed at how wet they were. "I think I made a mess."

I lifted the covers to look. A tremendous stink cloud of our combined smells wafted up.

"Oh wow," I said.

"Sorry," she said again.

"W-we should get cleaned up," I said.

I was panicking, but not panicking at the same time.

"Yeah," she said. "Can you toss me my backpack?" She pointed at her bag on my desk chair. I had to venture quickly out into the cold anyway, so I fetched it for her. She dug into it and pulled out a fresh pair of undies. Like a bad joke, it was the pink ones with the pandas.

"No fucking way," I frowned at her. "Tell me you brought another pair."

"Nope, just these," she grinned. "You're welcome."

"Th-that's not funny," I said seriously. I meant it. She and I were on vastly different wavelengths right now. I was spiraling. I had just ruined her life and mine. This was on me. I had let her hump me until I came. AND she had cum with me! No one could ever know. Not a single living soul. God, to think that a decades from now, we'd still be living with the fact that this had happened.

One thing was for sure. It would never, ever happen again. Not ever.

"Tah-dah!" she said, getting up on all fours and wiggling her pink striped bum at me. She had already stripped out of her wet panties and into fresh ones, right there in my bed while I had been distracted. My mind spun. My sister had gotten completely naked in my bed. For only a second, but still.

I ignored her. I tugged down my double-layered bottoms, stepped out of them, and glanced briefly Camila's direction before sniffing quickly and discretely at the wet, slippery spot Camila had made. Holy shit. It smelled like her susie. Then I grabbed a fresh pair of boxers from my dresser and hunkered down behind the foot of my bed to change. I slid my wet, gooey, icy boxers down my legs, strings of cum clinging like drool to my thighs as I tugged them as carefully as I could past my hairy legs. How fucking surreal. My kid sister had created this mess. I had helped, sure, but she had absolutely led the charge. She had dry humped me - and herself - to orgasm.

Some day, god willing, we would both be in our eighties, doddering around, doing whatever old siblings do. Even then, this hideously unfortunate memory would be an elephant in the room, haunting us for eternity. God. I couldn't even imagine. What we had done was literally unimaginable.

"Youuuu caaaame," she bragged in a woozy, sing-songy voice. She was lying on her back with the covers off, cami hitched up to her ribcage, delicate pink fingers tracing invisible mandalas around her navel.

"Listen," I said sternly. I stood back up. I was only in my boxers. I was no longer erect, and I no longer had a grizzly cum stain smeared all over the inside of my underwear. So I was feeling more confident. "That was ... what just happened there? That could get us in serious trouble. You know that, right?"

"Like I'm going to tell anyone? I'm not a freaking idiot," she scoffed.

"Camila," I grimaced, rubbing my neck and shaking my head in confusion and dismay. God, what had just happened? It really, really was bad.

"Gael," she smiled. "Come back." She held her arms out to me, beckoning.

I groaned at her. Then I climbed up over the foot of the bed and onto her, my cock already hardening again.

"Oooh, big brother's gonna teach me a lesson," she cooed, wrapping her legs around me.

"Maybe he should," I grunted, and kissed her.

She didn't resist. She melted.

We made out, and she started writhing. Her little hands found my ass and squeezed it, encouraging.

"Mmm, mmmm," she mewled, and humped me.

I kissed her mouth, her ear, her neck, her throat. I nipped at her earlobe.

"F-fuck," she stammered.

"Bad word," I chided her, my face in her neck.

"Sorry," she whined.

"You like being bad," I told her, and kissed her shoulder.

"M-m-more," she whimpered.

"I thought you were going to tickle my back," I growled, and kissed her collarbone. "I let you kiss me."

"No," she gasped. "Not yet."

"We shouldn't be doing this," I said.

"Stop - saying - th-that," she pleaded.

"It's the truth."

"Then why are you kissing me?"

"I have no idea."

"Then why did you let me rub my susie against your cock?"

"You were tickling me."

"You came in your pants."

"You did too."

"Because you did it first," she whispered.

My heart skipped as realization dawned. This was unstoppable. This was not just a scary, preventable oops any more. It was a cosmic fuckup. A black hole event. And it had already inhaled our world.

"We're a mess," I said.

"I know how we can be less messy. If we take our underwear off, we won't have to keep changing them," she muttered, half-kissing me as she said it.

"Hilarious," I frowned.

"But it's true," she whined, and kissed me harder.

"S-stop, Cam," I mumbled.

"N-no," she smiled on my mouth.

"Cammm," I groaned.

"Mm," she purred.

"Sis!" I grabbed her.

"Mmm! What?" she hissed.

"What the fuck are we doing?"

"I have no idea," she giggled, and kissed me, and kissed me, and kissed me. "You're the one who's had girlfriends before! What do we do next?"

"Nononono," I said as I felt us slide still further past the event horizon. Deeper into the nono zone. "That's not how this is going to be."

"Well, that's whatever," she shrugged, nonplussed. "I like how this already is."

"S-stop, Cam," I growled, and kissed her again. She tasted so fucking good. Her tongue. The inside of her mouth. God, she tasted incredible.

"M-make me," she said, and stuck her tongue back in my mouth.

She was grinding up into me again, making us both moan.

"God, it's so much ... without pants on," I mumbled around her tongue.

"I know," she gasped. "Right? It's so weird. Why does it feel so good?"

"Cam," I breathed.

"G-g-guy," she whimpered.

"Do you really want to be my girlfriend?"

"Unggh, YES," she moaned.

"F-fine," I grunted.

She stopped humping me from below. She grabbed me by my shoulders. She smiled up into my eyes. She made a funny little sound:

"Ding!"

I felt my whole shtick, my whole "Oh no, we can't, you're twelve, we're family" shtick, vaporized as if by the blast of her adorable voice. She had won. Or I had won. I wasn't sure who had or had not won. But I blinked, and there she was, still pinned beneath me, legs out to either side, pelvis mashed snugly against mine, arms draped around my neck, smiling at me like the prettiest girl in the whole black hole world we now inhabited.

"D-ding," I echoed, my voice shaky with happiness.

Chapter Text

"Why do you like me so much?" Camila asked.

"Same reason you like me," I mumbled.

"What is the reason I like you so much?" she smiled.

"I have no idea," I answered, and kissed her.

"I guess we'll find out," she said, and kissed me back.

"I guess we will."

"I want to be like this with you all the time," she confessed.

"Me too."

"Goodnight," she said, and kissed me, and kissed me.

"Goodnight."

"I'm so glad we're together," she said.

"I know."

"Do you want to do another tickle?" she purred, and wrapped her leg tighter around my waist.

"We should sleep," I chuckled.

"I wanna do one without underwear," she smiled. I had my eyes shut. I was trying to fall asleep. But I felt her cheek flex on my chest when she smiled.

"You're incorrigible," I smiled.

"I don't know what that means, but it sounds like you think I'm hot," she said.

"It does."

"Can we? I can tell you want to," she put her hand on my chest and felt my heartbeat.

"You're the worst," I chuckled.

"Can we?"

"Someday."

"Today is someday."

"We have all the time in the world," I yawned.

"Promise?"

"Yeah," I said.

"I can't wait," she whispered, and kissed me again.

And that's when I fell asleep.

I woke up before her, my sister's leg still thrown over mine, her tiny body curled up in a ball on her side, her cami hiked up to her ribs, the blankets pulled off. The heat had come back on at some point in the wee hours. I yawned and stretched and gently rolled my sister off of me. Camila's little nipples were still perky and hard. Her panties were sticking to her puffy vulva. She stirred just enough to crack one eye open, smile at me, and then bury her face in my pillow with a blissful groan. A moment later she was breathing slowly, fully asleep again.

Before leaving my room, I got dressed again. I gathered up all my porno mags, returned them to their box, put the lid back on, and set the box on the top shelf again where it usually lived. I scooped all the baseball cards back into their broken box. If I tucked all the flaps of the box back in, it basically held together okay. I gently set it back on a lower shelf. No need to try and keep my stash from Camila anymore. Not only would it be fruitless if she had her heart set on finding it, but she was my girlfriend now. If my hot young girlfriend wanted to look at my porn, she totally could.

I found Mom in the kitchen. Dad had gone to run a couple of errands.

"Power's back," I yawned.

"Hooray," she sang, then smiled affectionately at me as I stretched and scratched and gazed blearily around the warm, well-lit kitchen. She poured two cups of coffee and let the quiet between us be a peaceful thing. Then she sauntered past me holding the coffees, and I could swear she shot me a knowing look.

"So! How did you two sleep?" she asked pleasantly, setting one piping hot cup of coffee down at my spot on the table before sitting down with her own mug at her spot. She pushed my chair out with her foot, inviting me to sit.

"Um, great actually," I nodded, and draped my sleepy bones onto the chair.

"Mm-hmm, I figured," she smiled.

"You did?" I blinked.

"Sounded like you two must have had a late night last night."

"Wh-what do you mean?"

"Well," she sipped her coffee, winced as the scalding liquid touched her recently-bitten tongue, and then blinked at me. "I heard you guys going at it. Sounded like a bad one."

"Oh," I blushed. We had been a little loud in the early going, while the catharsis had us both acting a little unhinged. In the hours that had followed, though, we'd gotten better about lowering our voices and keeping quiet. "Yeah, I mean, it was just the usual ... brother-sister bologna."

"I see," Mom nodded. "Well. You don't have to share the gory details, I guess. I just don't like hearing you two shouting at each other."

"I think we're okay now," I shrugged. "We, um. We got it out of our systems."

"You two have been living like bunkmates this week. A little friction was probably inevitable," she sighed. She gazed out the window at our snow-laden backyard. "Maybe we should all go to the rink today. You guys always used to love that, and it's a pretty fun way to burn off some steam."

"Ice skating?" I said, feeling weary at the very thought of it. I didn't want to go anywhere. I wanted to stay home and dry hump my kid sister all day.

"Sure. We'll get hot cocoa. Eat pretzels. It's always a great day."

"Think it's even open?" I said, gesturing to the post-blizzard world glistening outside our window.

"Oh. I don't know," she frowned. She gave me a sad look. "You don't want to go, do you?"

I think I made a sad look too. I shrugged at her. "I kind of just feel like staying in, if we're being honest."

"Are we?" Mom frowned. "Being honest?"

I apologized and went back upstairs.

***

Cami and I gamed all morning. We ate lunch late, and watched a little TV. We didn't talk much, but we cuddled as intently as we dared while still trying to appear outwardly normal. Mom on the other sofa asked us how our video games were going, and we both said, "Fine."

Then Dad and Cami left for Cami's dance class.

As soon as she heard the garage door shut behind them, Mom turned off the TV. This plunged us into awkward silence in the family room. It wasn't terribly late but the winter sky was already darkening. She stood. She approached me. She sat down, her hands folded in her lap, and cleared her throat.

"I think it's time for a talk, honey," she said, her voice low and soft and serious.

"Sure," I said, feeling an eerie wave of dread and excitement. I could tell from her awkward posture that she was once again summoning me to the blurry no-man's land where once had been the clear, distinct boundary that separated my post-pubescent sex life from her involvement therein.

She sighed. She seemed to be struggling to find words.

"I... have some regrets about lending you my underwear. Not just because of last night. But... well, it wasn’t a great idea.”

"Right," I nodded, and felt myself blush.

“I think I panicked. And so I tried to intervene too, um, drastically. And it wasn’t helpful. To either of us. I see that now. In a lot of ways.”

“It’s, uh, it’s okay Mom.”

She gazed at me intensely.

“I’m glad to hear you say that. But I think it’ll take time to really feel, like, you know, like we’re all good. We just need to get past this, however slowly, and so that's what we’re going to do. Okay?”

“Right,” I nodded. But then I shook my head, unsure. “Wait, what does that mean exactly?”

“It means I’m sorry for crossing the line. It won’t be happening again, okay? No more funny business from Mom, I promise.”

“So then, the ones I have from last night?”

“The blue panties, yes.”

“Um. Do I just give those back?”

“Oh,” she blushed, but tried to act like she was unfazed. “Did you use them yet?”

“N-no.”

“Okay. Well. Do you want me to let you hold onto them? Just as long as we both understand it’s the last time?”

“It’s, yeah, okay, the last time,” I mumbled. It was hard to look Mom straight in the eye. She was telling me to go ahead and cum in her panties one last time. This was a moment of total honesty, and it was weirdly intense.

She patted my knee.

"And when the roads are clear, we’ll buy you some you can use just for you. Okay?”

“Mom, this so awkward.”

“Okay!” she smirked. “We can be done! Um.”

We both looked around the quiet family room. Dad and Cam wouldn’t be back for a couple hours. When we finally, accidentally looked at each other again we both rolled our eyes in unison and blushed and drummed our hands on our laps.

“So,” Mom said. “What shall we do? I’m sick of TV.”

I shrugged. "Want to play cards or something?"

"I'm not really feeling it," Mom frowned.

“You guys got me that Magic Eye puzzle for Christmas. Maybe want to do that?”

Mom shrugged at this, too. I sighed the familiar sigh of the idea guy. Whether it was Mom or Camila, I always found myself having to be the idea guy. They’d come to me, bored, and then demand I think of something to do, as if it were my fault they couldn’t entertain themselves in the first place.

“I’m not very good at puzzles,” she admitted.

“Well,” I shrugged. “There’s always TV.”

“No TV,” she took the remote from me and tossed it onto the other sofa. “What if I made us some hot chocolate, and then we sat and read books or something? It would be a nice, cozy, peaceful thing for us to do.”

“Um, hot chocolate sounds nice. But. Can I play my game instead? It’s a rental, so…”

“Oh, fine. But I want us to spend time together. Would you let me read in your room?”

I had to do a quick scan in my head of just how Mom-friendly my room was right now. Camila and I had gone at it pretty hard. Geez, what a crazy thing to recall all of a sudden. We had humped each other’s genitals! Even just thinking this thought, stringing those neurons together, as Mom smirked calmly at me on the sofa, felt completely other-dimensional. I felt like a criminal. An imposter. Could I let Mom safely in my room?

“Uhh,” I winced.

“Really?” she said flatly. She misread my guilty hesitation as me not wanting her there.

"Well, uh, just, let me clean up a little first," I said, trying to recover.

"Oh," she nodded, and smiled a little. “Go ahead, then. I’ll take my time getting the cocoa ready.”

“Yum,” I nodded, and then hurried upstairs to scrub the crime scene.

I was in the process of stripping my bed when the bedroom door opened. "Hey babe, did you want marsh-... oh? Wow, you're really cleaning up, huh?"

"H-hey, UH," I woppsed the sheets up as quickly and nonchalantly as I could. "Marshmallows. Yeah. I mean no. I don't want mushrooms. MARSHMALLOWS. I meant m-marshmallows."

"Did you need a hand? I can take that laundry for you."

"Oh, geez, uh... that's okay. You're already making hot chocolate. You go ahead. I can throw these in the wash."

"Don't be silly. The laundry room's right by the kitchen. Let me run them down, and you can finish tidying in here."

For one terrible moment, Mom was tugging on the big stinky ball of sheets while I refused to let go. My hands, my instincts - my shame - refused to LET me let go.

"Honey," Mom frowned at me, one eyebrow raised in face that said, 'I'm not stupid, you know.' "I don't care if they're messy. Alright? You're a teen. I get it."

"Uhhgh, oh, God, alright. Alright," I sighed, and let go.

She calmly gathered them into her arms. If she smelled my sister's vaginal secretions mixed in with my salty, stinky cum stains, she didn't say anything. "So," she smiled. "No mushrooms, right?"

"R-right," I nodded. "I hate mushrooms in my cocoa."

"You're a kook," Mom beamed, and shut the door again on her way out.

This kook put fresh sheets on, and the only other comforter I had. It was thinner, cooler, meant for warmer weather. It’d be a chilly night if Camila didn’t, for whatever reason, want to sleep over again.

But that was absurd, right? We were dating now. We were a thing. She would happily live in my room if Mom and Dad would let her. I wondered about that, too. Exactly how much private brother-sister time were we going to get away with before someone said something?

Should I try and land a high school girlfriend, too, just for cover?

What if Camila came home from dance tonight and told me she realized how insane and dangerous and scary this all was, and that she wanted to break up, and go back to being just siblings? What if she came to her senses and saw me for the hideous monster that I was? … What if our relationship was already over, and I just hadn’t gotten the memo yet?

I sat down on my nice clean bed. I fretted as I continued my game in Silent Hill. I prepared, emotionally, for the worst. Camila was going to dump me tonight. Nevermind that we’d had such a thrilling day. It was inevitable. We were siblings. She was twelve. The laws of nature would not abide a serious, ongoing, sexual relationship between us.

Would they?

***

“Oh, this isn’t your nerdy sex game,” Mom noted as she set my mug down on my nightstand and then climbed onto my bed holding hers. She had changed into her jammies, and brought her book and reading glasses, too. She was a cute mom. “Is it?” she frowned at the bleak, creaking corridor I was navigating.

“Nah,” I laughed. “This is the other one.”

“I don’t know if I like this one,” she pursed her lips critically.

“Fair enough,” I shrugged at her. “But Mila would kill me if I played EYL without her.”

“Can you not even show me the beginning of the game? Without, you know,” she waved her hand as if mimicking casting a spell, such was her knowledge of video game technology, “having to do anything your sister hasn’t seen?”

“Um,” I rolled my eyes while I had my back to her, “sure. Um. Just let me get to a save point.”

I crept through the unfamiliar dark with only three bullets left in my entire inventory. Each room I peeked into was empty. I had no clue how far the next save point might be.

“What is a save point, exactly?”

“Uh. Well. In this game, you have to find …” My voice trailed off for a second, as I thought I’d heard a noise in the dark. I carefully approached a closed door at the end of the hallway. “… A, um. N-notebook. To write your progress in.” I had definitely heard something, but whatever it was had gone silent.

“What’s on the other side of the door?” Mom asked.

I didn’t answer her. I crept right up to the door and listened. There was a small, scratchy sound. It was soft but horrible.

“Guy? Hello? What is happening right now?”

“Sh,” I whispered, and turned to let her see my sorry-I-didn’t-mean-that-to-be-rude face.

She frowned at me and shrugged to let me see that she had no earthly idea what was going on in Silent Hill.

I turned back around. I opened the door. It was a tiny, indoor graveyard. I entered and almost fell into an open grave in the floor. The tombstone overlooking the hole had a text prompt I could read if I could figure out how to get around to it without falling in the grave - which, to be clear, was a gaping chute plunging into blackness. Even though I thought I’d already descended to the basement floor of this horrible hospital.

“Why are there graves in there? What is this place even supposed to be?” Mom asked. She sipped her cocoa. Then she asked me something that intrigued me. “Can you go in that hole?”

I turned and looked at her. Then I turned and looked at the hole.

“Let me show you EYL,” I said. I got up and swapped the discs, then grabbed my mug of cocoa and joined Mom sitting against the headboard.

“This is the sex game?” she asked, politely suppressing her gratitude. But her eyes gave her away. She had taken off her reading glasses to see the screen.

“I’m just going to show you the start of the game. We won’t be getting to any of the racy stuff,” I assured her.

“Oh,” she said. She was quiet a moment. “Good.”

Getting started took a minute of unexpected hassle. I had to fiddle with the settings in the memory card to get it to stop autoloading our other files, and let us start a new save file from scratch. I then had to go into the game’s options and press a thing granting us permission to start a new save file.

“This is a boring game,” Mom joked lamely.

I sighed. “I think I’ve got it now.”

Mom was quietly entertained by the fancy opening cinematics, and only scoffed out her nose once when one of the characters got caught stepping naked out of the shower by her creepy-old-man landlord. They didn’t show anything. But still it was a little awkward.

But then the game proper began. And Mom hung on for as long as she could but just could not sync up with the game’s multitudinous interlocking systems, which had daunted even me for the first couple hours I’d played. She’d be drawn in by the dialogue, only to be turned off by the multiple menus and statistics and literal slice-of-life chores.

“This isn’t a game,” she finally yawned. “It’s a to-do list.”

“That’s why they had to put the sex in,” I joked, “so we’d have a reason to play.”

“You know, that’s gross enough to be true,” she chuckled. Mom could ‘chuckle.’ She grabbed her reading glasses and her book. She patted my thigh. “I’m just going to read my book now, if that’s all the same to you. That okay?”

“Yup,” I shrugged.

“Thank you for letting me hang out in here.”

"Sure. I like you,” I said.

I didn’t have to look to feel Mom smile at me.

“I like you, too,” she said.

I got up and swapped Silent Hill back in. Didn’t even bother to save this new game in EYL. I had avoided spending more than the minimum, unskippable amount of in-game time with little Tomoko, in order to head off any uncomfortable questions Mom might have thought to ask. I even carefully selected choices I knew would actively prevent my character, who I’d named Mompson (a high-point in Mom’s brief enjoyment of the game), from earning a single heartpoint from the poor, dejected kid.

When I sat back down, Mom was snoring. She had dozed off without even opening her book. I looked at her. I liked how she looked. She was the prettiest woman I knew, personally. Sure, she wasn’t quite a Tyra Banks or an Alicia Silverstone, but she was a Salma Hayek or a Sandra Bullock, easy.

I had her panties in my drawer. I felt so weird about it. She did too, I could tell. That was why she was in here tonight. There was nowhere to hide and fret about how awkward things were so long as we spent time together and acted normal. Risky business, mothering.

"I used to read to you in this bed," she said softly, scaring me. I'd been staring down into the grave chute, pondering the bottom. I only had three bullets. Even if I lived, I would be hurt, and I would only have three bullets.

"Y-you did," I confirmed, vaguely remembering.

"I loved it so much."

"I know you did," I said a little uncomfortably, but smiled at her as normally as I could. "I liked it too."

"You liked it? HA. You used to BEG me for it."

"Mom, ew. Come on."

"I thought you were playing your game. You can ignore me."

"You talked!"

"I ... I was just remembering good times, was all. Thought you might want to remember them too."

"Mom," I groaned.

"Son," she sniffled.

I turned. Had I made her cry?

She was crying. But she didn't look sad. She was smiling.

"Are you okay?" I asked. I don't know what answer I should have hoped for.

"Y-yeah," she hiccupped. But she was really crying now. "I'm okay, I'm okay. I just. You grew up. You know?"

"Sorry?" I winced.

"Oh, don't," she snorted, and waved me off. "I'm allowed to be a cornball."

"Mom," I smirked at her. "You'd be one even if it was against the rules."

"Heck yeah I would," she smirked back. And sobbed.

***

Dad came down the hall still wearing his big puffy coat. He was red cheeked and somber. He held his knit orange hat in two hands like he was stepping into a house of prayer. "Hey guys," he said.

"How was dance?" Mom asked sleepily, barely moving from her cozy little nook against her son and and his headboard.

"Uh-huh. Fine," he said. His voice was off.

Mom and I were snuggled under the covers. She had been dozing while I played the scariest game I could possibly have imagined. In hindsight, I don't think I could have played as long as I did without my mommy there. As soon as I'd heard the truck pull in, I'd started backtracking to the nearest save point. I'd scribbled my progress down. And then I'd quit. Good riddance.

Seeing Dad's hulking bulk in all his winterwear in my small bedroom, though, tripped me out.

"Everything okay?" I asked.

Dad shrugged, shook his head. He looked angry with me. My mind went blank. There were a few good reasons that man might conceivably be upset with me.

"What is it?" Mom asked, sitting up.

"She and I. We, uh. We had a disagreement."

"Is she downstairs? Where is she?" Mom asked. She started to get out of bed. Dad put a hand up to stop her. "What?" Mom asked.

"It's fine. She's fine. She's holed up in her room. I just. Well I guess it pertains to everybody in here. So I'll just say it. I told her I don't want her spending the night in here anymore. I don't like it."

"What? Why?" I gasped. All of a sudden my hands were shaking. I hid them under the covers. But I couldn't stop them shaking all of a sudden.

"Why don't I like it?" he spat back, glaring at me. He was still keyed up from the drive home. I retreated. I practically yelped.

"Honey, we talked about this. We talked to them. Everyone was on the same page. Boundaries."

"Uh-huh," Dad nodded, but did that thing with his tongue in his cheek where it was clear he disagreed. "Yeah. Right. I remember."

"So? Then. WHY would you tell her this all of a sudden? That she can't sleep in here?"

"Because I. Don't. LIKE it."

Mom made a face I didn't catch. It made Dad's face twitch in response, though. His masculinity faltered. His upper lip twitched.

"Hey," he said, quasi-assertively. "I'm allowed to be their Dad. I'm allowed."

"You are. Allowed," Mom said quietly. "And she's allowed to be upset with you, isn't she?"

Dad shrugged, shook his head, and then shrugged again even more impetuously. He threw his hat up. Then he tried to catch it, but he missed. He had to bend over and pick it up. He scoffed, turned a little quarter circle, and shook his head at the doorjamb. Then he held his hat up at Mom. He didn't know what to say to her. So he pointed it at me instead. And he said,

"I don't like it. Okay? You got me?"

And he left. We heard him go directly downstairs to the mud room, presumably to shuck off his outerwear. But instead, he went all the way out into the garage. He got into his truck.

"Sorry," Mom muttered. She groaned as she got out of my bed and back into her slippers. She grabbed her book and reading glasses. "You'll get these mugs, yeah?" she said, gesturing vacantly. "I need to go see if your sister's alright."

"Uh-hum," I said. "Hey Mom?"

"I'll talk to him. I don't know. Maybe best you guys just sleep separate tonight."

Mom trudged out of my room. She shut the door behind her.

My TV was off. I had quit playing Silent Hill for the night. Possibly for the remainder of my life.

And for whatever reason, I felt extremely anxious about my sister's return. Nothing was wrong between her and I. We had parted on good terms, still boyfriend-girlfriend, still eager to get back to EYL and do back tickles. I couldn't have told you why I felt so uneasy. But I definitely felt sick to my stomach. When I couldn't see her, feel her, smell her, I could not trust that life and morality and laws of nature weren't pulling her away from me again, back into her little box. The one labeled, "Little Sister - DO NOT TOUCH."

And but now this bullshit ban on sleepovers, too? Why not just ground us to our rooms while he was at it? That was basically how it felt. He wasn't just against the sleepovers, he was against what they represented. He was onto us. He had to be. He was putting the kibosh. He'd said so himself, and pointed right at me as he said it: He. Didn't. Like it.

I groaned, audibly anguished, and slid under my nice, clean, mommy-scented covers to die an early death.

***

Chapter Text

I slept like fucking shit. The summertime comforter was only thick enough to trap moisture, but otherwise let the winter air flow freely. I lay glazed in icy sweat all night. Neither kicking off the covers nor curling up underneath helped anything. Confined to a frigid wake-sleep limbo, I had nothing to do but wander the rambling corridors of my head. My eyes sat open in the dark, fully and sorely adjusted, each lid’s occasional blink feeling like licking an ice cube.

Question one, would it be stupid to openly defy Dad and try to sneak into Camila’s room under cover of darkness?

Question two, did Camila even want me to do that?

Question three, was it reasonable to expect this thing between me and her to last at all? What was the average length of a brother-sister romance, assuming they never got caught? Was it possible to break up and stay friends?

Was it possible to not ever have to break up?

The next morning, I woke up to Mom’s signature knock on my bedroom door.

“You have a visitor,” she grinned, her mood jarringly upbeat for this early in the day.

“What?” I grimaced and rubbed an iceslick of drool off my chin. I sat up and it felt like bending under-thawed meat. I was stiff, lizardlike, numb with sleepiness.

“Sup man?” Tim waved a little awkwardly. He looked like he hadn’t meant to be welcomed so abruptly upstairs and into my bedroom. He still had the clenched chattery shiver of a person in straight out of the cold.

“Uh, hey,” I waved back uncomfortably.

“It’s Tim!” Mom cheered.

“I can see that,” I grunted.

“Sorry,” Tim mumbled.

“Come on in man. You’re fine. You’re good,” I yawned all of a sudden, like someone had slapped me on the back with a yawn. I reached upward toward the ceiling. My bones cracked and my muscles quivered. I loosed one of those big sing-songy yawns.

“I’ll leave you guys alone,” Mom said, smiling at Tim. “Ooh. Hey. Do you guys want french toast?”

“Oh, heck yes,” Tim chortled.

“Yay!” Mom clapped. Then she looked at me expectantly.

“Sure,” I shrugged.

“Just like the good old days!” she said, and beckoned Tim to her for a hug. He obliged, and winked at me over her shoulder. It was an open secret he had crushed on her all his life. “Aw, I missed you, sweetheart.”

“You still smell like heaven,” he replied dreamily.

“Oh, stop it!” she chuckled and pulled away so she could pinch him on his greasy, bearded cheek.

“Tim,” I sighed.

“Tim’s here?” Dad said, appearing behind Mom in the doorway.

“Sir,” Tim waved chummily.

“Son,” Dad nodded.

They’d never really clicked, these two. In fact, they privately disliked each other. But Mom and I would never tell them this. It was sort of sad, because Tim hadn’t ever clicked with his own dad, either.

“Hey,” Dad said to me. “Whenever he leaves, I want to talk to you. Okay?”

“Oh. S-sure. Yeah,” I murmured. I shrug-nodded as coolly as I could. But I was petrified. The man had caught me off-guard, ill-slept, and disoriented by the surprise early AM pow-wow in my bedroom. I cracked a little smile. Like I was cool. “Everything okay?” I asked.

Dad looked at me like I was testing him.

“We’ll talk about it,” he said.

“R-right,” I said.

Tim chuckled awkwardly.

Mom gave me an apologetic, but coldly political, look. Then she patted Dad’s shoulder and ushered him out of my room. Dad gave me one last look before Mom shut the door behind them, as if to say, ‘Don’t keep me waiting.’

“Geez,” I groaned as soon as they were gone. I clasped my reeling brain and toppled backwards back onto the cold, wet lump that was my pillow.

“I catch you at a bad time?” Tim joked uncomfortably.

This guy.

“Fuck if I know,” I sighed and kneaded drastically at a knot of stress in my forehead.

“Well uh,” he unzipped his puffy bomber jacket, but didn’t didn’t take it off. Then he sat down. I could smell his stinky white socks. Mom always made company take their boots and shoes off at the door. In Tim’s case, this had always been a problem. His feet reeked like a rotting animal packed in salt. “I just got the day off work. Figured you were usually an early bird, so I’d come by and see how things were, uh, hanging.”

“We haven’t hung out in ages,” I stated bluntly, and okay, a little insensitively.

“It’s been years, man! Yeah,” he sniffed, then un-pocketed a crumpled up tissue. He blew his nose. Then he tossed the snot-filled wad into the waste-bin under my desk. “Been a crazy long time. You changed your walls.”

“Took down the posters,” I said.

“Shoot, yeah. Yes. Power Rangers was over there. And Mortal Kombat was …”

“Other way around,” I said, warming a little at the recollection. “Power Rangers was over here.”

“No way,” he chuckled, and clapped a hand to his head, “you’re totally right.”

He grinned at me.

“Kimberly, man.”

“Trini,” I said. I couldn't help smirking a little. He knew my position on this matter.

“Agree to disagree,” he scoffed.

“Ughh,” I frowned, the stress-knot in my head still unresolved. “I’m not sure I can hang today. As you saw.”

“Yeah,” Tim nodded, and we both glanced to the door where Dad had stood. “That’s alright man. I get it.”

“Ugh. Sorry.”

“What’d you do anyway?” he smirked. “Your old man looked pissed.”

Lord, where could I even begin to guess?

“I’m not sure,” I said, letting my naked worry show to my friend, but stopping short of mentioning anything to do with Camila and any recent sleepover bans. “He came home last night in a shit mood,” I told him. “Guess it’s probably related to that?”

“Huh,” Tim chewed his lip curiously. He looked like a kid. The beard had fooled me when I first saw him, but as soon as he’d settled back into the familiar surroundings, the old Tim shone plainly.

“Guess I’ll head out after french toast,” he shrugged.

“Yeah. Sorry again,” I nodded.

“All good,” he nodded. He leaned back in the creaky chair. Stretched his rancid feet out toward me. “All good.”

I sighed.

He sighed.

He picked something out from his teeth and rubbed it on his pants.

I got up and went pee.

When I came back, Tim had rolled my desk chair over to in front of the TV just like he always used to, and he’d turned on my Playstation. He had it idling on EYL’s breezy summertime title screen. He was eager to say something.

“Still haven’t started, huh?”

“Uh? N-no, we have. You just gotta go back into the memory card and turn the autoloading thing back on.”

“Huh,” he said. He reset the Playstation and went into the memory card manager, navigated to the EYL file, and then opened up the menu for it. There was no obvious way to do what I had said. “You sure it was in the memory card menus?”

“Y-yeah, maybe not,” I frowned. “Try going into the game, into the options.”

He did.

“Um… buddy, I don’t see it.”

“Can I try?” I sighed anxiously, and fumbled the controller into my lap when he tossed it to me. It smacked me in my cold, tender nuts. I suppressed a grunt, but it came out as a snort, and Tim chortled reflexively.

“Where the fuck is it?” I demanded of the TV.

“Dude,” Tim sighed. “I think you might’ve deleted your game.”

“No. No way,” I gasped.

Tim was right.

I had deleted our entire EYL save file.

Our heartpoints.

Our progress.

Everything. Our entire winter break. I had erased it so I could show Mom a fresh save file. But even this, I hadn’t saved. The EYL folder in the memory card was empty.

There was only one logical conclusion. God had deemed me unworthy of joy or satisfaction in this life. I had, for my obvious malfeasance, earned a preview of the woeful afterlife that awaited me. I suffered a wordless, twitchy malfunction in front of Tim that he politely ignored.

He patted me warmly on the shoulder. He squeezed me gently. He said things like “This really sucks man” and “I’d be losing my mind” and he told me a brief anecdote about the time he had accidentally deleted his older brother’s save file in Zelda. I responded robotically. I was in a cold, brittle state.

“Breakfast’s ready,” Mom chimed, knocking as she spoke through the door. “Are you boys coming downstairs, or should I bring it up?”

I looked at the door as if death itself had knocked. After breakfast, Tim would leave. After Tim was gone, Dad would want to speak to me. After that, I would be dead, gone-away, and my true punishment would begin.

“Coming!” Tim called. He gave me one last sorry look. “I caught you on a bad day.”

“Yeah,” I shrugged weakly.

“But hey. At least we scored some french toast.”

He helped me set the controller down and turn off the Playstation. He picked up the EYL jewel case while he was at the credenza, and frowned contemplatively at the empty disc-holder inside. He pressed his pink thumb softly into the ring in the center of the holder.

“Yo Guy,” he said, snapping it shut again. “You still want to hold onto the game? Give it another go?” He wagged it at me. “Or should I just take it with me?”

“Um,” I shook my head uncertainly.

Then I realized. Camila would want a say. She would also need the news broken to her, stat. The question of how, though, would have to wait. Dad had dibs on my brain, right now. He was all I could fret about.

But I knew one thing for sure. She was in no way done with EYL. Not until she and I banged our little sister, or gotten as close to banging her as the game would let us.

“No, uh,” I pointed in the direction of Camila’s bedroom through my wall. “I’m pretty sure she’d be devastated if we gave it back before we beat it. She’ll want to start over.”

Tim smiled coolly, containing his pride. He set the case back down. He patted me on the back.

“Let’s go french your Mom’s toast.”

“Tim,” I cringed.

“What?” he yukked. “Shoot. This is why we don’t hang out anymore, isn’t it? You’re jealous.”

“Fucking hell, I’m serious. Stop.”

“I can’t help the way she feels about me, Guy.”

“Ha. Listen. I’m just not, like,” I waved my hand desperately, bleakly, by way of making my grumpy, constricted point.

Tim skip-stomped down to the first floor like a giddy little kid, and left me wallowing in my own stress at the top of the stairs. At the foot of the stairs his stink-damp heels squealed on the tile as he wheeled around and booked it down the hallway so that he could sliiiide into the kitchen on his socks with full nostalgic fanfare.

“Feed me!” I heard him bellow. His feet weren’t quite dry enough, though, because I heard him skid rather than slide, and an instant later he tumbled noisily.

This cracked Mom up so hard she must have cried a little. I could tell when I got down there. Her cheeks were bright pink and her eyes puffy and wet. She snuffled into her dish towel as she pulled out my chair for me, little afterlaughs still wheezing out of her.

The table was laid out with the traditional breakfast suite, complete with orange juice and milk, and an 8-stack of Mom's french toast.

Dad was nowhere to be seen. I breathed a little but less stressfully.

“Good golly in heck it has been TOO LONG, ma’am!” Tim swooned around his first mouthful of Mom’s french toast.

“Oh, Tim,” Mom beamed from the sink, where she’d begun on the dishes. “I missed you.”

I rolled my eyes. I ate slowly and distractedly. I only had enough anxiety-free space in my gut for approximately half a numbly masticated slice of perfectly cooked french toast.

“Timtim?” came a small voice from the hallway.

“Whoa. Gael, who is THIS foxy babe?” Tim set his fork down. He gaped at the hallway. “You didn’t tell me you had a hot new roommate.”

“Timtim!” Camila screeched and tore into the kitchen to wrap her favorite friend of mine in a full, off-the-ground four-limbed hug. Tim heaved her up into his arms and swung her round and round and round, fully three whole rotations, the both of the giggling and grunting with affection, before he let her back down. Even after he let her go, there was some prying required. She seemed to know this was the last time they’d ever get to hug like that again. Things had changed. Things had … grown.

"Wow, okay, ohh-kay," Tim blushed as the precocious brat refused to let go of his midsection, where apparently something maybe was happening. "You've gotta let go. I'm s-serious."

"Boohoo," Camila pouted as her butt finally reached the floor. She stayed seated on the ground as Tim stepped clumsily, with some urgency, out of the rings she'd made of her arms and legs. He adjusted himself as discretely as he could, given the circumstances. Mom and I did not exchange looks, though we could have; it was an open secret, too, that Tim had harbored an unabating attraction to Camila since at least the 6th grade (that is, when she had been in just 2nd grade). That was the first time he'd been caught, anyway. No, I will not go into the particulars. It was four years ago, and it was very awkward for everyone involved, and we had all moved past it by now. Tim was still as family in our home.

Camila scooched forward on her butt across the rug under the kitchen table, and then re-entangled herself about Tim's legs.

"Boohoo," she said again.

"It's not a boohoo situation, kid," Tim said, blushing as he glanced at me, and grabbed onto the table for balance. At least my sister wasn't rubbing her frontside all over his midsection anymore. I'd never loved when she was so physical with him, like this. But I loved it even less, now that I felt slightly cuckolded.

Ugh. I was such a cretin. Why did anybody like me? What did I even bring to the table? A dick, okay, and what else?

"You're staying over today?" she asked up at him. He had once again pried her off. She'd given up more easily this time. She'd successfully conveyed how genuinely overjoyed she was to see him.

"He, uh," Tim pointed at me, "he's gotta' do something. So I was going to head out in a little bit, here, actually."

"What?" Camila glanced at me, confused. "What are you doing today?"

"Um," I gulped. "I have a thing with Dad."

"What?"

"Guys, it's okay," Mom interjected. "Tim, you can stay as long as you'd like. Gael just needs to go have a little talk with his Dad, and then he's got the rest of the day free. You should stay. These two were just going to sit in his room and play video games all day, anyway. How about you guys hang out instead?"

"Oh, Sara," Tim beamed at her. "You misjudge me if you think I would ever come between my friend and his right to sit in his room and play video games all day."

"Join us!" Camila commanded. "JOIN. US." She thumped the table leg. She was still sitting on the floor. "JOIN. US."

I glanced down at her a little jealously. She ignored me.

"Gael, why don't you go downstairs and find your father? Camila and I will keep Tim company until you come back up."

"Okay," I winced. "But like. What if I'm like ... grounded or something?"

"Is someone going to tell me what Guy did?" Tim asked the room.

"You aren't grounded. He just needs to talk to you. Go on down. You'll be fine."

"Do you know what it's about?" I asked, wide-eyed, as I watched my feet carry me toward the door to the basement stairs.

"Nope," she shrugged blithely. "He says it's guy stuff."

"Guy stuff?" I echoed, trying to figure out what this could possibly mean.

Tim had begun regaling Camila with a rundown of how he and his family had been doing all this time. Mom gave me one last good-luck wink and then turned and tuned into the Tim station. I watched her face as she dialed the volume all the way up and leaned toward the speaker in her heart and at her table. The Tim Radio Hour had returned.

I stepped down the creaky carpeted and vinyl-lined stairs into the basement. I tried not to creep. I tried only to step. I tried to breathe like a calm, normal son, but the sheer Dadness of the finished basement challenged my grip. The vacuum-striped carpet. The immaculate vinyl pathways. The cheap bookshelves full of paperback books, VHS tapes, CDs, computer games, and a slew of empty boxes tetrised together each belonging to some warrantied piece of hardware or another. Then the computer room, itself. Liminally decorated, windowless, and perfectly cubic. It was the only online room in our home. It smelled like warm computer, past water damage, and Dad's hygiene regimen. He told me to close the door when I came in.

I did. The door latched shut at precisely the same moment that something in my chest hurt. I clutched my chest for a second, then realized how dramatic this looked, and lowered my hand again. I stared doe-like at my father. He was on his computer, and hadn't more than glanced at me since I'd entered.

"Just a sec," he said quietly. He moused around on the screen, finishing up the last few cells of a spreadsheet he'd been working on. Then he saved and minimized. His desktop background appeared. It was just the rolling green hills and blue sky that came with Windows. He left it like this as he turned in his chair.

He stayed sitting while he spoke.

"Guess the secret's out, huh?" he asked, stony-faced.

I stared blankly. My face was a mask of calm. My mind was a mass of impending horror squirming wormlike behind it.

"You showed your sister the stash!"

His face remained inscrutable. Or was I just freaking out?

"And now she's telling me she wants her fair share," he sighed. He shook his head at me. He chuckled haplessly. He savored my pale-faced bafflement.

"She f-found it while I was sleeping."

"I told you to guard it with your life, Gael."

"I know," I gulped. "I tried."

"Bullshit. She told me you bragged about it to her?"

"God, n-no. Well. I mean, I mentioned it one time. And I didn't say where I was getting it. I mean. All I said was I had found some. She knew I had some magazines hidden. I never 'bragged' about it, though, I swear. If that's how she interpreted it, fine, but that's not how I meant it."

"Okay, okay, whatever," he waved his hand, shook his head, disinterested in the he-said-she-said. "The issue is still: you told her about it. You. Told her."

"S-sorry," I said. "I don't know. Why I did it. It was just. I was being stupid."

"Yeah," Dad said. "You were."

"I was."

He sighed and looked at me.

"So... Am I grounded?"

"No," Dad scoffed. "You think I'd ground you for this? I'm the idiot who trusted you with smut in the first place. No, you're not getting grounded. You're going to show your sister how to use the internet."

"What? She's twelve. She knows how to use the internet."

"No," Dad looked at me differently, "she doesn't. We asked. She doesn't have a clue."

"Are you - wait a minute. You want ME? To teach HER? How to - " I couldn't even say it.

"Look," Dad said, holding out both hands for emphasis. "We already told her you’d do it. Don't make it weird. Just get her in here. Show her the ropes. And give her the basic, you know, rules of etiquette."

"Rules of etiquette?"

"Son. Don't act stupid. Show her how to clear her history, keep things discrete, clean up after herself, that kind of thing. Geez. Please don't make me spell it out for you any more than that."

"Dad. You want me to -?"

"Gael. You have your instructions. This one's on you."

"Can I ... say no?"

"Sure," Dad smirked.

"Okay. No thanks, then."

"Great, then you're grounded."

"Wait, WHAT?"

"Just do the thing. It won't hurt. She's not going to bite you. The kid just needs to learn about porn. Now speaking of which," he smirked at me, "get out of here. I'm busy."

"... Sleepovers? Still no?" I frowned at him.

"Get," he said, shooing me. I excused myself. I walked in a daze along the vinyl path back through the basement and up the soft, squeaky stairs. Just as I mounted the landing at the top of the stairs, I took one centering breath, and slid a cataract of calm over the lens of my face.

"He lives!" Tim hoorayed.

"Woohoo," Camila shrugged. (Wait, what? Was she mad at me? Why? Were we over? Was she in love with Tim now? But his feet stank.)

"Did your 'guy talk' go okay?" Mom asked. She frowned a little at my poise. Her eyes saw right through the smokescreen of okayness I was projecting.

"Sure," I said. I took a seat at the table. Tim was in my seat. I was in Dad's. And Dad, I now knew, was downstairs looking at porn on the internet.

"I know what it was about," Camila said smugly.

"Camila," Mom warned her.

"What?" Camila shrugged. "I'm not going to say."

"Then don't say anything at all," Mom chided her.

"Guys, you're killing me," Tim chortled.

"It's really nothing," I lied.

"Bullshit," Tim said.

"Language," Mom tutted.

"Bologna," Tim said.

"Can we just give him a hint?" Camila asked Mom.

"No!" Mom and I said in unison.

"It's okay, you can just tell me later in secret," Tim whispered loudly to Camila, then winked at Mom and me. Mom sighed at him with irrepressible fondness. I glared.

***

Tim and I sat soberly in front of the EYL title screen. Camila was still in the bathroom. We had yet to break the news to her.

“Hey uh,” he muttered, and then cleared some nervous phlegm out if his throat. “So I thought about whether I should tell you or not, but as your friend I’d feel weird keeping it secret. Look, your sister gave me this.”

He handed me a folded up piece of something or other. I unfolded it. It was a photograph of my sister in a yellow and green swimsuit blowing a raspberry and wiggling her prepubescent butt at the camera. I acted like I had never seen it before. But my surprise and disgust were nevertheless genuine.

“She gave you this?!” I said. I gripped the inescapable photo. I scoffed at it. She must have snuck out into the garage and dug this out of the trash. Then she gave it to this creep just to spite me. That sneaky little…

“Oh, yep, I gave that to him,” Camila said nonchalantly as she reappeared in my room. She was in tight black soccer shorts and an old white logo-covered t-shirt from a fundraising tournament I’d played in several years ago. “What do you care?”

“Tim, she’s not even twelve in this,” I gaped at him.

“D-dude, relax,” he chuckled unconsciously, “I think it was mostly just a joke, right?” He looked somewhat pleadingly to my sister.

She giggled at us. Then she hopped onto my bed and bounced right up behind us. I was seated on the foot of the bed. Tim was in the desk chair, but was otherwise right next to me. We’d always sat like this while gaming.

“What are we waiting for?” she asked. “Let’s play!”

Tim turned slowly, solemnly, squeakily, in the desk chair until he was facing both of us.

I sighed and looked at my sister.

“What?” she asked, concerned.

I gave her the news.

She took it pretty hard.

But then she recovered quickly.

She was twelve.

***

Camila was on the floor, sitting cross-legged with her chin propped up on her hands, and she was watching intently as Tim explained how to prioritize tasks in the early game so as to maximize the number of girls we could bang by the end of the game. I wished she were sitting on the bed with me. But such was Camila’s enthusiasm for both this game and its current player,

“But what if we don’t want to?” Camila asked. “Bang ALL the girls?”

“Pah !” Tim chortled. “You’ll understand when you’re older, kid.”

“Guyyy, tell him! We don’t need to bang all of them. The only one we really care -”

“Hey Mila, I’ve been meaning to ask,” I interrupted. “What the heck possessed you to tell Dad about my stash?”

“Not THE stash,” Tim gasped.

Camila frowned for a second, then shot me an impassive smirk.

“It just kind of came up,” she said.

Tim guffawed. “Cami, please promise me again you’ll marry me someday.”

“I promise!” she sang in the same way she always had. This was their thing. I had come to find it less adorable with age.

I wanted to berate my sister, point out that her fuckery had cost us our sleepover privileges, but I wasn’t about to try and explain to ‘Timtim’ why not being able to sleep together was a crisis for us.

“Timtim, how come you and Gael don’t hang out anymore?”

“Huh?” I shook my head.

“Because,” he snorted. “He’s worried your Mom will leave your Dad for me if I’m around too much, strutting my stuff.”

“That’s disgusting,” Camila giggled. “But for real! Did you guys get in a fight or something? I haven’t seen you in forever, except at Blockbuster.”

“Hey now, I cherish those visits. Those count,” he said.

Camila squinted at him funny. Why wasn’t he answering her?

“It’s not like we had a falling out,” I said. “We just kind of. Like. Grew apart. Right Tim?”

“Yeah,” Tim frowned, and nodded. He wasn’t quite looking at either of us. He was pretending to be absorbed in EYL. Well. Probably not pretending, knowing Tim, but being awkward about it still.

“That’s sad,” Camila said softly.

She was gazing at both of us now. Frowning at the way we weren’t quite ‘us,’ anymore. She hugged her knees and curled her toes into the pile of the carpet. She picked at a little crusty bit of something or other that was stuck onto the fibers of the carpet.

“It is,” Tim said, still looking at the screen, showing us which items secretly made excellent gifts for certain hard-to-please characters. Tomoko adored yuzu-flavored gummies, for instance, which was a piece of invaluable trivia we had somehow never stumbled onto ourselves. “It IS sad,” he continued. “Life is sad. Growing up is sad. Even this is sad,” he smiled, “the three of us hanging in here again like old times, playing games, chumming out. It’s sad as heck.”

“Don’t,” Camila sniffed. “You’re going to make me cry.”

“What’s wrong with that?” Tim asked. “I cry all the time.”

“I just MISS you,” Camila laughed. But her throat was misty and tight. “I don’t know! Don’t you miss how things used to be? How you used to like live here?”

“You’re twelve, Mila,” I said. “You’re too little to be getting nostalgic.”

“I miss you,” Tim confessed, openly choking up. He paused the game and smiled wiggly-browed at her.“That’s. For dang sure.”

Camila laughed up at him, even as she broke down into tears. Tim laughed and cried, too. She crawled off the bed and, asking permission this time, climbed into Tim’s lap for a long hug. Tim set down the controller and held her like a child while they wept. I just sort of laid there and tried not to watch.

***

“Hey, so,” Tim said after a long time had gone by. The daylight was dimming. Camila was sitting beside me on the foot of the bed. I was laying on my stomach, a pillow propped up under my chest so I could watch the game. We were making blazing progress in EYL. Tim peered at us over his shoulder as he sifted through the roster of girls on the heartpoint status screen. “Summer festival. Who are we thinking of taking?”

“We can only pick one?” Camila asked.

“That is correct. It has to count, babe.”

“Ew,” Camila giggled uncomfortably. “Don’t call me babe.”

“I was thinking maybe this time we could … see how Luna’s plotline goes?” I proffered half-heartedly. Obviously, I was a Tomoko man to the core. But I wasn’t about to just tell Tim that.

“Ah, yes. Lovely Luna. You want to see her ‘plotline’ huh?” He gave me a ridiculous wink.

“What?!” Camila slapped me. “No?! We are loyal to Tomochan!”

“HA!” Tim guffawed like he’d been hit in the stomach. He slapped his knee. Then he looked closer at us to see if we were being serious. “Is that right? You guys, uh, spend a lot of quality time at home that first run-through, did ya?”

“She’s just, like, the best option,” Camila shrugged. “Make fun all you want. She’s who we pick.”

“Gael?” Tim raised an eyebrow at me, wondering if he was divining what he thought he was divining from the blood now flooding my facial capillaries. He asked me curiously, almost thirstily, “Tomochan?”

“Sure,” I said stiffly, trying for my best poker face.

Tim raised both eyebrows at me now. He was starting to grin in that dorky way he sometimes did. Ick. “Guyyy?” he snickered.

“Hey,” Camila slapped Gael’s leg. “So what if she’s our little sister! That doesn’t mean she can’t go to a stupid festival!”

“Uh-huh,” Tim was openly delighted with this news.

“Plus she’s smarter than half the other girls anyway! And she’s sweeter, and cuter. And I’ll have you know we were THIS close to getting her to let us -”

“MILA,” I groaned.

“What?! You’re just afraid to admit you wanted to see what happens. You wanted to know if the game would really let us.”

“Let you…?” Tim’s eyes were watering,

“Do stuff with her,” Camila sniffed haughtily.

“Wow,” Tim said. “Wow!” Tim guffawed. “Hoo doggy!” He slapped both knees and whistled. He spun around in a circle in my desk chair making a cartoon siren noise. Then he stopped and grinned wildly at us. “You guys! Have I told you? Yet today? That I LOVE you? I do. I love you both. I CHERISH you. Truly, you fill me with joy.”

“What?” Camila smiled, looking hopeful, but wary of being teased.

“I mean. I don’t want to spoil anything,” he chuckled, “but suffice to say, we may have … similar, and I dare say rarified, taste in women.”

“Girls, you mean,” Camila cracked herself up.

“I mean,” Tim shrugged demurely, but then winked unabashedly at me. “If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, right?”

“Beat who?” I grimaced. “Pedophiles?”

“N-NO, h-hey that’s -. No! Hey now. Come on,” Tim flailed about with his hands, his gesticulation trying to create the illusion of casual dismissal, amelioration, but instead communicating that he was discomfited and embarrassed.

“Whatever, man,” I rolled my eyes. “You can ‘join em’ all you want.”

“Pfft. Look who’s talking,” Camila scoffed at me.

“Wha?” I blinked.

Tim blinked too.

“You know what I mean,” she squinted at me.

“Uh. No I don’t?”

Just how far was she willing to go to embarrass me in front of old Tim? Surely not THAT far? Right? Gosh, was this the inevitable horror of dating someone so juvenile? I lived or died only at the whim of a just-pubescent thinking apparatus?

"Guys, it's uh. It’s fine. I think we’re all good.”

“We all like Tomochan,” Camila asserted.

They both looked to me.

“Sure,” I shrugged, and buried the grimacing half of my face in my pillow.

“Listen!” Tim chortled. “I’ll just be upfront about it. Tomochan’s hot. I’ve beaten this game to completion no fewer than seven times, and five of those times? I took Tomo to the Summer Festival. And do you know why?"

"Because you wanted to have sex with a twelve year old in a kimono?" I said.

"Yukata,” he corrected. “And no. I take her to the festival because if I don’t, I, Tim, feel genuinely sick to my stomach with remorse.”

“Because she is. THE best. Option," Camila said, pounding her fist like a gavel on her thigh.

"Darn right she is!" Tim high-fived her. “Wh-whoa - !!”

Camila had hopped once again into Tim's lap to give him a hug and a flurry of smooches. I watched her butt like the jealous creep I was. I needed to make sure she wasn’t trying to ‘tickle’ him while she was at it.

I'll admit, this dynamic was starting to make me feel a little heat in my sinuses. I didn't like the look of her on him like that. I didn't like the color in his cheeks whenever she surprised him liked that. I didn't like the way that awkward tension in his thighs relaxed after she'd sat there a moment and let him adjust to the brute fact of her slight but impeccable frame. I didn't like how my whole bedroom stank of his feet. It smelled like if they made Salt & Vinegar Doritos.

I decided to crack the window.

"Uh, Guy?" Tim chuckled. "It's twelve degrees out there, my man."

My sister was just SITTING in his lap right now. She was seated across his thighs, just kind of leaning on him, watching him ace dialog after dialog with every girl he encountered (whose simulated schedules he had, as it turned out, very completely memorized). He wasn't touching her really, except one of his hands holding the controller was resting on her bare thigh. Nothing terribly salacious. But I knew him well enough to know he was probably vividly aware of the skin-to-skin deliciousness.

"Gross," I muttered out loud.

"What was that?" Tim glanced at me, a little frown on his face.

"Um. I said, 'It smells gross.' Th-that's why I cracked the window." I shivered and pointed at the open window behind me, at the invisible but razor sharp cold rapidly overtaking my bed. "Just f-for a little. Just until it airs out."

"Oh. Kay. Um? Do you ... want me to ... go wash my feet?"

"'Go wash your feet?' God, no. You're so fucking weird," I sighed.

"Okay what's up, man?" he said a little hotly. He paused the game, hoisted my sister out of his lap, and spun in the chair to face me. "I feel like you need to say something. I'd rather you just say it. Is there something you need to say?"

"Your feet. Stink."

"My feet ain't the only thing what stinks in here right now," Tim scowled.

"Guys, stop," Camila spoke up. "Don't be like this."

"Why are you HERE?" I finally blurted. "We don't hang OUT anymore. You just barge in at like 8 in the goddamn morning, unzip you're fucking coat, and sit down like you're waiting for me to get up and fucking PLAY with you?! You tap dance for my family, but turn around tell me you want to fuck my mom?! You brag about having a photo of my sister's ASS?! She got that out of the trash, by the way. That was outside, in the trash. Not that you'd care, you disgusting creep.

"And yet you BRAG. You BRAG about how many times you've banged a cartoon child. Okay. Sure. My sister and I were curious what might happen if we tried pursuing Tomoko. But you KNEW exactly what would happen. And still you did it over and over again!

"But worst of all, Tim. Timmmm. Timtim. Your feet.

"Your feet. Fucking. Reek. They reeked ten years ago, and they reek to this very day. What do you do to your feet? Why do they smell like that? You have had all these years to figure out how to fucking have normal-ass feet like the rest of us, and instead you have played this 100-hour game seven times. Seven hundred hours, TIMMY, that you could have spent learning to how to cure swamp foot instead. Or toe fungus. Or whatever the fuck you have."

Tim was frowning at me. His nose was twitching. His lip quivered right as he was about to speak.

"H-how do you know she got it out of the trash?"

I scoffed at him. I glared at him. I ... realized I probably shouldn't have mentioned the trash thing.

"Well, uh - " I spluttered.

"Because he's the one who threw it away," Camila said. She was staring daggers at me. Uh-oh. "It was his before. I mean, he'd stolen it. And kept it in secret."

"Heh," Tim chortled by accident. He looked at me. Then he blinked at her. "Wait, what?"

"That photo. In your hand," she said, even quickly sticking out her tongue and doing the face. "He used it as a bookmark in his porn mags."

"You kept it ... in the stash?" Tim looked at me like I had sprouted an erect penis on my face. Like I was some kind of boy whose penis nose got bigger and harder the more he lied.

"Yeah, s-so?" I shrugged. "So what? Big deal. Who cares. It's a stupid picture."

"Tell you guys what," Tim grinned. He clapped his hands on his thighs. He stood up. "I'm going to go."

"What? NO!" Camila yelped, and she bounced off the bed to get between him and the door.

Tim stayed standing before me, momentarily friend enough to politely ignore the preteen beauty clutching at his wrist and begging him to stay. "You may keep this," he said, and dropped the photo in my lap. "And I will keep this," he pointed to his head, to his memory banks, "locked up tight. Forever. Okay? No worries here," he smiled, and held his hand out for a handshake. Tim was a handshake kind of guy. I tried to simply take his hand. He declined. "Nah, come on. Stand up. Shake my hand."

I stood up.

I shook Tim's hand.

"I'm sorry about my feet," he said sagely.

I nodded at him.

He released me from the handshake.

He looked to my sister next.

"Cami, you just keep growing and growing. You're taller, smarter, and hotter than ever. And it's just going to get worse, isn't it? Some guy is BOUND to sweep you off your feet before you're old enough to marry me. But ... you did promise, right?"

"I promise," she sobbed quietly.

"Neat," he smiled sadly. "Good. Well. I'll see you guys at the store, I guess."

"Hey, man," I said drily. I'd lost something. Some feeling had gone out of me. I felt awful now.

"Yeah?"

"I'm. Um. Hey," I said, and I went over and hugged him. He hugged me back. He clapped me hard on the back. I got a lump in my throat. "S-sorry," I half-tried to say. But that didn’t wind up working. You could say I choked.

Instead of apologizing, I watched him leave. I watched my weepy sister scowl at me and then trail after him. I sat there alone in my smelly, ice-cold room, shivering and frowning and wishing I could go back in time.

Before he departed, he received his thousand and one goodbyes from my sister and mother. He promised Mom he could find his way home in the dark. He was a big boy. She laughed and cried and watched him leave like he was going away to die in a war.

Camila came back into my room a little while later. She was quiet about closing my door, climbing into the desk chair, and curling up on it facing away from me. So I couldn’t see her as she glared at the TV screen. I had put Silent Hill back in.

“This isn’t EYL,” she grumbled.

“Nope,” I said.

A few angry minutes of silence elapsed.

"I miss Tim," Camila said. All of a sudden she was tearing up.

"You can go get him," I shrugged. "He lives four houses down. Blue door. White trim. Probably hasn't even made it home yet."

"No, I just mean! Like. In GENERAL. I miss him."

"He has the hots for you, Sis."

"So?" she scoffed. "So do you."

"But it’s Tim"

"I think it's cute. He's nice to me. And funny."

"You sure sat on him a lot tonight."

"Yeah?” She dropped one long tan leg to the carpet and spun herself in the chair so she could smirk at me. “So what?”

"So?” I frowned at her. “And you gave him your photo."

Camila's smirk faltered a little. There was the photo, on my bed, right next to me. God, she looked great in it. But that wasn't pertinent in this particular moment. She frowned at me.

"How could you throw it away?" she asked.

"I told you already. It was a hazard. I never should have kept it like that in the first place.”

"Yeah but," she faltered. She was trying not to cry again. She’d told me before that too much crying made her feel lonely. "You loved that picture."

Her eyelids were pink and puffy. Her lip was trembling. Her butt, half hidden behind her feet, was adorable.

"Oh?” I said, as if her need to feel loved and her concern for our relationship had only just dawned on me. In truth, I guess it only just had. How could I have forgotten? Oof. Ooh, okay, yeah, that hurt. Yep. I was an asshole.

"Aw," she sad-laughed.

Because I had broken down just like that. Skipped right past tearing up, straight to weeping. Not uncontrollable weeping, exactly, but that struggled with certain instructions like 'stop' and 'go away.' And she was right, I did feel lonelier as I cried in front of her. I felt like a big, unlovable buttwad.

Camila grabbed onto me and pulled herself by my shoulders closer to the bed. The desk chair wheels creaked over the carpet. She then put her small, cool hand to the middle of my back like a concert pianist greeting their instrument. "Can I tickle your back?" she asked.

I nodded and said thank you. She climbed up onto me like a piece of playground equipment, crawled down the length of my back, and then parted and parked herself between my legs. She gave the bottom of my shirt a tug-tug. I lifted it up and off with her help, tricky to do on my stomach. I felt eight fingernails draw eight long, fond stripes down my bare skin. As they reached my waistband, the cool promise of what these fingers were capable of made me shiver.

"He gave us the photo back," she smiled.

"I can't believe you gave it to him," I sighed.

"What? I knew he'd appreciate it."

"Cam, you REALLY can't ... I mean, you HAVE to realize that you and I are ... w-well ..."

"What?"

"Well. What ARE we, in your view?" I posed the question to her like a philosopher to a philosopher,

"You're asking ME?" She chewed her lip and snickered. She thought for a bit. Her fingers scratched zig-zags all over my dry itchy shoulder blades, first gently, to awaken the itch, and then vigorously, to scratch the itch. "What do you even mean?" she finally gave up.

"I don't know. Whatever you think I mean."

"Are you mad at me or something?" She stopped touching me for a moment.

I turned. I looked at her. I felt cold and analytical and weird. She looked warm and soft and sisterly. I smiled feebly. She didn’t quite smile back, though her face did change. She looked confused and then, after a beat, concerned.

"Guy? What’s wrong?”

"I said some really shitty stuff," I said as a wave of emotional nausea broke through my gut. “To Tim.”

"Yeah," she said quietly. "You were really, really awful to him.”

"I need to call him. I need to apologize."

"Or we could go over to his house."

"W-We?"

"Come on. I haven't been in years. I want to see his dogs.” She slapped my bare back. "Put your shirt on. Let's go. You need to apologize.”

I coldly, unconfidently got back into my clothes while Camila disappeared to go put on warmer clothes. In the time it took me to quit grimacing at myself in my TV screen reflection and just put my dang shirt on, she was already back in my room, telling me to hurry.

Once we’d dressed, I let Camila scamper ahead of me down the hallway, dragging me by an invisible leash, down the stairs and into the mud room. We donned our winter wear. I hollered to Mom that we were going over to Tim's.

"Oh?!" Mom called back, delighted. "Feel free to bring him back here! He's welcome to spend the night!"

"No, he's not!" Camila interjected. "No more sleepovers, remember? And either way…” Camila kept muttering complaints while she focused on cramming her feet into her stylishly snug galoshes.

“Oh phooey to that,” Mom said, appearing now in the mudroom doorway. “Dad was just in a bad mood when he said that. I don’t think he meant it.”

“But he pointed right at me and said, ‘I don’t like it,’” I reminded her.

“Did he mention it to you today? During your guy talk?”

“Uhmm.” Shit. He hadn’t. I had. “No, but I did.”

“Well, ya shot yourself in the foot on that one,” Mom smirked. “He probably would’ve forgotten if you’d have let him.”

Camila scoffed. But I was heartened to hear this

“Wait. For real? D-does that mean you think Mila and I can - ” hump each other to exhaustion in my bed, “ - actually keep trying to finish our game?”

“No promises. But. Did you happen to do that favor like Dad asked?” Mom glanced questioningly from me to my little sister, who was cursing at her left boot. I blushed and shook my head uncomfortably. Mom crooked an eyebrow. “Well. Do that. And maybe we can change your father’s mind.”

“Plus, his feet are way too stinky!" Camila was still rambling on about Tim. She winked at me. She tried to wink, anyway. She was terrible at it. “So no. Tim will not be coming back with us.”

"Oh?" Mom said, appearing sorry. "Well I suppose that's a dealbreaker. Lord knows all of OUR feet smell like fresh flowers. We can’t be associating ourselves with - ”

"It's actually awful, Mom,” I interrupted in the affirmative. "But still, I get he can’t help it. I said some stuff I wish I hadn't. That’s why I need to go over there and apologize."

Mom absorbed this, computed it, and nodded at me. She approved of my reason for walking out into the cold after dark with little forewarning. "And Camila, you're helping your brother in this endeavor?"

"I want to go see Pepsi and Coke.”

"Aww, honey," Mom giggled. "Give them some extra special pets from me, too, won't you? Those old girls must be older than me by now."

"We're going now, Mommmm, byyyye," Camila sang as she opened the door into the garage and waved her hand at me to get my butt moving.

We clomped quietly through the garage in our boots and coats and hats and gloves/mittens and scarves. We clicked a glowing button on the wall The garage door rumbled opened for us. Then we clicked the button again and ducked out as it began to close again.

We each had to step over a motion detector at our ankles. We both succeeded in clearing the sensor. Weirdly enough, this made me proud. Camila had always been the one to trip it when we were growing up. Like, every single time. But now I saw. She truly wasn't a kid anymore. I sighed fond steam into my scarf as we stepped into cold night air. She had worn her fleece-lined leggings and was clopping through the snow ahead of me, where I could appreciate just how beautifully she had matured.

"Hey," I called to her. We were working our way along our neighbors' unshoveled stretch of roadside sidewalk. My voice was muffled by wool, and by the snow falling through these quiet breezes separating us. Our footsteps' crunches fell into sync. It did kind of fell like walking on the moon.

“Hey,” I said again.

"What," she said, and turned to glance at me. She had to turn her whole upper body, like Michael Keaton's Batman, to look at me. Her nose was already starting to pinken with cold.

"I like your butt," I said.

"Cool," she rolled her eyes. But her pink nose turned bright red. She turned back around kept walking.

The big brother in me understood this to be a challenge, and so I tackled her from behind into the thick snow off to the side of the sidewalk. We landed with a thick, soft, series of crunches as the untrodden blanket of snow softened our landing and subsequent wrestling match. She hooted with muffled laughter. I roared. Plumes of giggly breath arose from us into the snowy branches overhead. I didn’t worry about being seen. Our neighbors all knew us. Liked us. Would not bat an eye to see Gael and Camila rolling around and hollering in the snow. Sixteen and twelve was still young enough.

"Guy. You're. Crushing me!" Camila wheezed with dizzy, sub-oxygenated delight, and fought me only hard enough to let me know that I'd won. She was laughing. And I was, too.

"You're. Too. Fucking. Cute," I breathed at her.

"I am not.”

"Too cute. You need to cut it out," I grumbled, bit her neck through her scarf, and humped her right there in broad moonlight. Her leggings were incredible to hump. I could feel her warm, hungry girl-shapes wrapped tightly inside.

"Okayyy, let's go see Tim," she said quietly, and shoved me off of her. I rolled onto my back, my arms and legs spread wide. "The sooner you apologize, the sooner we can get back to ... our game." She looked at me as she said 'our game' to make sure we both knew what she meant. She was trying to act less flustered than she was.

I sighed plumefully, dragonlike, and finally nodded at her. She offered to help me up, then withdrew her hand distrustfully. She made me swear I wasn't about to pull her down onto the ground with me. I swore. She gave me her hand. I pulled her down, screaming, into my big puffy arms. She screamed with giddy frustration. I laughed. We only rolled around like that for a second before she kicked me and punched me and demanded she be let go. It was not fun for her. She was not having fun.

"Sorry," I said.

"It’s fine," she said, marching behind me now. I turned to look at her. “You stay in front,” she ordered. “I don’t trust you behind me anymore.”

We clomped up Tim’s sloped, snowy lawn and onto his partly shoveled porch. We rang the old, dim, weather-worn doorbell button. From inside the house a warm nostalgic bell-carol tolled. A minute later, Tim's little brother Pat opened the inside door with the wreathe on it, but not the glass one we were locked outside of.

"TIM," Pat shouted as soon as he recognized us. He disappeared again.

"Wow," Camila whispered. "So HE’S still the worst."

"Naw," I whispered, shaking my head. "I’m sure he missed us in his way.”

Camila squinted at me.

"As I live and breathe," Tim chuckled, suddenly appearing at the door like a ninja in his stinky, stealthy socks. He cracked it open for us. “Hey,” he said.

“Hi,” Camila smiled.

"So, I’ll take one box of tagalongs, two boxes of thin mints, one box of those lemon sandwich cookies, whatever those are called…”

“Eww, stop! I’m not a girl scout!” Camila giggled.

Tim shrugged and let us in,

"So what the heck's up, guys? To what do I owe the ... pleasure?" Tim studied my face as he asked this. "Shall we head back to my room?" he offered.

"Where's the DOGS?" Camila asked as she handed her coat over to Tim. Tim took mine as well. We tugged our boots off, and left them with our hats snd scarves and hand-wear.

"Pepsi and Coke are probably asleep. You could check the back room. You remember where that is?"

"Of COURSE!" Camila squealed and scampered off in her socks and leggings through Tim's family's kitchen, and found the musty, smelly, enclosed back porch that housed their dogs' crates and beds.

"Hey man," Tim said to me again, and gave me another curious look. “Come on," he said.

I could have followed him blindfolded. I knew it all so well. The little stairs up and down from the entryway to the living room, and then from the living room into the cozy little hallway. The family pictures on the walls. The brown carpet. The smell, my god, the smell of Tim's house: like too-floral laundry detergent, dog, and cigarette smoke. It was an olfactory time warp, following him back to his room.

His room had changed. The posters were different. The bed was rotated ninety degrees, and might have been an all-new bed. The desk was new, too, and nice. And holy crap, his computer. He'd sunk every cent he'd ever made at Blockbuster into that rig. He'd told me all about it on multiple Blockbuster visits. With it, he could play any PC game that came out. And to my knowledge, he did.

Tim's door closed behind me. The noise made me jump. "So," Tim said. "You were acting like a real dick tonight."

"I know. Sorry."

"Yeah, you are sorry," he scoffed. "I'm a cool dude. You treat me like one, okay? No more of that. Whatever that was."

"You're not 'cool,'" I scoffed right back. "You're the dorkiest dork I've ever known."

"Thank you," he nodded.

"But you're right that I should've treated you better."

Tim stood there and looked at me. He looked at me like he was contemplating his dialog choices. He rubbed his nose and sniffled. He made up his mind about something. "Okay," he said.

"Okay," I echoed, confused, but trying to see if it made more sense if I said 'okay,' too. It didn't.

"You're forgiven," he nodded, and put his hand on my shoulder. He squeezed me. "We're cool. Cool?"

I nodded. I could feel my eyebrows sort of ... emoting or something? They were squirming around up there, feeling things about what Tim was saying. Tim had a way of making me feel vulnerable while still detached from my emotions. It was as if we were always practicing trying to be mature around each other. Men, not boys. Good men, sensitive men. But also just men. He was not better at it than I was yet, but we were both better around each other than either of us was apart.

"So," he sighed, plopping down into his desk chair. He gestured for me to sit if I wanted to. The seat he was pointing to was his stinky bed. It had stunk when he was a kid. Now that he was post-pubescent, it was positively biohazardous. I politely declined. Shruggingly reminded him I was just here to apologize.

"That's ... actually pretty cool of you, dude," he conceded.

Tim cleared his throat loudly and phlegmatically. He glanced at me. Then he attempted to resume talking as if he'd scarcely even paused. "Y-yeah. I appreciate you coming over. I mean heck. We would have been cool, regardless, but this just makes us cooler, I guess? That you did. Swing by."

He trailed off.

"R-right," I swallowed.

"So um,” he smirked. “Just between us guys?”

“What?” I cocked an eyebrow at him.

“I swear I’ll never tell a soul,” Tim spoke quietly, leaning forward in his desk chair. “But for the record, were you jerking it to that photo?”

“Geez, Tim,” I groaned. “Come on. Let’s just forget I even brought it up.”

“You didn’t,” he smirked. “Camila did. You tried to hide it. But brother,” he saluted me, a gesture I’d always found obnoxious but endearing, “you are in good company, okay? Do you copy?”

“Mm, no?"

He chuckled and sat back. But he still had his serious face on. “I’m telling you to relax about it, man. As far as I can tell, you’re the one making it weird. Not her.”

“Not you?” I deflected.

“I don’t make weird,” he said stoically. “I am weird.”

“Tim, you don’t know why I had that photo, and you don’t need to know. It’s none if your business. Quit reading into it.”

“Okay, man,” he sighed. He threw up his hands in defeat. “Okay.”

I stared hard at him, praying inwardly that he was really truly done.

“But just so we’re clear, your sister has an incredible butt. I know she’s twelve. Whatever. We’re not THAT much older. And her butt is objectively great. Regardless of age.”

“Dude. Stop.”

“Actually, I like it. Keep going,” Camila jeered from the doorway. But a split second later she burst out laughing. Tim welcomed her into the room. “Ick, no thanks, it smells in here,” she laughed with mock cruelty.

“Aw, when are you guys going to lay off my BO, huh? I stink. I get it.”

“The dogs’ room smells better than in here,” Camila teased still further.

“Cami. For you, I will try once and for all to overcome my fear of smelling good,” Tim joked back. "Please, would you teach me how to bathe? I promise to get completely naked for you."

"EWWW!" Camila cackled and came tumbling into the room like a puppy, and Tim and I each caught one of her arms and swung her around a couple times before letting her drop to the ground, giggling and out of breath on her back.

Tim and I gazed down at her. She gazed up at us.

“Let’s pee on her,” Tim said.

“No-ho!” Camila shrieked with laughter. She started slapping at us.

“Good idea,” I nodded. I began to toy with my fly.

“Stawwwp!” she whimpered and kicked at our junk with her socked feet. She was dying with laughter. “You’re going to make ME pee!”

“Sounds like a party,” Tim grunted and pantomimed unreeling an immense firehose of a cock from out of his pants. He lowered the imaginary nozzle at her. And then he let rip. “PSSSSH.”

“PSSSSH,” I joined him.

"Nooooo," Camila gasped, and suddenly she really was peeing herself.

"Oh. Shit," I whispered.

"H-holy shit," Tim stammered.

"Help," Camila breathed, her eyes wide, and then her face cringed. Her legs curled up and her knees shook and her toes twitched. "A-ahhh," she moaned and shivered.

"What the hell, Cami," I whispered.

"Is she having an orgasm?" Tim whispered.

"I'm. Peeing." She sobbed. She wept. She rolled over onto her side, mortified. And still peeing. It soaked through her fleece-lined spandex and leaked a little onto the carpet.

"Holy fuck," Tim hissed.

"Stop staring at her," I said, and grabbed his arm to pull him out of the room. He pulled back.

"What? It's MY room! She's peeing on MY carpet!"

"She's embarrassed," I snapped at him.

"SORRY," Camila whimpered. "S-sorry, Tim."

"D-don't worry about it," he stammered, and then looked at me. He gave me Groucho Marx eyebrows. I gave him the dirtiest look I could, and then I went in and helped Camila up.

"It's fine," Tim grumbled, "I'm not looking," he waved a hand at us as he opened a few drawers in his dresser. He tossed a pair of pajama pants onto his bed. "Tie these on tight, and they might fit you. Otherwise you might just be out of luck."

To be clear, Tim didn't have any sisters, or even a mother, living with him. There were no smaller, daintier clothes we might muster up. My sister had chosen a sorry place to wet herself. Funny thing was, though, it wasn't the first time this had ever happened to her. She had kind of a peculiar habit of wetting herself here.

I chose not to read it into it.

"Ugh," she sobbed, blew her nose in a tissue Tim had handed her, and groaned again in girlish agony. "I stiiink."

"Here," Tim said, and offered her the bathroom - Tim had always had his own tiny three quarter bathroom - and she trudged in holding the clean pajama bottoms. "You can shower off in here."

"Does this door actually lock?" she asked.

"Uh, yeah, no. It doesn't. Can you trust us not to barge in on you?"

"Gross," she said. She shut the door on us.

Tim and I stared at the closed door.

"Wanna play some video games?" Tim suggested, and we both sort of shrugged, and then shuffled toward the couch, where Tim had his TV and Playstation.

"I'm glad you kept this couch," I said. "It's like sitting on a memory."

"Old Bessie here? She's practically family," he said, giving her a loving pat on the armrest.

"Hey um," Camila poked her head out of the bathroom. "Do you have like a bag or something I can have?"

"For your, uh," Tim gulped, "right. Yes. Just a sec." Then he promptly stood to fetch her something from his closet.

Camila ducked back into the bathroom and shut the door.

Tim grabbed an old backpack from off of a high shelf. It was one I recognized from way back.

"That one?" I said. "Really?"

"It'll work," he shrugged at me. "Right?"

"Do you expect us to wash the backpack for you afterwards?"

"Uh, sure," he snorted. "Or throw it away if you want. I don't care, buddy. I don't need it back."

He knocked at the bathroom door. It cracked open. He tried to hand the backpack in to Camila, but he had to convince her, too, that it was a suitable container for soiled laundry. She finally took it and thanked him begrudgingly before shutting the door again. She stepped back out a minute later wearing the backpack, the oversized pajama bottoms, and a frown most dire.

"I feel disgusting. Can we go?" she asked succinctly.

"S-sure," I said, got up.

Tim and I hadn't even gotten around to booting up his Playstation. I mumbled a quick apology. He nodded his understanding.

"Go take care of your girl," he said. He shooed me off, and winked at me. This fucking guy.

"I got it on your floor, too, by the way," she pointed out. "Um. Just so you know."

"Yeah, uh. Right," Tim turned and peered over the back of his couch at the small wet spot soaked into the brown carpet. "I can get that. My dogs pee in here all the time."

"Thanks again," she said tersely but sincerely, then exited his room without waiting for me.

"I'll, uh, catch you later?" I said to Tim.

"Yeah. Sure. Later," he nodded.

The walk home was a somber one, but a hasty one. I felt bad for her. The oversized pajama bottoms she had on were nice enough for lounging, but woefully inadequate for the winter night.

"Ohmygoshohmygoshohmygosh," she whimpered as we trodded quickly, eyes to the sidewalk, tracing our own tracks and Tim's back home in the snow. The wind whipped the fabric of her bottoms.

"You're doing great, Mimi. We'll be there soon," I reassured her.

"What are w-we even g-g-going to do tonight?" she shivered. "We can't s-sleep over anymore."

"Shoot," I grumbled. “I forgot?”

"How could you FORGET?"

"Sorry. Maybe we can talk to Dad."

We traipsed up the driveway, already thick with snow again.

***

Mom was curled up with a book on the sofa in the family room when we got home. She asked us how it went before she realized that her daughter was now dressed in boy’s pajama pants. Camila shivered fiercely.

"I peed," she frowned, and held out Tim's backpack. "Can you wash this?"

"Isn't that Timmy's schoolbag?" Mom said.

"Where is Dad?" I asked as casually as I could.

"In bed," she sighed, getting up and taking the backpack from Camila. "If you want to beg for clemency, you should hurry on up there. He might still be up."

We scrambled up the stairs, me on all fours, Camila trailing behind as she had to hold up her loose-fitting bottoms. I could see the light on underneath the crack of the crack of the door, so I knocked. We had just two more non-school nights left of break. Two precious opportunities to have brother-sister, boyfriend-girlfriend sleepovers. We had no choice but to face Dad and beg for 'clemency.' Which I was pretty sure meant 'mercy' or something.

"What is it?" he looked at us over the top of his book. He took off his reading glasses.

"D-Dad," I stammered. The heat of his gaze. The iciness of his voice. It had thrown me off balance.

"Daddy," Camila weaved around me into the room. "Can I pleeeease sleepover with Gael tonight? We were super well behaved all day. And we just want to play our gaaame."

Dad sighed curtly. He worked the muscles of his jaw. He looked us over, carefully.

"Whose pants are those?" he asked Camila pointedly.

"Tim's," Camila blushed. "I um. I had an accident. While we were over there."

"An accident, huh," Dad said, turning the story over, testing its weight.

"I wet myself, okay? It was gross and embarrassing. Whatever. Can we move past it, please?"

"You guys want to keep bunking together," he said. "You want to keep playing your sexual video game. Tell me, are you planning on sneaking another peek at Guy's private reading material?"

"NO, Daddy!" Camila blushed, groaned, and stomped her foot all at once. "I'm DONE looking at his gross magazines. It's all just naked girls anyway. I swear all we want to do is play our game."

"Uh-huh," Dad narrowed his eyes at me now. "And you. Did you do what I asked?"

"N-not yet," I gulped.

"Mm," Dad set his jaw. He shook his head slowly at me. He picked his book back up and donned his reading glasses. With the book back in his face he said, with practiced indifference, "Go do what I said. And then you can have your sleepover."

"Daddy, YAY!" Camila giggled and jumped up and down in place. He ignored her like a Dad who knew he'd just made his kid's night. As she hopped and squealed, Camila's oversized pants started to fall.

"C-Cam," I muttered.

She caught them at the last second, just as her slim bare hips had begun to wiggle into view. Thankfully, Dad hadn't seen. The twelve year old wasn't wearing any underwear, and I'm pretty sure what he'd just said had turned her ALL the way on. She turned to beam at me, her face radiant with precocious lust. Then she frowned like I was being an idiot, just standing there.

"So go do your stupid favor!" she laughed, shoving me playfully out the door, back onto the top floor landing. "So. We. Can. Play!"

Dad peered up at us over the top of his book. I saw the twinkle in his eye. I swallowed nervously as I shut the door behind us.

"Hey," he called to me.

I reopened the door.

"Heard you walked through the snow and ice just so you could apologize to your friend."

"Y-yeah," I mumbled.

"Good man," he smiled at me. "I like that."

"Y-yeah, uh," I said as coolly as I could as my bubbling, frothing little horn-ball of a sister yanked at my shirt. "Thanks."

I shut the door again.

"So. Uh. I actually need you to come with me for this one."

"What?" she blinked. "Why? Where?"

"To the basement," I said, sighing as I led us back downstairs to the main floor.

"Do I have to help? Am I going to hate this?" she whined, following behind me.

"Well. Let me put it this way..."

"G'night, kids," Mom yawned as she passed by on her way up the stairs. "I'm headed bed. Oh, hey, did Dad let you two off the hook?"

"Yep!" Camila said proudly. "I convinced him."

"Big surprise," Mom smiled. Then she gazed up at me. "And I take it you are doing the favor he asked?"

"R-right. It was the, uh, terms of the agreement," I shrugged uncomfortably. Gosh, this was SO weird.

"Good," Mom yawned again. Then she waved us past her down the stairs. "Go on then. Try not to be up too late."

"Does everyone but me know what's going on?" Camila groaned.

"Gael is performing a special task just for big brothers," Mom smirked sleepily. "Just don't give him any trouble, now, okay? I'm sure he has a lot to teach you."

"And what is THAT supposed to mean?"

"Geez, okay, enough," I blushed, rubbing at my neck. "Just go to bed, Mom. I'll take care of her."

"Take care of me HOW?" Camila begged. She hammered frustratedly on my back. "Take care of WHAT?"

"Just come on," I soldiered on ahead. But now that Mom had gone upstairs, and Dad was in bed, and it was just Cami and I making our way down into the basement, the nervousness that had been keeping my erection in check finally melted away. I had the sudden urge to grab Camila. Maybe kiss her. Maybe see how her butt felt through Tim's pajama bottoms. No underwear? Yup. I could be into that.

"Guy," she whispered as we tip-toed down the basement steps. "Let's hurry, okay? I want to go back upstairs and cuddle."

"Sure," I laughed quietly. I didn't know why we were being quiet. We had permission to be doing what we were doing.

"Can you tell me what we're doing?" she whispered as we made our way into Dad's office.

I shut the door behind us and directed her to sit in the folding chair Dad always kept in here for when one of us wanted to sit and watch him play a game or something. Camila knew precisely where and how to set up the chair. I sat down next to her in Dad's old, well-worn desk chair. It groaned exquisitely.

"So," I said, wiggling the mouse and waking up the monitor. "Pay attention. I am going to show you how to use the internet." I clicked the AOL icon on the desktop. The dial-up noise began.

"Ummm," she grin-frowned. "Don't I already know how?"

"No," I said, typing in a URL I knew off the top of my head. "You don't."

A pop-up appeared, demanding to know if we were old enough to enter this site.

"Ohmygosh," Camila gasped, and clutched at my shoulder. She giggled with a hand clasped to her mouth. She shook my shoulder in her grip, making Dad's chair chatter excitedly along with her.

"Are you going to be alright?" I asked.

"I'm just ... so ... HAPPYYY," she whined.

Chapter Text

If anyone asks, Camila and I played on the computer for about an an hour. Then we got bored and went back upstairs to play our game.

But what actually happened was that we lost track of time clicking through page after page of pictures, plundering a web ring of quasi-identical interconnected porn sites. All of them wanted us to pay for full access, but they varied slightly in which images we could view for free. So we combed through all their mostly-similar catalogues, looking not for anything in particular so much as a notion of what each of us was into. It was an exciting moment to be siblings who had just recently come out as in love with each other.

"Gosh, can you imagine if we were still, like, normal brother and sister and Dad was making us do this?" Camila giggled, idly touching herself through Tim’s pajama bottoms. She sat with her feet curled at the edge of her folding chair, left arm wrapped around her shins, eyes open and animated above her knees. Her susie hand was mostly still, cozy and content, in its nest between her thighs, and fidgeted only slightly, cutely, whenever we happened on an image that excited her.

“So I think we’ve determined you like cock,” I chuckled, navigating through yet another set of penis-centric images at her insistence.

“I just can’t believe you walk around with one of these in your pants, like every day, like ALL the time.” She cackled at an image of a brunette teen delicately clutching and licking a tanned, oiled, and waxed ten-incher.

“I don’t, dude,” I grimaced, not touching myself whatsoever (except very covertly, out of my sister’s view, with my left, non-mouse-clicking hand). “That monstrosity looks like it was created in a lab.”

“What’s wrong with it?” she giggled.

“You know when a guy wears too much aftershave? And it like hurts to smell him?”

“Ha, yeah.”

“And it’s always these just like shiny, red-faced, super macho guys who do it?”

“M’yeah?”

“That’s what cocks like this one,” I pointed to the shiny red throbsicle on the screen, “look like to me.”

“Ohhh, okay. So, Mr. Expert. What SHOULD a cock look like then, hm?” she purred at me, and grinned impetuously.

“They can - hey, grin all you want, I’m allowed to have an opinion here - they can look however. I’m not like into them myself. But all I’m saying is I know when a cock looks freaky, or like factory made, and this is one of those. Most of the ones in porn are like this, actually,” I sighed, rubbing my chin a little forlornly.

“Cock-tually,” she chuckled.

“Yeah,” I sighed again. “So. Like I said. We’ve established you like cock. Want to keep looking to see what else suits your style?”

“How about we look at …” she chewed her lip and pretended to think hard, then she grinned at me, “… your cock?”

“Ha. That’s a no from me. Especially after you just spent the last thirty minutes staring at these impossibly huge, muscly-armed cocks? No thanks, little lady.”

“Muscly-armed?” she giggled, and kept giggling, until she was laughing so hard she almost lost her balance in her chair. She grasped my chair arm for balance. She startled a bit. I chuckled. It was cute.

“Let’s keep looking for other kinds of porn you might like. This should be exciting for you. There’s a whole world of sex out there, Mila. What are you curious about, but have never gotten to see?” She grinned at me again. I frowned at her. "That ISN'T in my pants?"

She cackled.

“Camila. I’m serious. Let’s try and find at least one more thing you like.”

“Ohmygosh, FINE,” she snickered. “Ummm.” She blushed and chewed her lip again, and this time really did think hard. Her susie fingers pushed inward, causing her flanel-wrapped labia to bulge out on either side, and she simply held them still like this, applying firm, gentle pressure.

“Oo I wanna see, uh … ” she started to blurt, but when I turned to look at her, she lost her confidence.

“It’s ... okay,” I nodded curiously, and gave her a big brotherly smirk. “I promise, you won’t gross me out.”

“Boyonboy,” she muttered quietly. I almost couldn’t hear over the whining whir of the beleaguered CPU tower. We were making it work past its bedtime.

“Boing-boing?” I asked, repeating what I’d heard.

“Boy. On boy.”

“Ohh!” I laughed. “Boy. On. Boy. Ha!"

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.”

“I did not,” I chuckled. “I said I wouldn't be grossed out.”

“Just show me boy on boy.”

“Um. Right,” I sighed, and made a perfunctory, period-appropriate display of distaste. I was a teenaged boy. Gay porn was antithetical to my self-confidence. But - and I would never ever have admitted this back then - it was not antithetical to my sexual curiosity. “Okay. Whatever. What exactly do you want to see a boy DO on a boy?”

“Ohhh I don’t know,” she sighed bashfully. “Ummm. What can boys do to boys?”

“Oh geez. I don't know either. I’m not exactly an expert on, um...” Why was my boner acting so weird? I was supposed to dislike thinking about this stuff. “I guess they probably suck each other? And um. You know.” I slid my finger into my fist by way of illustration.

“THAT,” she said immediately, even before letting herself succumb to more giggles. “I want to see THAT!"

“Right,” I said, putting on a brave face. “In we go then. Erm. So to speak.” I cleared my throat. I cracked my knuckles like it was time to get serious. And I began guessing at gay porn URLs.

The results came fast and loose. The jungle of 1990s gay porn was wild beyond either of our reckoning, vast uncharted porn territory even for me. It was like discovering the earth had a second hemisphere. It was an exhilarating odyssey, made stressful only by the weird, exogenous self-loathing I felt for what I was willingly doing, that ambient impulse to feel ashamed - not of covertly masturbating to porn with my underage sibling, that I was at peace with; but rather of looking at men have sex, on purpose, without a single naked woman in sight. My boner did not diminish as we toured the gay half of the porn cosmos. It just sort of changed gears. You’re reading this thirty years in the future, where I’m comfortable admitting it.

Camila thrilled with amusement - the preteen’s analog to lust. Her butt squirmed irrepressibly as her susie fingers’ pressure increased, and at the same time began to vacillate, squishing and unsquishing her soft flannel pudendum, and occasionally squiggling and squeezing it too. Her folding chair’s joints squeaked merrily.

"You have a giant boner," she whispered giddily, and gave me a delirious smooch on the cheekbone out of nowhere.

“It’s a normal-sized boner,” I snorted, flattered and embarrassed at the same time.

She grabbed my skull with her cold hands and gave me another big noisy smack on the cheekbone. "I LOVE you," she whined, and then kissed me again, and again, and again. Then she held me, smiling and breathing hard, and just looked at me. We looked at each other. “I wanna see your normal-sized boner,” she said as politely as she could. “Please? I promise I’ll like it.”

“Just to look?” I asked, squinting at her distrustfully.

“Uh-huh. I swear.”

I studied her face. Her whole body was charged with hope and joy and hunger. She had definitely lied to me just now.

“… Why?” I asked, suspicious.

“Gaelll,” she whined, and swiped pleadingly at my shoulder. “Because I’m your girlfriend and I want to see it! Why does there have to be a stupid reason?”

“Do girlfriends and boyfriends your age usually show each other their junk?”

“Some! Yes! Chelsea and Sam. Amy did, with Nick. And so did Katie, I think.”

“These are all SIXTH graders?” I frowned.

“Um. Yes. Well, Nick got held back a year, but he’s in our class now, so yeah.”

“Wild,” I said. I shook my head.

“What? You jealous?” Camila smirked.

“I don’t know,” I laughed. “It’s just. Like. You guys are kids.”

“Yeah, but we know what sex is.”

“Well,” I sighed and tried to snap out of a certain train of thought. “That may be the case. But I’m your older brother. I’m supposed to take care of you.”

“Then take care of me! It’s not like I want you to, like, molest me,” she said uncomfortably. “I just … want to see your penis. I know it’s all hard and stuff. Don’t you, like,” she blushed even as she winced, “want me to see it? And stuff?”

I blinked at her. I frowned. I nodded.

“But - ” I began my immediate defense.

“So then! You admit!” she blushed and pointed aggressively.

“So?” I scoffed lamely.

“SHOW meee!”

“Yeah? And you’ll show me yours?" I dared her.

Camila, who was in fact in sixth grade, had only just reached menarche, and was already blessed with a miniature but otherwise womanly butt, stood up from the folding chair. She pushed it back. She tugged down her oversized pajama bottoms, which were only too happy to fall straight off. She stepped out of them. She did a little plié, bottomless.

“Here,” she said. “I don't care if you see."

Actually, her big sweatshirt hung down to her thighs, so all I could see were her very lovely legs. But I did still appreciate the implied nudity. In fact, my heart was racing faster every second as my body responded to the knowledge that my sister had just exposed herself for my benefit.

She glanced down and saw I couldn’t see. She lifted up her sweatshirt - revealing a powder blue cami underneath - and tucked it under her chin. She held it up out of the way like this while her hands ventured back down to her sex.

Here, for actually probably the millionth time in my life, was my little sister’s pussy. It made me sort of emotional. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed it. My inner big bro felt a subconscious compulsion to draw us a bath. To help her get in the tub. To help her wash her back.

"Whoa," I said.

“Really?” she blushed. Her eyebrows arched upward quizzically as she looked down at the same old vulva she’d seen every day of her life. “I’ve never gotten what all the fuss was about.”

“I - I can’t. C-Camila, you - . You l-look. You look good, dude."

“Like, boobs I get. But this … ?” she frowned, then saw how I was looking at her, and giggled. “You like it, huh?"

“You are. Attractive,” I sputtered, my breath not quite coming in and out. My heart both fluttered and thudded: it thuttered inside me. Like a boulder with wings.

Camila’s late preteen vulva was elegant in its simplicity. Her outer labia were more or less the same color as the rest of her, save for a faint darkening of early, soft-looking pubic hair. Both her clitoral hood and inner labia - protuberant and withdrawn, respectively - were a richer brown, and pinkened from arousal. Her soft, cushy pelvis was sparsely haired, her brand new pubes grown close to the skin in a natural, symmetrical shape resemblant of a 2D pine tree, down to just above her cleft before dwindling back to bald where her pudendum curved under and away between her legs. The remainder of her pelvis was just that much more of her excellent tummy. Her dark innie of a belly button half-hid behind the powder blue hem of her camisole, winking at me any time she swayed her hips or reached up to touch her hair.

“‘Okay, so," Camila huffed in a puffed up impression of me, "I think we’ve clearly established you like susie.'"

She laughed at herself. Then she loosed the bunched up sweatshirt from her chin and let the curtain drop back down over her perofrmance. She laughed smugly at the concomitant drop in my face. She chuckled drily, still channeling me, and prodded me in the shoulder. “'Your turn, MAN.'"

"I used to threaten you with making you look at my junk," I reminded her. "Now you're asking to see it?"

"I don't remember that at all," she shrugged dishonestly. "And anyway, I might have changed my mind how I feel about it," she smirked. "I wouldn't know. I haven't seen how it looks recently."

“Fine. But I’m not standing up,” I said.

“Fine. But I'm not sitting down,” she said.

“And I’m not taking these all the way off. That was your choice. I don't want to get caught with my pants completely off, in case Mom or Dad comes down here."

Camila shrugged at me, tilted her weight onto one leg, and waited with her hands on her hips. The smirk on her face said, ‘I have already won, and I am patiently awaiting my reward.’

“Why are you not putting your bottoms back on?” I asked, stalling for time even as I began to fish my thumbs under my sweatpants’ and my boxers’ waistbands.

“You don't like me with them off?” she grinned.

“Mila. You’re going to get us BOTH grounded."

"But listen," she said. There was no sound anywhere. Just us, the heating vent, and the computer fan. "No one is up but us. We're safe. We can do whateeeever we want." She took a playful little step toward me. I cringed a little. 

“This is Dad’s office,” I reminded her. "Does that not weird you out?"

“He’s not in here. So right now it's OUR office. But. Okay. How about this. I promise I'll put the pants back on IF we hear someone coming.”

The basement stairs were nothing if not vocal.

“Cam...”

“Pleeeease?” she smiled. “Take them off. Take them off. Takethemoff!” She poked at me. She slapped at me. She pushed me and pulled me. “Take. Them. OFF.” She laughed to hide how anxious she was.

"Geez,” I groaned. I caved. I lifted my butt just enough to get my pants and underwear down past my hips, then sat bare butt back down on the warm seat of Dad’s desk chair. I didn't pull them all the way down, though. Just far enough that my pubic hair was starting to curl out from behind the waistbands. My cock and balls were still hidden. I tugged my pants down slowly, shimmying them, revealing only a little bit more of myself at a time. I meant it to be funny, but it thrilled her to death, so I kept doing it.

Camila’s eyes roved frantically from my lap to my face and back again, her big peridot gems twinkling in the monitor light, eagerly absorbing and delectating over every new detail as it emerged. It felt a little silly. This was just my penis. Then I remembered how Camila had just frowned at her own irresistible pussy right in front of me and said she didn't see the appeal. So maybe we just had that in common about ourselves.

Except, again, you may recall that I also kind of wanted to suck my own cock. I had tried before. I had even sort of technically succeeded, if we can use a very flexibly literal definition of "sucking" my cock. Like, I did briefly achieve suction. Hurt the fuck out of my back though. That had really, really smarted. Anyway. Wow. My bottomless kid sister was really, really eye-sucking my cock right now.

I showed her, bit by bit, the engorged, steel-hard length of my shaft. The pubes tapered off, giving way to bare veiny tan skin, and then the slightly puffy tan cuff. I stopped pulling them down juuust as the lip of my glans' corona was about to come into view.

“You sure?” I asked.

She nodded with exasperated emphasis.

I gave my thumbs the go-ahead. The green light. They could keep pulling now.

They hesitated. My cock honked at them from behind. They woke up and zoomed into action. I pushed my sweats and boxers down past my knees.

The boulder in my chest lit from its lazy perch, and in a meandering effort to flutter elsewhere banked and caromed off rib bones and neighboring viscera.

I had pushed my pants down to my knees. I felt as naked as naked could be. My kid sister had seen my penis plenty of times. But the last time they'd met face-to-face, he was still going by "pee-pee" to her. Tonight, he was "cock." Camila, this is my cock. Cock, my little sister, Camila.

My cock popped fully up and out, practically flexing for her. My sister suppressed a giggle. She was glitching out with underage lust. And I sat there, letting her figure out in her own time what it was she liked so much about seeing my cock.

Every time I looked down to try and see what Camila was seeing, I couldn't help noticing what was wrong. My cock bent very slightly to the right, if you were looking straight down at it. It was poorly lit, scruffy with pubes, and extremely noticeably average in contrast to the endless smorgasbord of frankenweiners we had just perused. It probably kind of smelled. I knew I needed a shower.

“It’s so NORMAL-looking,” she smiled humongously.

“Ha,” I said.

“Here,” she said, and held up the hem of her sweatshirt again. “So we both feel awkward.”

My cock jumped, flexed again of its own cro-magnon volition, as if desperate to get not only my sister’s attention but that of her bare, virgin sex again. Her pert brown innie was plumply cleft beneath its tidy little chevron of low-lying pubic hair. Her bony hips, maybe her most advanced pubescent feature, had widened only just enough to promote a fully alluring gap between her still childish thighs. She had in general grown considerably since the last time I'd seen her naked, but I was stunned, moved, by how totally familiar she remained down there. It was just the same old susie. I swooned.

Camila, by contrast, eyed me rather differently. Big brother’s anatomy had grown almost beyond recognition. Sure, there was the still-familiar shape of my glans, and the overall gestalt - proportions of length and girth, how everything hung and twitched in relation to itself - was familiar enough, but there was no reconciling this much beastlier, more menacing, more alluring C-O-K cock with the slippy-slappy wiener of yore. My cock was twice the age it had been the last time she’d seen it, and well over twice the mass. And the hair! The pubic hair. Yikes. I hadn’t planner to expose myself to anyone today. Even Camila. I hadn’t thought things between us would move that fast. They were moving sort of fast, weren't they? For a twelve-year-old, I mean?

For a sixteen-year-old, we were going painfully. Excruciatingly. Lethally. Slow.

She reached for herself slowly now. One finger came close before stopping inside her pubic hair.

“I’m a little hairy too,” she murmured.

"L-listen," I grunted, startling her a little. Camila shook her head, let her shirt fall back down, and blinked at me like she'd just been caught daydreaming in class.

"What?" she smiled serenely.

"As you can see. I am. Like. Horny."

"Oh. Uh-huh," she blushed.

"So. I'm not exactly like. Thinking straight."

"Fun," she giggled. She took a step toward me. "What are you thinking about?"

"P-porn," I lied.

"Nuh-uh," she grinned. "You're thinking about me, aren't you? You wish you had a photo of me like THIS, I bet." She turned on her heels, flipped up the back of her sweatshirt, and spanked her perfectly bare, precociously bubbly twelve-year-old ass at me.

"I have a camera," I joked.

"So DO it," she joked.

We laughed at each other. Then we stopped laughing. Then we looked at each other.

"Do you seriously?" she asked. "Have a camera?"

"Uh," I shuddered with nervous dread. I hadn't meant to bring us to this timeline. But now that we were here, I felt the inescapable pull of possibility. "Yeah. I do. Upstairs. In my desk. From the holidays. It's got like ... maybe 10 photos left?"

"Um," she bit her lip. "We ... can't, right?"

"No," I shook my head, and realized I was sweating profusely all of a sudden. "Definitely can't."

"They like, LOOK at the photos while they're being developed, right? They'd see me naked. We'd get in trouble."

"Right. We can't."

"Right. It was just a joke."

We laughed uncomfortably.

"Were you joking?" she asked.

"Were you?" I asked.

She looked hard at me for a moment. Then she shook her head no.

I gulped.

"What if we just took the pictures for fun?" she suggested.

"But we never got them developed?" I yes-anded.

"We could do you, too!" she giggled, swooning visibly over my rigid, unflagging arousal.

"Well now hang on," I chortled, "I don't think I'm all that photogenic."

"Bull!" she spat, and blew a raspberry at me. "I want a PICTURE."

"Geez. Okay. One picture. We will never develop it, anyway, so I guess it doesn't make a difference. Though I don't know why you'd even want a pretend photograph of this," I shrugged at the hairy, smelly, teenaged penis in my lap.

Camila moved quickly to stand in front of me. She put her warm, bare hands on my hairy thighs. She leaned forward over my lap, her bare hips pressing into my bare knees. She whispered to me.

"I think. Your cock. Is beautiful. Okay?" She kissed me.

Then she grabbed my chin. She frowned at me. She kissed me again.

"Okay?" she demanded.

"Okay," I snorted. And I let her kiss me again.

"Ohgosh," she gasped as muscle memory impelled her to move fully onto my lap - which impulse she and I both barely, clenchingly, suppressed. Indeed, we both realized how badly we wanted her to sit on my lap. I could feel the rush of heat in both our faces as we kissed and kissed and kissed.

"Hang on," I grabbed her shoulders. I held her up. She stood silhouetted by the porn on the monitor behind her. "Do you feel like I successfully taught you how to use the internet tonight?"

"Uh-huh," she panted.

"You're sure? You remember which URL you liked?"

She recited two of them, in fact.

"And downloading? Good idea, bad idea?"

"Bad idea."

"You remember how to erase your history?"

"Yes," she rolled her eyes.

"Show me," I said.

"Like this."

She had to click around a bit. She didn't actually remember how to do it. But she was smart, and motivated, and especially desperate to get back to kissing her horny half-naked older brother, so she figured it out quick. My girl. Granted, she forgot to close out of the window we had open, so I still had to go back in one more time after we'd shut it to delete that site, too.

When we had successfully deleted Dad's computer's entire internet history, she turned back around, lifted up her sweatshirt one more time, and as she flashed her nudity at me in celebration of her newfound mastery of porn she sang, "Tah-dah!"

With a private apology to my slavering cock, I tugged my pants back up fo rnow. I put the computer back to sleep. Camila scooped up her pajama bottoms. I stood at the office door, hand on the knob, waiting for her to put them back on. She informed me she would not be putting them back on tonight.

"We won't. Get. Caught," she promised.

I tried to snort, but I giggled by accident. I couldn't help it.

She cackled at my giggle.

I pinched her bare butt in the dark.

She yelped and ran off ahead of me. I chased her along the vinyl path in the dark, past the little sitting area where Dad liked to read, and upstairs, feeling like the monster in the basement that she and I had fled as children, hearts pounding, eyes wide, on all fours up the stairs toward safety.

She was a dancer. She knew how to be swift without making a sound. She tip-toed ahead of me, through our darkened kitchen and into the hallway. I hung back. I let her disappear out of sight. Then I went around the long way, through our dining and living rooms, to get to the foot of the stairs, where I predicted she would pause and wait for me to catch up. I was right. I caught her standing there, peering into the wrong darkness, completely bare-bottomed except for socks. I snuck up behind her.

I grabbed her bare butt cheek.

She tried to scream, but couldn't. I had already pulled her backwards into me by her mouth and hip. She laughed, then melted, then started whimpering and rubbing her backside on me.

"Alright," I grunted quietly. "This kid is clearly ready for bed."

I scooped her up and tossed her over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes. I carried her up the stairs like that, clutching her naked legs as they kicked, my bare scruffy cheek scratching up against her bare smooth cheek, while she clasped her own hand over her mouth to keep from shrieking with laughter. My footsteps were unavoidably heavy. We probably gave ourselves away. But if anyone stirred, they let us be as we made it to the top floor landing. I set her down up there as soon as it was in reach. Then I needed to sort of collapse on the top few steps for a breather.

While they certainly made for petite bedfellows, twelve-year-old girls were still not the easiest things to just throw over your shoulder and schlep up a flight of stairs - at least if you're like me and your apparent 'fitness' was all metabolism and no exercise. Camila rolled onto her back, curled her legs, and hid her butt from further molestation. She batted her long lashes at me prettily, her beaming happiness bright even in the dark. She snickered as loudly as she dared at my panting, heaving exhaustion.

Lord, and we hadn't even begun the real workout.

***

Chapter Text

In the quiet of the upstairs hallway, as my breathing finally returned to normal, I found myself overcome with a different kind of exhaustion. Not the tired kind, necessarily. But something more like ... an overwhelming feeling of being done. Achievement, completion, salient nothingness, a sense of, 'Oh, I guess I did it.' I didn't want to jinx myself or anything, but this felt like it. The top of the mountain. There, ahead of me, past the half-naked girl on the floor, lay the open door to my bedroom, where momentarily we would be stealing away to take salacious photos, and - provided Tim didn't invite himself over again in the middle of the night - make some naughty, lifelong mistakes as siblings.

My sister, with her tan nudity and sculptured butt and skinny legs and socked feet and powder blue camisole and Camila's face and Cleopatra's hair (no twin tails, no Tomoko), lay on the carpeted floor just outside arms reach. I waved at her. She stuck out a leg, toed at me, and whispered,

"Boop."

"Okay," I muttered quietly, and patted her leg. "I'm getting up." That was the boop rule. She had learned through years of trial and error to use it cutely and judiciously.

I climbed softly up the final few stairs. Here we were. I stood over my little sister with my hands on my hips. She rolled onto her back at my feet, but kept her knees to one side, keeping her girlhood between her legs. She rubbed one small socked along the back of her calf, anxiously, and chewed a piece of her hair that she held in her fingers. Her other hand swum on its fingertips up and down her abdomen. She glanced up at me with her chin to her chest, creating a bunch of funny creases in her neck. Still, she looked super cute.

"Hi," she said, smiling around the hair she was chewing. But presently, she squinted at me. She removed the spit damp tresslet from her lips and pointed at me with it. "Don't you fricking pee on me."

I snorted softly. She giggled softly. I grinned at her. Then I toed her gently on the hamstring and said,

"Boop."

"Okayyy," she exhaled nervously, and nodded. "I'm getting up."

I offered her my hands, and she took them. She kept her knees clamped together as I pulled her up to a stand. Then she gave me a hug around the waist. I could feel her nervous heartbeat. I'm sure she could feel and hear mine, too. I patted her naked butt. It had just a slight sheen of sweat. Hell yeah.

"Before we get in bed," she whispered into my shirt, "I want to take a shower."

"You showered at Tim's, didn't you?" I asked.

"I washed my legs and stuff," she shrugged as she hugged, "but like. I could be cleaner."

"I see," I chuckled. I was nervous, man. Shit. We were just kids.

"Do you? Um," she froze. She stayed like this for a second. Then she peered up at me inside the hug. "Want to shower, too?"

"Oh?" I frowned at her. "Um. Do I smell?"

"You're a little oniony," she said. She smirked at me for just a blink, then went back to looking nervous.

"Good oniony?" I smirked back.

"Hm!" she grunted, and hugged me tight. "Just come shower."

"Okay," I said. I swallowed. I patted her back.

She loosened from our hug, bit her lip at me, and took a big, fast, slightly stressful breath. Then she took my hand and pulled me into the bathroom. I didn't turn the lights on, which in hindsight I could admit was a mistake, but in the moment felt safer. More intimate. Less like two siblings taking a bath. We had been navigating the dark all the way up from the basement, anyhow, so we could see fine for the most part.

"We don't need the light," I whispered.

"Yeah, I know," she agreed, and locked the door. Doors could be locked during showers. "If they knock I'll just say I'm showering," she whispered.

"They're asleep," I reassured her. And me.

"Yeah, but just in case."

"What if they go and look for me in bed?" I asked.

"Um. Then whatever! I'll tell them you went to spend the night at Tim's."

"Hm," I snorted. That worked well enough. I could probably show up at Tim's door unannounced and be alright. Gosh, good thing I patched things up with him today. He had always been a dependable co-conspirator when I needed one.

I sat on the toilet lid. Camila pulled my sweatshirt up over my head. She let me peel off her camisole, but then swiftly covered up her breast buds with her hands. She squeezed herself anxiously, possibly hornily. She nodded at me to take off my shirt. I was way behind. She was already nude except for her socks.

"Won't you?" I offered, trying to give her access to the hem of my shirt, trick her into exposing her hard little nipples to me.

She bit her lip, gripped her tits even tighter, and shook her head no.

"Well phooey," I joked, and took off my own dang shirt. Now I was down to just my sweats, boxers, and socks. Still way behind. But it wouldn't be a long race. I took a deep, steadying breath. The influx of oxygen cleared my head and freaked me out. What the FUCK were we doing? Why weren't the lights on? Why weren't we small children? Where had our innocence gone?

"Oh geez," she giggled. She saw me freaking out.

"Sorry," I blushed. "It's just weird. Being naked. With you. Also naked."

"Yeah," she giggled. "Except you aren't even naked yet. Come on come on."

I stood up and began to step out of my sweats. As I bent forward, Camila grabbed the waistband and peeled them down with me - along with my underwear. It was a dirty trick, but I was in fairness granted a courtesy ogling of her right nipple. It was so dark brown it looked almost navy blue in the moonlight. It pointed conically and slightly off-angle atop her soft brown mound of a breast. She wriggled my boxers down my thighs and around my knees one-handed, snickering at her own horny mischief, as I sighed and gave her zero assistance.

"There we go," she smiled. She stood up and put her hands on my shoulders. I felt her gaze roving over my face and chest. "Look at you," she whispered. "You big, hot dummy."

I felt myself blush. I was a hairy, awkward, average teenager. But she thought I was hot.

"Aw," I chuckled. "Look at you," I responded, and reached down to feel her smooth, hairless, perfectly formed little body. She whimpered a little flute melody of mingled worry and relief. No hands but her own had ever touched her like this. She had never been this exposed to anyone. She was scared. I could feel her knees shivering. Granted, it was cold in here but she was, as ever, toaster-oven warm.

"Mmm," she purred. Trying to let herself feel sexy. Faking it, maybe, but hopeful about making it.

"Yeah," I gulped. I also wasn't quite as confident as I wished I was about this.

I pulled her into my embrace. Our naked bodies pressed together. Our socked feet's toes snuggled. Our arms wrapped around each other's bare torsos. Our sexes pushed against each other, hers to my thigh, mine just to the side of her tummy. I looked down and she looked up. Our faces touched, our eyes closed. She was so soft and smooth. She was warm and strong. Her skin smelled like cinnamon. My skin smelled like onion. We smelled like ... dinner? Shoot, I guess I was hungry.

I kissed her. She opened her mouth, but didn't kiss back right away. Instead, she put her hand on my chest, and pushed me away.

"Shower," she giggled, slightly breathless. She ducked into the shower stall and got the water running. The plumbing creaked. My stomach jumped. She stepped back out, peeled her socks off with the crane-like ease of a dancer, and then waited self-consciously in the shower stall doorway, naked as the day she was born, her one small hand extended into the spray while we waited for it to warm.

Camila stood and stared at the water, but occasionally glanced at me. She scoffed and rolled her eyes if she caught me staring. The game of not getting caught was hypnotizing. Her body had long been beautiful. Clumsy and graceful, delicate and strong, still just visibly a kid's, but curved and edged and sloped now with the lashings of sexual maturity. Where just a few years ago my little sister had looked doll-like and cherubic in a swimsuit, tonight, completely naked, she looked aerodynamic and luxurious. She had Mom’s eyes.

"Caught you again," she scoffed.

"Is it warm yet?"

"Yeah."

"Alright. Are we ... getting in?"

"You might want to take your socks off, dumbutt."

I sighed at myself. I wobbled one-footed to get one sock off, then wobbled other-footed to get the other one off. I kicked open the hamper lid and added them unceremoniously to the top of our freshly shed coverings next to Camila's much smaller, less stinky socks.

When I turned around, she had disappeared into the shower, leaving me alone. I glanced one more time at my boner. If she didn't like it she would have said something by now. So in I went after her.

***

She stood there, chest turned to me, face up, with her hair under the stream of water. It flowed in the moonlight like a waterfall down her shiny black hair. Her hands were up, holding different handfuls of hair under the water, and gently working out tangles. Her eyes were closed and didn't open as I stepped in. I shut the door, stood there with the soles of my feet the only part of me "in" the shower, and exhaled, mystified, at the sight of her. My warm breath was still cooler than the hot shower water rivering across her bare chest. The chill of it made her eyes open, and her soft brown nipples re-harden. She lowered her face only slightly, still having to crane to look up at me properly.

I waved at her.

She grabbed me by my waist and pulled me into the shower with her.

"H-hey," I grunted. She squeezed herself tightly to me. Her slippery wet nudity was - well, it sure was something.

"Ooh-ooh," she cooed like a monkey.

"Hrnmh," I snorted.

"Put your hands on me," she said into my ear.

"Where do you want 'em?"

"On me," she insisted. "Anywhere."

I put my hands on her. My left palm and fingers went to the small of her back. Hugging her at this particular juncture in her anatomy pressed her taut drum of a stomach into my starving hard-on most deliciously. My right palm and fingers went to cup, grope, and squeeze her right buttock. It was the most ample it had ever been, yet still it was just barely the size of a grapefruit.

"Oh, god," she whimpered. She squirmed.

"This is crazy," I laughed.

"Mm," she sighed, and kissed my throat.

"W-woo," I shivered. Her lips were hot. My throat was cold.

"Let me clean you," she said nicely.

"Okay," I chuckled dopily.

Camila grabbed my shower pouf, the beige one, and wet it. She squeezed a long loopy blurb of my fresh-smelling bodywash into it.

"I like how yours smells," she sighed, and began to rub it around on my back. The strangeness of the moment only lasted as long as it took her scrubbing arm to remember the algorithm it had perfected ages ago. My boner even sort of softened for the duration of the lathering, as I regressed blissfully, sedately, to a younger and less hormonal inner matryoshka of myself. Camila even hummed the stupid song. "This is the way we wash the back, wash the back, wash the back. This is the way we wash the back, when we take our time." It had the earmarks of a Mom original. But dumb as it was, the ditty transported me.

Before I knew it, Camila was handing me her own tattered little Daisy Duck pouf. "Do me," she said.

I declined to make the obvious joke. But I took the pouf and heh-heh'ed an eyebrow at her. She giggled.

I wet old Daisy, spurted a creamy glig of Mila's expensive skin-rejuvenating body soap into her raggedy mesh plumage, and touched the sudsy duck to just behind my sister's right shoulder. Whoa. My hand was already there by the time I realized it knew where to go and how to wash this person. Sure, the dimensions had changed, but the overall topography was familiar enough. I washed my little sister. It both profoundly was and profoundly was not deeply sexual. It brought me such inner peace. Her, too, I could tell.

I pitied the average horny young couple, bumbling through their first shower, fumbling over each other's limbs, tolerating each other's mismatched habits and preferences. Camila and me, we were bath time buddies from waaay back. We were SO ready for this.

Still it wasn't a ton of room. The limbs thing really was an issue. I feared we had bumped and squeaked and "oopsed!" loud enough to wake the neighbors, much less Mom and Dad. But still, no one came knocking at our bathroom door. Thank heavens they slept with a box fan and the door closed. We'd been using that to our advantage for years.

We rinsed each other's backs and fronts, then Camila, without a word, began to shave her armpits. Our eyes met every so often as she worked, but there wasn't much flirtation. At one point, she pursed her lips and brought both of our attentions shily to her pubic hair. She looked at me like she wanted to know what I thought: shave it or leave it?

"N-no," I shook my head. "Not my call."

"Do you like it like this?" she asked uncomfortably.

"I do. Yeah."

"Oh," she frowned.

I cocked my head at her. That wasn't the response I had anticipated. "What's up?" I asked.

"Um. Well." She glanced furtively at my big hairy semi-erect cock.

"Whoa. Wait," I chuckled. "You. Want ME? To shave?"

Her eyes lit up a little, but I could tell there was a fearsome insecurity restricting her face from emoting too much.

"I've never shaved down there before."

"I could do it for you," she offered as suddenly sisterly as if she were offering to paint my toenails.

"That's very nice," I snorted. "But no thanks. I would rather not have to drive myself to the emergency room in this weather."

"What if we just trim it a little?"

"Like. With scissors?" I blinked at her.

"Yeah! Just a little. To like. Make it handsome?"

"Is this like a Beauty And The Beast thing? You want to put bows in it, too?"

"No," she grinned. "Just let me make it how I want it. I'll make it look nice."

"Well," I grimaced. I shook my head. I shrugged. "Okay."

"Yay," she said quietly, but her whole body clenched with appreciation.

I hugged her in the water for a little while. We were kind of sleepy. The warmth was blanketlike.

"Hey," I whispered after I started to notice the heat fading in the shower water. Several minutes had passed.

"Hm?" she startled a little.

"Do you want to. Maybe. Just go to bed? For now? And do all this other stuff tomorrow after Mom and Dad go to work?"

"Mm," she responded nondescriptly. She seemed to think about it. Or else fall back asleep. Possibly a combination of both. But after a moment, she nuzzled into me, burrowing herself into my chest, and nodded to signal 'Okay, I like that idea.' I squeezed her once more for good measure. Then I reached behind her and turned off the shower water. We hugged a second longer, the cold bathroom dark quickly turning steam to condensation, and condensation to ice water on our skin. We shivered as we parted. I gathered us our towels, just like old times - hers first, then mine. Then I stepped out to towel off while she remained in there to towel off - just like old times. Gosh, this was swell. I liked this. I loved this.

"Sleep naked?" she asked as we got back to my room.

"Um. Maybe let's at least - "

"Nevermind," she grumbled, and slipped under my covers nude.

"Oh," I smirked. "Did I pick the wrong dialog option?"

"No takebacks. Just go put on your stupid clothes or whatever. I'm staying naked. I like it. It feels ... " she turned her head and looked at me, as if how it felt were a word written on my forehead, "cozy."

"Huh," I smiled. "Okay."

Against my better judgment, I clambered under the covers to join my sister in naked, freshly showered bliss. The sheets were ice cold. Her skin was oven hot. I found her mouth, and her hands found my sides. We were a little more awake, and a lot hornier.

"Mm," we both whimpered.

"Are you tired?" she asked.

"Very," I said, and kissed her again.

"But not that tired?"

"Nuh uh."

"Good."

She rolled on top of me, and ground her sex down into mine. It felt so warm.

"Ohhh," she sighed.

"N-n-no," I groaned.

She pushed herself up with her hands on my chest, and began to slide her hot, sheeny cunt back and forth along the rock-hard shaft of my dick.

"You want this," she smirked. "It feels sooo good. Doesn't it?"

"G-god. Camila."

"Just let me," she said, and began to rock her hips back and forth, and back and forth, and back and forth, sliding the underside of my cock up and down along her clit and the ridge of her pubic bone. Her legs clung to my sides. Her pussy was so hot it almost burned. I could smell the heat coming off of it like steam. Her hair was still wet. Water was dripping onto my chest. Her nipples were hanging above my face.

"Fuck," she sighed, and began to roll her hips in a circle.

"Jesus, Mila," I moaned.

"Does it? Feel good?" she panted. "For you?"

"It does."

"M-me too," she tried to giggle, but it came out as a funny gig-gasp.

"I want you," I blurted.

"I know," she smirked. "I want you, too," she said, and kissed me.

"Mm. Hm?" I had felt her hand suddenly travel down toward my cock.

"I'm so fucking wet," she whispered. She was feeling herself, not me. But the backs of her delicate fingers did graze the happy, hypersensate cock she was grinding on.

"L-language," I chuckled.

"Sh-sh-shit," she gig-gasped again. "F-FUCK," she laughed.

"S-seriously. Mom's gonna hear."

"Oh, god. Don't mention. Mom. Right now."

"Sorry."

"N-no. S'okay. It's okay."

"Are you close?"

"Uh huh," she breathed, and kissed me.

"Me, too," I gulped.

"We're naked," she giggled.

"We are."

"We're together," she said, and bit her bottom lip.

"We are."

"Ooo," she whined, and her mouth opened into a wide, silent O.

"Hrnn," I groaned, clenched, heaved with all my spiritual might to keep from cumming. My other, better comforter was still in the wash. I couldn't cum all over this one, too.

But Camila had no such reservations. Her susie convulsed, and her clitoris swelled and stiffened against my shaft. A moment later, it was all over for her. She came. And she came. And she came. I watched it happen on her face. It was so beautiful. Her eyebrows crinkled. Her mouth went sort of slack jaw. Her jaw quivered. She was panting and squeaking and moaning, but trying to stay quiet. She had the cutest dimples.

"Ooo-ooh-OH-OH," she squealed, and her whole butt jerked, accidentally hammering the squishy tender head of my cock with her pelvic bone.

"Hngah!" I yelped. The pain was nearly enough to send me over the edge. I thrust my hand between us and grabbed my cock like I was saving it from falling off a cliff. Camila yipped with surprise as my big brotherly knuckles brushed the soft, swollen flesh of her vulva.

"Aah," she yelped, and collapsed on top of me.

"Sorry," I huffed.

"Don't. No need. That was. Wow," she melted off of me and into a puddle of giggling, post-orgasmic bliss on her side of my bed. She laid facing me. She was glowing. She was a mess. I pulled her to me. She tucked her knees up and laid her head on my chest.

"Did you ... ?" she asked uncertainly.

I shook my head.

She lifted the covers and peered down at my monstrously erect cock, which was practically bursting at the seams with unejaculated lust. It glared hungrily back at her. Drooly precum slid from its meatus.

"Gosh," she said a little fretfully. "Um. Do you want to? Like?"

"... What?" I blinked at her.

"Like, finish? If you want? It's really okay."

"You mean," I gulped. I lifted up the covers now, too. I put my hand around my cock. I looked at her like '?' and she nodded sheepishly. "You want me to ... myself?" I asked.

"If you want to finish. I ... sort of want to, like." She blushed as she grinned big at me. "See it."

"Oh, I see," I smirked. "You want to watch the master in action."

"Sure, I mean," she shrugged. "Maybe I'll learn something?" She smirked back.

I was a little unsure. I knew better than she did how frankly dumb and ape-like I could look masturbating. But she seemed so genuinely interested.

"Well," I said, "you asked nicely. So. I guess I should."

"Come on," she purred, "you know you waaaant to."

"I do. I really do."

"Then come here."

She pulled me by the waist so that I was laying on my side, facing her, and pulled up the covers. Then she laid down right beside me, her nose in my cheek, and she placed her hand on my cheek so that I turned to look her in the eye. She kissed me. Then she kissed me again. Then she opened her mouth, and I opened mine, and I started jerking off while our tongues danced together.

"Mmm," she hummed in a sweet, high register, and reached her free hand down to my chest. She began to tickle me, reader. She raised her fingers up onto their very tips, to the edges of their nails, and began like a zen master in a rock garden to rake her way around my pectorals, then my arm, then my obliques. She scratched perfect lines into my person. And I jerked it like a damn madman.

"Mmm," she hummed again, and began to rub my nipple.

"Yeah," I moaned.

"You're so hot," she growled.

"Am I?" I chuckled.

"Look at you, jacking off that big COCK," she said as confidently as she could. It was accidentally adorable. I inched that much closer to the edge of orgasm.

"Mm-hm," she purred, and slid her hand down the center of my chest. "God," she groaned.

"I'm so close."

"I know," she smirked, and kissed me again.

"I - I need a tissue."

"I can't reach them," she giggled. "Just make a mess."

"I - I c-can't," I pleaded. "I can't. Make. A mess. These covers. Nnnngh," I wheezed.

"Are you trying to get me to swallow it?" she smirked. She sat up on her elbows and smirked at me. My little sister fucking smirked at me as I was about to cum. "Like I'm one of your slutty porn girls?"

"GOD," I wheezed again, and started to buck my hips.

"What is it, Guy?"

"I'm gonna," I gasped.

"Cum for me?"

"Uh huh."

"FINE," she sighed with unexpected excitement, and threw off her covers. She crawled down my body, half under the sheets, and took my cock in her mouth just as I exploded. Her chilly little hand stuck to my susie-slathered cock.

"FUH-UH-UCK," I groaned.

"H-mmh," she whimpered, half-startled, and immediately I could feel the warmth and wetness and suction of her cheeks around the head of my penis. She began to swallow. It was so quiet under the covers. All was muffled but the sounds of irreversible incest: her child-sized throat muscles working, my buttery nutmilk squelching through her plumbing, her nervy small mammal nostril breaths, the tiny grunts of the bedsprings as things almost but didn’t quite come fully to a standstill. My kid sister was drinking my cum.

"N-NOOoooo," I moaned. I touched her small, damp skull. I felt her wet black hair. She tickled my hipbone with girlish flippancy.

"H-hmm-HMMMM," she whined, and swallowed. Swallowed. Swallowed. Little sister. Only twelve. Supposed to protect her. Supposed to teach her. Supposed to avoid ejaculating down her throat whenever possible.

"WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME," I whimpered unintelligibly as I chewed my fist like a bit. I was plummeting. The fun was dead inside me. My sister's mouth was vacuumed to my glans. She was siphoning jism out of my urethra, collecting it on her tongue, and tasting it before swallowing it. It was all so primal, illogical, baffling to me now.

"Nuhhh," I groaned, and tapped her. She took her mouth off my cock, popped her head out from under the sheets.

"What's wrong?"

"I - I don't know."

"Are you okay? Did I hurt you?"

"N-noh," I shivered. "Not at all."

"I'm sorry if I ... surprised you? I just got really into it. And I just. Went for it.”

"I was," I nodded numbly, "surprised."

"Yeah," she grinned. "Me too. You came a lot.”

I blinked hard at the very, very dark ceiling of my room.

"R-right. Okay." I was somewhere else.

"Okay?” she frowned. She smiled a little strangely, and crawled up beside me. She kissed me on the cheek. She looked at me again, just to make sure she wasn’t in trouble.

I looked at her the best I could. But I was in refractory hell right now.

She draped a bare leg over my stomach. She hugged me tight across my chest. She smooched my cheek again.

"Good night," she said.

An anxious burp lurched up out of me like a deep sea bubble. I loosed it out my nostrils. Urgh. It smelled like stress. And like I'd forgotten how hungry I was.

"G-g’night," I croaked.

She held me tightly. Her breath fell into the steady rhythm of sleep. I was awake a while longer.

I couldn't decide what to think.

So I decided not to think.

And that was easy enough.

***

The next day we woke up alone in a quiet, empty house. Mom and Dad had left for work. A note on the fridge told us both to have a great day. I was already making us eggs and toast and bacon when Camila came down, scratching her bum and rubbing sleep out of her eye. She was wearing one of my t-shirts and a pair of her panties.

"Good morning," she smiled sleepily.

"Hey you," I nodded.

"I'm in love with you," she sighed.

"Good. Me, too."

"And I'm not sorry, I decided."

"Oh," I glanced at her. "For ... what?"

"For last night. For what I did," she smirked, "when I surprised you?"

"Ah."

"I'm not sorry. At all. I liked it."

"Good. Well. Not good. But okay. I'm glad, I guess? That it didn't like. Traumatize you."

"No, I loved it. I LOVED it."

"You ... did?"

"Uh huh. Even how it tasted."

"I'm glad."

"I loved everything about it. Except," she cringed. "Not when you were kind of sad afterwards. That part sucked. That part made me feel like I'd, like, freaked you out."

"I'm sorry," I cringed, too. "I'm okay. Really. It's just um. It's not something I know how to control. After I, like. Cum. Or whatever."

"Oh," she frowned. "Well, I'm glad you're okay."

She came over to the stove, and wrapped her arms around my waist. She squeezed me tight.

"I'm in love with you," she mumbled again into the small of my back.

I turned around inside her hug. I hugged her back. "I'm in love with you, too," I promised her.

"Good," she smiled.

"Want some breakfast?"

"Sure."

Camila went and set the table while I finished cooking. When it was done, we ate together. We ate and talked a while.

"So, I think that today," I said, "if it's okay with you, we should try to get the driveway shoveled before we do anything too fun. Or else we'll never feel like doing it."

"Ick," she said. "How about you shovel the driveway, and I take a bunch of lewd pictures with your camera?"

"You mean a bunch of pictures we both promised we'd never get developed?"

"Welllll," she grinned, "never say never."

"No, Mimi. Do say never. When it comes to taking illegal pictures of your twelve-year-old body? That's a great time to say never."

"Never!" she laughed, and just like that she bolted from the table, out of the kitchen, and up the stairs. I heard my bedroom door slam shut. She had no doubt locked it, too. Like a kid, she had kidded herself into believing she could get these photos developed somehow, as if she knew of some secret underground one hour photo that was cool with helping people produce child porn.

"Never," I sighed, and munched grumpily on my last bite of bacon.

I went and shoveled the driveway by myself. It took over two hours. It was the third time in a week I'd had to do it. It hurt - the cold, the fatigue, the having to scrape and hack at the compressed ice-like snow my parents’ tires had stamped into the ground. But the neighborhood was silent as a photograph, and the repetitive toil was centering. I came inside and disrobed and started up another shower. I took this one by myself. It felt refreshingly normal. And by the time I got back to my room, wrapped in my towel, humming the driveway-shoveling hum I'd accidentally gotten stuck in my head, I had almost forgotten what I might find in there.

My stash box was down from the closet and open on the bed, but most of its contents were still tidy and intact. Only a couple of magazines had been pulled. These I found sitting open on my desk, the sensual imagery apparently having served as reference for my little sister’s photo shoot. I recognized the image she’d liked, of the domme standing with her pussy fully inside a man’s mouth kneeling before her. I felt an upward spiraling sensation in my gut as I wondered how she meant to ‘use’ this photo for ‘reference.’ Dizzy anticipation, maybe? Tinged with my unrelenting anxiety. What if we got caught? What if I did a bad job? What if her susie tasted bad to me?

I stopped looking at the magazines. I breathed, calmed, leaned on the purity and familiarity of self that my bedroom represented.

Where was Camila? And where was the camera? I searched the drawer it had been sitting in. Gone, of course. I scanned my room. No sign of its school bus yellow casing. Hm. I threw on a white t-shirt and a fresh pair of underwear, then left the room in search of my missing hornball.

“Mila?” I called from the upstairs hallway. Her bedroom door was ajar, and when I looked, sure enough she was not inside. Bathroom was empty, of course. I had just finished using it. Mom and Dad’s room, immaculate and mute.

The main floor was silent, too.

For one panicky moment, it occurred to me that she may have slipped out to the mom ‘n’ pop corner store just a few blocks away from our house to get the photos developed in secret. We would have serious problems if that were the case. That camera had child pornography on it. Law enforcement would not care if the pornographer in question was also the child in question. They’d see my big ugly face in the first half of the film roll, connect the dots, and have me in handcuffs by sundown. They would not have to try hard to find forensic evidence of my misdeeds. Instead of going back to school at the end of winter break, I’d be going off to juvenile detention.

It was decided. The camera would be destroyed. It was a nuclear time bomb waiting to go off.

I called for my sister from the top of the basement stairs.

“Down here,” she called from Dad’s office. “Come look!”

I heard the beeping, buzzing, and chugging of Dad’s printer working hard.

Oh, God.

I crept down the vinyl pathway, as though I were sneaking up on a monster, and peered into Dad's office. There she was, sitting at his desk, clicking and clacking on his computer. She had the Paint application running. She had downloaded and was apparently printing off more porn.

“Was there not enough in the stash?” I winced.

“I wanted different poses,” she shrugged. Then she saw how unhappy I looked. “What? I’ll delete it all when I’m done! Promise.”

“Did you download these?”

“No! I just saved them as copies to the desktop. That way they’re easy to find and delete. See? Like this.” She highlighted a handful of image icons and then pressed delete. “Voila!”

“Sis,” I slapped my forehead. “No. Saving them to the computer is still downloading them.”

“Oh,” she blinked. “Well, oops,” she shrugged again. “Already happened. But like whatever, Gael! They’re just pictures. Pictures aren’t viruses.”

“Yes, they absolutely can be. And by the way, you didn’t actually get rid of them just now. You sent them to the Recycle Bin. You still need to go in and permanently delete them.”

“I literally hit the delete key,” she scoffed.

“Uh huh. Open the recycle bin. Just to check.”

She rolled her eyes. But she followed my instructions. Then she saw what I meant.

"Oh. WHAT," she squeaked. “That’s so DUMB. I literally hit the delete key!”

“Highlight them and hit it again. Now it should work.”

“Am I sure I want to delete - ? Yeah OBVIOUSLY, stupid machine.” She growled angrily, embarrassed, and clicked the permanent deletion confirmation button.

“Just so you know?” I said to her, “if there were any viruses in any of those pictures, it’s probably already too late.”

“How can a PHOTO be a VIRUS?” she pouted.

“I don’t know how it works,” I admitted, “but I know enough to be careful.”

“Well. I already downloaded these ones. Can I at least just print the rest?”

“And you clearly don’t understand how expensive printer ink is. God, and you used FULL color?! On regular printer paper?! Dad has nice photo paper down here. It doesn’t come out all wet and wrinkly like that,” I pointed bluntly to the short stack of rumpled printer paper she now held.

Camila blushed angrily. She glared at me, and then she threw the papers down on the desk.

“They’re good enough for what I need,” she huffed. “Go away. You’re making this unfun.”

I looked down at the images. There were a number of different women posing in a variety of sexually explicit positions.There were some men, too. By the looks of it, Camila did not intend to pose alone for all her photos. I gulped. There was that dim, nervous vortex in my gut again

“Do you have the camera in here?” I asked.

She squinted at me. “Why?” she asked back.

I took a deep breath. I tried not to show her the stress her questions were causing me.

I reached down, and picked up the papers.

“Just curious,” I lied.

“I hid it. So you wouldn’t throw it away.”

I glared at her.

“We really truly cannot get th-" I choked. I spit. I coughed. I cleared my throat.

“We really truly cannot get the photos developed if you’re going to be posing naked in any of them. I’m serious, Camila. We will get in HUGE trouble if you try anything sneaky. Okay? I’m not trying to bully you. I’m trying to keep you safe.”

“I. Get it. Just let me have my fun!”

"Right. Well. Don’t print all the rest. Pick just one. Your favorite. And print that.”

“Okay, fine. Um. Wait. Before you go. Do you know where the good paper is?”

I sighed at her. She was nothing if not malleable.

I dug into the deep bottom drawer of a grey filing cabinet beside the desk, and fished out a single warbling slice of extra thick photo paper. I put it into the printer on top of the regular paper, where it would be pulled next.

“Dad doesn’t have a whole lot of this paper left. And it’s pricy. So we really need to use just the one piece, okay?”

“I know what I want to print. Just one picture. You can trust me. Now go! Shoo! I’ll come meet you upstairs.” She sniffed at me. She smiled. “Hey. Did you shower again?”

“Yeah? I stank after I got back in from doing the driveway. I needed it,” I informed her.

“You could have invited me.”

“Didn’t feel like it,” I shrugged coolly. I could see how this wounded her. But I was feeling entitled to a modicum of sass. “Tough work, you know, shoveling a driveway all by yourself.”

“You smell nice is all,” she smiled cattily, and turned back around to face Dad’s computer.

I blushed a little. I rolled my eyes. I walked over to her. She sat hunched like a little monkey in Dad’s chair. I placed my hands on the chair back and bent down gently to kiss her on the head. She snorted appreciatively and reached up and patted my hand. Then I left her to her ridiculous project and went back upstairs.

Shoot. I had nothing to do but wait, I supposed. I could also try and find the camera she had hidden. But she was a cunning little fox, and no doubt she had taken care to hide it somewhere ingenious. She wasn't stupid. I knew she wasn't. But the whole thing made me feel so uneasy. I couldn’t sit still in the brightly snow-lit living room. I wandered, paced, and idly, compulsively, checked spots around the main floor that I thought might conceivably fit a disposable camera.

"Camila," I called from the top of the basement stairs.

"Yeah?"

"Where did you hide the camera?"

She appeared at the foot of the stairs holding her sheaf of crinkly - and one exquisitely flat - printouts.

"If I tell you, you're just gonna throw it away.”

She began to climb the stairs toward me.

“Listen, I love your enthusiasm, Mimi. I would love a secret stash of just us. But this is. Stupid. This is. Where I have to step in. Put my foot down. I mean. We can’t. Do. Hey. N-no. N-no.”

She had held the nice photo paper up for me to see, and was bringing it closer, one wheezy stair a time. The medium-sized image had been over-stretched to fill the page, and so was practically a mosaic. But point of the contents was crystal clear.

It was a girl of maybe ten. Naked. Her knees tucked under her chin, her hands resting on the bed in front of her, her legs spread just wide enough to see the pink lips of her prepubescent pussy.

“H-how… No. Nonono. How did you even find something lije this? We have to get rid of this, Camila. This is real. You have to give it to me.”

Camila jerked the photo away from me, and tucked it behind her back with the others. She attempted to slip past me up the last few basement steps. Being as she was half-mermaid and half-ninja, she succeeded with liquid ease. I roared and swiped at her as I wheeled around. She laughed and was gone.

“Camila! No joke! You could get Dad ARRESTED for downloading stuff like that! And printing it OUT? Are you insane?!”

I chased her through the kitchen.

“She’s basically my age! What’s the big deal? It shouldn’t be illegal to want to look at someone my own age!”

I chased her into the dining room. She stood panting and scowling, pink-cheeked, on the other side of the table. Game over. I could never beat her at ring around the table - a game she herself had invented almost as soon as she had learned how to run. Only with Tim around to help me flank her had I ever managed to “win” the infernal game.

“B-but,” I faltered as I stared at her. “Cam, that’s. That’s not how this works.”

I shook my head. I needed to catch my breath. She could run off again at any moment.

“Quit treating me like I’m stupid,” she pouted. “I didn’t know about the viruses, okay? But I’ll be careful from now on.”

“THIS is careful?!” I pointed to the criminal conduct literally occurring in her hands.

She frowned at the underage girl. She frowned at me. She started crying. “I’m SORRY, okay?! I just wanted to take pictures! Like we SAID we would. I spent all morning planning this out, and then you came in and started pooping all over it, treating me like I’m some sort of idiot who can’t be trusted, and you didn’t even ask what any of my ideas were! I’m SMART. I’m NOT going to get us in trouble. I JUST want to take fun sexy pictures with you. I promise! Okay?! I know we can’t get them developed. I know. I don’t fricking care. We can just pretend we’re going to. It’d still be fun. We could just pretend.” She was sniffling now. She had ridden her crying jag like a tailwind, let it fuel her tirade, and now the fury was spent, and she had made herself heard.

I took a moment to think. She had a point. In a way. The negatives’ mere existence wouldn't be harmful in and of themselves. The only danger would come from their discovery. We could simply hide them, and no one would ever know.This time, well and truly, I would guard them with my life.

“Okay?” she sniffed. She wiped her face. She regathered herself.

“Okay,” I conceded.

“Okay,” she smiled. She tapped the printed photos on the dining room table, squaring them, then very diplomatically came halfway around the table and stuck out her hand. “Peace?” she asked.

I trudged over there. I gave her her stupid handshake. I sighed, “Peace.”

“Good. Now come with me upstairs. I want to do my hair first.”

I followed my sister’s underwear-clad butt up the stairs. Today’s pair was pale pink, with white stripes, and a little red heart sewn on the back. It was the sort of underwear a young girl would wear to school.

She went into her room and pulled a large blue suitcase from the closet. She unlatched the bolts, cracked it open, and from among a trove of old toys and costumery she plucked my camera.

“Here you go,” she tossed it to me. “I’m trusting you,” she warned.

Then she plopped down at her vanity and began brushing her hair.

I sat on her bed and watched her. I fidgeted. I tried not to watch her.

"How about we do yours first," she suggested.

"No," I said.

"You look nervous. We could just get it out of the way.”

“How would we even do it?” I asked.

“Um. I found a good photo. But you didn’t let me print it.”

“What was it?”

“Well. A guy, but like, you can only see from like here down,” she gestured with her hand at her navel, “And uh, so his um, cock. Is like the focus.”

“Pretty straightforward,” I snorted.

“Wellll but in the picture I liked, there was also a girl. She had her hand around him. And she was like, licking him. Like,” and she stuck out her slim pink tongue and pantomimed lapping the tip of an imaginary cock.

"Shoot, I should have just snapped a picture of you last night then."

"Ha," she said flatly. But she blushed. And then she smirked. "It was pretty fun."

"You really did that!" I laughed. It was nice to be able to laugh about it. She laughed, too.

"I know, it's crazy!"

"Is that why you want a photo of me like that, then?" I asked.

She blushed at me in the vanity mirror. "Don't make fun."

"I wouldn't."

"Yeah, right."

"I mean, I'd love to. Because you're my little sister and it's my sworn duty to make fun of you. But you're also my girlfriend now. And I can't just make fun of my girlfriend whenever I want."

"You can't make fun of your girlfriend EVER," Camila pouted, but she was beaming at me. She was now tying ribbons into her hair. What a peculiar skill. I could never, ever tie a ribbon that looked like anything you'd want to wear on your head. And my girlfriend could tie two.

"We'll play it by ear," I shrugged, and savored her bratty facial response.

"So but. Do you like my idea? For the picture of your. Uhm. Cock?"

"You're still getting used to talking about it, huh?" I smiled smugly at her.

"About what? Cock?" she said adorably. "Cock cock cock! I like cock!"

"I HAVE a cock,” I proclaimed.

"You HAVE a cock,” she concurred.

"It’s your boyfriend's cock,” I smoldered.

"Yep! Which basically makes it MY cock," she said, and turned around on her vanity stool now so she could giggle prettily at me.

She looked cute as heck. She was back in Tomoko mode, with twin tails and fringe bangs and just a little bit of that stuff girls put on their eyes. Mascara? Possibly some eyeliner? Maybe some other makeup, too? I was not good at being able to tell on her. She was already smoothly skinned, pinkish in the nose, and rosy cheeked. Her lashes curled on their own, and were plush without mascara. Her lips were only slightly darker than her olive skin, giving her face the appearance of having been carved from a single pure stone.

***

Picture One

"Okay, so, I'm not getting totally naked yet" she admitted. She grinned at my confusion. "It's sexier that way," she promised.

"You've been studying," I snorted.

"Well," she blushed. She stood from her chair. She was now only wearing her panties.

I sat up on the bed, and I let her push me down and back, and she crawled on top of me.

"This is the pose I want to start with," she told me.

Picture Two

Camila scooted forward and sat on my stomach now. Her body felt light, and warm, and small, and smooth. The only clothing between us was her cotton panties and the fabric of the shirt I wore. The panties were soft and striped. She now hunched over, rolled her pelvis forward, and tucked a finger through the left leg hole of her panties.

“Okay,” she breathed nervously. “This one is just - ,” she pulled the gusset to the side, exposing her susie to me, and to the camera. She held the pose. “This,” she said.

Picture Three

Her hand was still in her panties, but down the front now, and she was slowly doing something to herself inside the fabric that was making her face grow flushed.

Picture Four

Now she was on her hands and knees on my bed. Her pale pink and white panties stretched taut against her plump butt and fully aroused vulva. The sheer of the cotton was such that you could just see the watermark of her sex. I wasn't sure if the camera would be able to pick up all the most crucial detail, however. The true force of her booty's allure was a vector quantity that no still frame could measure, as so much of what was gut-punchingly sensual about it was how these parts moved, flexed, and relaxed in relation to one another. Her shapes could squeeze in ways photographs could only glance off of.

She had put on one of my t-shirts. It hung low. I could squarely see one of her chocolatey brown nipples through the disposable's viewfinder.

Picture Five

Camila was sitting on the edge of the bed. Her legs were spread wide, her bare feet planted, her thighs parted and both of her hands working her susie. Her panties were around her ankle. My t-shirt had slipped down her arm, and hung around her elbow. Her left nipple was bare. It was pink from how much she had been playing with it. We'd gone back and forth on whether to take the shot with her pinching it, but in the end susie made the decision for us.

Picture Six

A compromising angle, to be sure. But I asked nicely. And she gigglingly complied.

Picture Seven

All of a sudden we heard the door into the garage open downstairs. The door happened to be right under the spot of floor my bed was parked on, so we felt the vibrations of the knob unlatch the door.

"Hey Guy?" called Mom. "Can you come help me with this goddamn garage door?"

I don't know what possessed me to do it, but in that fraction of an instant, time dilated or something, and I somehow decided that it was the perfect moment to take a dramatic, sexy photograph. A one-off in the beloved "girl gets caught" tradition, I rationalized. We weren't developing these, anyway.

It was a terrible mistake regardless. I realized the moment I took it. That look on her face. Happening in real time.

Of all the sweet, sexy, heart stopping photographs we would never develop, this was the one I wound up thinking back to the most. I still have dreams where it turns out we had developed the photos somehow, and yet this is always the one in the pile that I can't find. It isn't there.

Picture Eight

We sort of forgot about the camera for awhile. We put EYL back on. Mom came in just as the sky was starting to darken. She'd made us grilled cheese and chilled sweet corn soup. The soup wound up being fucking delicious. We told her so. She asked me to step outside and help her with something for "a quick sec."

I stood up and put my shirt on.

I don't know why I put my shirt on.

I went and found her on the landing.

"What's up?" I said.

"Let's go in here," she mouthed. She pulled me into her and Dad's room.

"Sorry. Privacy," she said softly. She quietly shut the door, but didn't let it latch. She smiled at me.

"What's up?" I asked again, more anxiously this time.

"Do you have any laundry for me?" she asked.

Fuck. I was too fucking horny. "This was not a good time, Mom," I told her.

She frowned, embarrassed, but in the next instant furious.

"Sorry," she said, still frowning.

I blinked at her.

She blinked at me.

"You may go."

Shit. I went. She said I could. She meant I should.

Dad came home just that very same instant. It was startling.

"Go, shoo!" Mom hissed, a look of controlled panic on her face.

I did a weird thing next. Huh. I always forget I did this. I put my hands up like I was holding the disposable camera, and I took a mental picture.

"Kschnckkt," I said.

In the photo in my mind, Mom blinked.

Picture Eight: Revised

This was why you did not want to loan your kid your sexy blue underwear if you were an objectively attractive woman. You could wind up catching him with incest on his mind. I dared Camila to put on Mom's blue panties. She did it with gusto. It was hilarious. We died like twice. She looked ridiculous. But I took the shot anyway.

Picture Nine

Everything was coming undone. Fuck me, I needed it to hurt more. This was starting to get scary, how not-scary this was feeling.

I took a picture of my little sister licking my cock.

Picture Ten

The last one in the reel. We left it for now. We agreed it was a nice gesture to the versions of us we'd never get to be, the ones who went and developed the photos even though they knew it'd ruin their lives, totally and irrevocably, just so they could be the ones to exist in a timeline where the photos had been developed. We didn't realize that they just straight-up wouldn't develop an image if it contained underage nudity, also known as child pornography.

Jesus. What had we done?

Nothing worth worrying about! Because we weren't the ones in that timeline, see? This tenth photo, which would never exist in our timeline, was in their honor.

In hindsight, I realize how pot-brained this all sounds. We were kind of high on each other. Her weird child-brain started to kind of take over my thinky-hurty teen-brain, and vice versa. We didn't just snuggle on my bed as we played EYL. We spiraled inward towards one another. Alas, we had to keep it halfway decent, because Mom had left the door open, and neither of us felt comfortable closing it and then having potentially to explain why we'd done that.

"Because we like our privacy," Camila complained.

"Okay, but why?" I said, mimicking Mom's calm, psionic stare.

"B-because!" She punched me in the armpit.

***

Chapter Text

Dad told me to come downstairs.

I found him in the kitchen. Next to him on the counter was a Blockbuster bag.

“Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”

“You got a game up there called Silent Hill?” he asked crossly.

“Yes?” I winced.

“Well it’s two days overdue, dingbat. You owe ten bucks on it if you take it back before they close.”

“As in,” I gulped, “like tonight?”

“That’s right.”

“But? Dad? No?”

“Excuse me?”

“It's just. I have this deal with my friend Tim who works there. He doesn’t charge us late fees. Like - ” (Dad muttered something as I spoke) “- um, as long as I don’t keep it too long. Some of these games, Dad, it’s like you literally cannot beat them in just three days. It’s a total - ” (Dad was now interrupting me again). “S-sorry. What?”

“I said they fired him. Your friend Tim?” Dad said. “Yep.” He jabbed his thumb to the right, as if to say ‘outta there.’ "He's out."

“Wait? For real? They fired him?”

“Sure! Apparently he didn’t come into work yesterday?” Dad smirked at me. “You know anything about that? He was over here wasn’t he?”

“Geez. Hey, I didn't know! He said he had the day off.”

“Huh!” Dad snorted. “Maybe he did, maybe he didn't, but he sure does now.”

“Poor Tim,” Mom said as she tip-toed in from the other room.

“Poor Gael is more like it,” Dad scoffed.

“What? Why?” I frowned.

“Because I’m taking your Blockbuster card.”

Mom looked on, arms crossed, and expression neutral. Dad was within his rights. I had to go get my Blockbuster membership card from my wallet in my coat pocket. Dad followed me to the mud room. It was cramped in there. It still smelled like his freshly shucked outerwear. And it also smelled like his breath, as he stood in there with me now, fuming. I was struggling to get the Blockbuster card out of my cramped little wallet.

"Here, just hand it to me," Dad said impatiently.

I handed him my wallet. It felt significant, somehow. Even though he was just going to try and fish my Blockbuster card out.

“Hey,” he said. “That game you and your sister are playing. That’s not another rental is it?”

“N-no. It's Tim's. Tim's copy. He loaned it to is.”

“Uh-huh,” Dad did that thing with his tongue in his cheek again. “Well. How about you give it back whenever you see him again?"

"Um. Well. I suppose we've almost beaten it. So, sure?"

"Yeah. Hey. What's the deal, anyhow? I thought you were done with that kid?"

“Of course not,” said Mom, aghast.

She’d tip-toed again.

“Pardon?”

“I said we are not ‘done’ with our Tim! And we never will be.” She smiled stubbornly. “Gael, fork over your Blockbuster card. Dad's got you dead to rights on this one. No more rentals without our consent seems fair for let’s say … a month?”

Dad gave her the tongue thing too, but nodded stiffly.

“And meantime, we can HOPE Tim comes by again soon," Mom smirked at us both. "That way we can YELL at him for being such a cocky little hooligan."

Dad snorted. Mom laughed. Dad gave me my wallet back, and told me to get going if I wanted to make it to Blockbuster before the roads froze again.

They left me alone in the mud room. I sighed. I took a moment to unpanic. I couldn’t tell why the conversation had stressed me out so much. I must have been on edge. I put my coat on. I felt for my keys and wallet. There were my keys. Where was my wallet?

I was holding my wallet.

***

I pulled out of the driveway, and started driving to the Blockbuster.

Then I thought I should stop by Tim's house first. I didn't know if he was home, but it was worth a try. I rang. Nobody answered. Then I heard a honk behind me. Tim had just pulled into the driveway in his big ugly van. I tromped through the snow to his driver side window. He had to manually crank it down.

"Hey dude," he grinned at me.

"You got fired?" I said, sizing him up.

He chuckled.

"Well. I worked my magic the best I could. But I was bound to botch a roll eventually."

"Um. What does that mean?"

"I got caught, man. Fudging the late fee numbers. It's a little embarrassing. But I'm not sorry."

"Ah. Well. Maybe you should be. I gotta drive over there and pay ten bucks for the late fees you told me I wouldn't have to pay."

"Oh," he chortled. "That's hilarious. Hop in. I'll drive you. And put it out of your head that you're paying. This one's OBVIOUSLY on me."

"What?"

"I said get in, man. Leave your car there. It's good. Come on. I'll drive safe."

***

The heater was dead. It was cold inside Tim's van. But the guy had incredible music. Some sort of Japanese jazz pianist? But you wouldn't hardly have guessed it was jazz. It was just weird and cool.

"So okay man, here's a prompt for you," he smirked. We were a family of smirkers.

"F-fire away," I shivered.

"I want you to like, catch me up. Who do you hang out with these days? What do you do? Why?" He snorted. "Like, who the fuck are you anymore, I guess, is what I'm getting at? But I mean, in a cordial, brotherly way. I'm curious to know, genuinely."

"I could ask you the same question."

"And you already know the answer. I work alone. I do what I want. And my only reason has ever been to be able to afford, humbly and sincerely, the things I like."

"That's not a lot of fun."

"No. It is not. It is a lot of not-fun. But that's life, brother."

"Shit," I sighed. By his standards, Tim was in a foul mood. He was a pathologically chipper sort, most contexts; but he also suffered from depression. You had to get to know Tim to get to know Tim. "You've grown up, Timbo. But I feel like you're still you."

"Yeah?" he chuckled. "You don't have to say it so grimly. But thank you. I take that as a high compliment."

"Do you?"

He glanced at me funny. "Should I not?"

"Nah, you should," I shrugged. "You should. I just didn't realize I meant it as one."

"You never did have a knack for that," he snorted.

***

"You must be Gale. Your father was in here a little earlier." Sniff. "Hey now - is that Tim's car out there? Did Tim drive you here?"

I sighed hello and slid Silent Hill across the counter.

"That's very interesting," they said, giving me a look I just wasn't in a place to engage with. They were not picking the correct dialog options for talking to me. Or better yet, I was just one of those background NPCs who you couldn't actually interact with. This asshole could mash the A button all they wanted, nothing would happen.

They took Silent Hill. Beeped it. Gave me the late fee spiel. I forked over the ten dollars in cash. They gave me a few coins back as change. I didn't hear the amount they told me, and I didn't look closely enough to count. I put the coins in my pocket. I left. Tim was waiting for me in the spot nearest the door, his engine idling, fat snowflakes falling heavily and almost trance-inducingly through his headlights.

I crunched around to the passenger side door and clambered back in. You had to climb into this vehicle. It was ridiculous.

"They see me?" he asked.

"Yeah," I sighed.

"They say anything?"

"They asked if it was you."

Tim glared at the store.

"They know it's me," he muttered.

"Can we go?"

"Gladly. Hey. Uh. They give you any change?" Tim asked.

"Um, a few cents, sure, here," I fished the coins out of my pocket. He pointed to a Gatorade bottle in his console half-full of change. I dumped it in there. I had a peculiar impulse to smell the bottle. It had been a Fruit Punch flavored Gatorade. I sniffed it. It just smelled like coins.

***

"Hey. Guy. I have another prompt for ya."

"Okay then?"

"Well wait, first. I'm just taking you home right?"

We were at the stop sign between our houses.

"Well. Back to your place. For my car."

"Right. Yeah. Okay."

"But what was the prompt?"

"Right. It was um. Well. I guess let me just say first that as awkward as I realize this prompt is about be, know that it's coming from a place of nonjudgment and lifelong friendship here, okay bud? This is me trying to acquire information that I fully recognize must never ever leave this godforsaken vehicle."

"Oh geez. Tim. No."

"So you kind of left the impression, and maybe I've read too much into some things you said, but I almost got this sense - and again, no judgment whatsoever - that you and Camila were, ah, that you two were like. Uhh. Shoot man. Let me just rephrase the prompt.

"What's the deal with you and your sister? Are you, like, hooking up?"

"Next question please."

"Oh COME on!" he guffawed, and thumped the steering wheel. A little honk blomped out of the beleaguered van. "You can't. You cannot. You MUSTN'T. Dude! If you and her have some sort of crazy siblings-with-benefits arrangement going on, you have GOT to know that I am THE last person on all of this green earth who would have any room to judge you."

"Tim," I said. "Stop."

He stared at me. He snorted. But he did stop.

"Alright," he shook his head, still chuckling. "Stopping. Stopped." He put his hands up. He put them back on the steering wheel. He drove us through the intersection.

***

"Alrighty. This is your stop," Tim said chummily as we pulled back up into his driveway. He parked right next to my car. I got out of his vehicle, then leaned back in to thank him.

"For what?" Tim shrugged.

"The ride. Paying the fee. Uh. The ride back."

"Naw," he wiped his beard thoughtfully. "This went how it was supposed to. No need to thank me."

"It's, uh, your stop too, isn't it?" I shrugged at him. He had parked but not turned his engine off.

"It will be," he nodded. "Whenever I feel like actually going back in there."

"Oh," I frowned. I understood this as code for, 'My old man is pissed at me.' "Um. Did you. Want to maybe come hang at my place or something?"

Please, say no.

"Why? So YOUR parents can yell at me, too?" he scoffed. "No thanks, buddy. Not tonight. No, I'm thinking what I need is to kind of just lie low for a while, keep my big ugly head down. Drive around. Listen to some funky music."

"Jerk off out of pure spite in the Blockbuster parking lot."

"Heck yeah," Tim chortled. "Make it a Blockbuster night. I could do that."

I laughed at him.

"Alright, get the hell out of here. Go on now. Git."

"Alright man. Drive safe."

"Are you and Camila banging?"

I shut the door in his face. I was so glad Tim planned to keep his big ugly head down. That would keep him off my mind and out of my hair for the next couple days. I just wanted the rest of winter break to be about Camila. I wanted the rest of everything to be about Camila. I wanted my sister like I wanted happiness itself.

Tim's Dad appeared at the front door of his house. He whistled at his son to quit jacking off and come inside.

"Hey Gael. Sorry. This idiot is grounded," his Dad informed me, loud enough so the neighbors could hear. "Give me the keys," he commanded as Tim stepped out of his van.

"It's MY ride," Tim reminded him. "But you may have my permission to borrow it."

He dropped the keys in his dad's hand.

"And you may have MY permission to stay in your room until I say you can come out."

"Oh no. Not my room."

"But no computer. No internet."

" ... Touché."

His dad gave me one last look but didn't wave, then he shut the front door. I backed out. I drove home. Seventeen seconds later I parked back in my own driveway. I went inside. I took off my winterwear. I let Dad know I'd paid the late fee.

"Good," he said, earnestly. He made me look at him. "Hey, kid. I'm sorry I went off on you. It was just a lousy late fee."

"N-no worries," I think I blushed.

"Yeah. Well. I wanted to apologize. I know you're a good kid. I think sometimes I forget just how good you are, and so little stuff like this just - well. Anyway. I won't keep you. Go play your game. Your sister's been dying for you to get home."

I thought of Tim's dad.

"Hey, uh, Dad."

"What?"

"I like. I mean. I think you're like. I think you're a good dad."

"Oh. Shit, really?" he blushed. He blushed?! "Now you're just sucking up. Get out of my face. Tell your sister I'm done with you, and she can have you." He was delighted with this feedback.

I figured whatever. It's just a Blockbuster card. School was going to be back in session, anyway, meaning I wouldn't have time for movies and games for a while. Plus, I was madly in love with my new girlfriend, and I wanted to spend every possible free moment with her.

***

Chapter Text

I found Camila fast asleep in my bed, tangled up in the covers and clutching one of my pillows between her legs. She was wearing soft yellow panties and a white ribbed tank top with no training bra. As quietly as I could, I stripped down to my boxers and climbed into bed beside her. I woke her up with a one-armed hug. She came unfurled in my arms, groaned delightedly, and then we were spooning.

"Can we move this?" I chuckled politely.

She grumbled with mock disgruntlement as she dislodged my pillow from her crotch so we could hump like proper boyfriend-girlfriend.

"I was having a dream," she sighed.

"About what?"

"Mm," she chuckled sleepily and snuggled her buns into my rock-hard cock. She was so hot down there. My cock throbbed. I could not suppress the need to slowly and methodically hump her for a few apish moments. Geez, but I think she was happy to ape out with me sometimes. The way she ground against me at the same time, those two squishy, squeezy cheeks matching my hunger bump for grind. I reached a hand inside her tank top and rubbed her tummy, too. She purred.

"Want to show me your dream?" I said, and kissed the nape of her neck.

She cackled unexpectedly, then snorted as she attempted to suppress it, then apologized with embarrassment.

"What's so funny?"

She rolled onto her back inside my arms, and then onto her side facing me. She kissed me on the nose. Her lips were warm. My nose was cold.

"Um. Gotta warn you. It was weeeird," she sang nervously.

"Try me.”

She had my cock’s attention. She giggled at my cock’s attention. She blushed, and then she leaned over to kiss me, and when we broke the kiss, she was in my head. “Here, pretend you’re asleep. Like you’re dreaming,” she directed me.

I pretended to fall asleep.

She started kissing me again. She did this for a little while, then she stopped and waited to see if I was asleep yet. I had to fight the urge to crack an eyelid and peek at her.

Then she started tickling me. It began, of all places, on my forehead. Right on the other side of the wall from where I lay asleep and dreaming.

“Are you asleep?” she whispered.

“Yup,” I whispered.

“Good.”

She combed her nails across my brow and around my temples, then swept under my eyes along my cheekbones, up the soft sides of my nose, and then sprawled sweetly out again across my forehead. She did this three times in total, until I dreamt she had painted a kabuki mask of comb-tooth lines onto my face.

On the final pass, her fingernails disappeared up my forehead into my hair. Her sharp, slim nails launched an all-out attack my scalp. They awoke a nasty itch that spread like fire across my entire skull, then scratched the dickens out of it. My cock thrashed at this, whined inside my boxers, leapt against its restraints.

“That good, huh?” she scoffed proudly.

“I’m asleep,” I chuckled.

Now she found my shoulders. She kept her fingers tight together and slightly curled, back-scratcheresque, and languidly pawed at my skin, painting what felt like fur onto me. She did both shoulders and then my neck and then my throat. She drew the throatlines upward, around the scruffy knoll of my chin, three times again and again up to my lips. My big dumb chin squizzled to feel such joy.

She stopped. She repositioned further down on the bed. She pulled the covers all the way off of me.

“Do your feet stink?” she asked.

“Um. A little. Probably.”

“Uck,” she sighed. “Um. I might skip them. But in my dream I rubbed your feet next. You really liked it.”

“Oh God, please don’t tell me that and then not do it,” I pleaded.

“You are asleep,” she said, and started in on my shins.

After my shins came my chest and ribs, curiously enough. She repositioned once again. To my woozy, close-eyed surprise she sat astride my cock. She didn’t hump, though. She just sat and very focusedly worked her art on my weary, grateful bones. More dream fur, neatly combed, now sprouted from my person.

Next she worked the fur into my armpits, arms, and hands, despite my warning that my pits stunk worse than my feet. Her smirky shrug was amazing. She went slowly.

After finishing the very tips of my fingers, each of which she pinched off like clay and then gave its own gentle smooch, she pivoted in place - scarcely deigning to hoist her weight as she rotated her entire chassis on my cock - and shifted focus to my thighs. These hairy hams she denuded and refurred. She toyed with the thin hems of my boxers. She grazed lines that deliberately pushed the fabric up into my inguinal creases, until my boxers were the shape of briefs. She left them like this, silly-looking, begging to be readjusted, and spun around once more on my cock. It didn’t feel great, to be perfectly honest. But it hardly felt awful.

And now she simply, sisterlike, rubbed my tummy.

Until it was time at last for her to get off of me. She got off my bed entirely. She came around to my feet. She bent over and reached to grab the waistband of my scrunched up boxers.

“Lift up your butt,” she giggled once, softly.

I planted my palms and heels in the mattress and humped bodily upward so that my big butt and hamstrings left the bed.

My sister rolled my boxers down past all my shiny new fur, and finally off my bare, clammy feet. It was chilly in here, despite the heat we were generating.

Her hot breath tickled my ear.

I opened my eyes and found her looking over me, standing there in her yellow underwear from when she was ten and her white ribbed tank top that glistened like snow on her olive skin. She caressed my forehead. My dream room. My starting and ending point. I didn’t just sigh. A long languid summer breeze blew all across the soft furry hills of me. I could feel Camila’s soft hand on my cheek as a kind all over warmth that made my fur stand on end. I grumbled belligerently, fully lost inside her dream.

“This is where it gets weird,” she whispered nervously. “Ready?”

I hrwnghk-scheww’d a couple times. Cartoon snoring.

“Okay,” she giggled. She climbed back onto my cock. This time, she started off sitting with her back to me. I confess I peeked. I wanted to make eye contact with the happy pink head of my sat-upon cock. I wanted him to know I felt him. My sister’s yellow cotton butt flexed now on my shaft as she sat forward and began to draw with the backs of her fingernails long, slow, parallel lines up the full lengths of my legs, starting at my furry ankles and ending at my furry hips, pelvis, and right up to the base of my cock, but not quite onto it. She worked all the way around both legs. It was so delicate and hypnotic, once I realized my cock was going to be the endpoint of certain stripes. How each time she stopped right as fingernails had been just about to graze that part. It bewitched me.

So it startled me when spun unannounced on my bare cock, grinding it under the hot compress of her muscular butt and horny susie. She now sat facing me on my cock. My little guy now winked out at me from a differently shaped yellow cotton part of her. She caught me peeking. She beamed at me, blushing egregiously, and then swiped her hands over my eyes to shut them again.

She leaned forward, stretching so that her tits were right over my face, and hooked her nails into my scalp. She pulled down, scratching with heavenly vigor, and tore me open like a present so she could look my dreaming mind square in its one unblinking eye. She drug her nails down my neck onto my shoulders and down the full lengths of my arms, all the way back to my fingertips. But the stripes continued to work their way inwards, converging on a central meridian that ran down the bridge of my nose, bisected my lips, and traced a bee-line down my torso to up my shaft and to the tippy-tip of my cock.

She stopped each time, however, right there. A pube’s breadth from contact. Teasing with hypnotic energy. And finally, she really did draw that last meridian.

And this time, at last, she kept going past the brother-sister barrier. She traced her fingertip smoothly up the top of my throbbing, fidgeting shaft, and brought it all the way up and over my glans. She dipped right on by my precummy urethra, and from here slid silkily along my self-lubricant as she traced a slender line down my frenulum, along the long, hard belly of my cock, all the way to that funny little flap hanging where my scrotum attached to my cock. Here, her fingertip stopped. It had arrived.

She got down between my legs and switched to using her fingernails. She caressed my balls. They squirmed reflexively, eliciting a gasp and a ticklish little laugh from my underage sister. She did it again. Then again.

“Mila,” I murmured.

She apologized. Her fingernails, having finished utterly awaking and beguiling my nuts, now launched up my shaft. She moved slowly but fixedly, determined to draw beautiful, crisp lines. Then she jumped back to the base of my shaft, right at the funny flap, and did it again. And again.

Pleasure started to crackle inside me.

She began drawing one hand’s nails after the other’s upward in rapid, upward-flowing succession. It felt like she was drawing, literally summoning, something from within a deep, deep, hidden pocket of my subconscious.

Deep in the unknowable midnight of my mind, a crack appeared. An instant later, a tectonic shockwave.

“Ohhh f-f-f,” I gasped.

Up on the tranquil shores of my conscious mind, unassuming bathers lolled in friendly waters. The waves came in, hoisted them up off the sandbars, let them tread water and play weightless, then set them softly and mushy-footed back down. Yet now these elevator waves started to weaken. Stopped hoisting. Presently, they subsided altogether.

Camila grabbed my shaft in both hands. She gripped my cock with purpose. She’d seen me do this next bit only once, and one-handed. But she was a quick study.

The ocean horizon swelled strangely. Someone cried out, instructing their little sister to run. The swelling became a rising, then a darkening, and the finally that first earth splitting roar.

The beast made landfall on the soft shoals of my stomach. It rocked the foundations of all the homes in all the villages. It cracked cliffs. It flattened forests. It swallowed up all who opposed it.

Camila clamped her mouth over the spewing, spitting tip of my cock. Her cheeks hollowed out around me. She sucked so hard that a vacuum formed inside her mouth. Loud suction noises sounded as my cock leapt and pulsed inside her lips’ hungry but elastic grip. She gulped air through pursespace into our shared throat cavity while simultaneously sucking harder than ever before. In the dream, she had literally sucked the cum out of my prostate through my cock.

“K-keep going,” I coached her, touching her hands to get them pumping again.

And she started pumping. She looked up at me and grinned with her pale green eyes, even as her lips stayed somewhat cartoonishly fastened around my cock head. Both small tan hands gripped, squeezed, and jacked. I was her fire hose. I was her volcano. I was her exploding star. I was everything that had ever failed to extinguish the beast from the deep.

I was her big brother.

Camila came up for air. My cockhead, slick with her spit, glinted at me like a wet red beacon.

I took hold of my shaft.

She watched.

I stared at my sucked-red cock head. Its eye shed one more pearly tear. My sister dived down, licked it up, then rose again. She grinned bashfully, ecstatically, dizzy with pride and lust.

“That was the dream,” she panted.

She grabbed my face. She laid down onto me, not minding apparently the cum that had sprayed out all over me prior to her fastening her mouth to my cock.

“Here,” she smiled. And she handed me Mom’s blue panties. I had no idea when she had gotten these back out of my nightstand drawer. “To wipe yourself off. Now I gotta pee. I’ve been holding it forever!”

All of a sudden she stood up. The bedsprings cackled like this was hilarious. She skipped to the edge of the bed, hopped, and landed with a two-barefooted thump on my bedroom floor. She held her bladder and whimpered upon landing. Then she hurried out my door and into the restroom.

With Camila gone, the cum-dream faded from view. I was awake now. Just a regular guy with a hard-on, lying in a rumpled, warm bed. The smell of Camila and the smell of cum and the emptiness of being awake again. I wiped myself numbly with Mom’s pretty blue underwear.

I didn't feel like getting out of bed. I tossed Mom’s cummed up panties onto the floor. I rolled over and shoved my face into my pillow. It smelled hotly, strongly, of my sister’s crotch. I fell straight asleep, my cock still reeling from the dream beneath me, my snoring stuporous, my hairy bare ass out for all to see.

***

When I woke up, I had a headache.

The house was dark. My clock read 2:47AM. I was thirsty and had to pee. I sat up. I didn’t wake up Camila. But I could see she had stripped naked for bedtime, unbeknownst to me. Risky behavior. But I supposed I didn’t have much room to talk. I shuffled across the floor feeling around with my bare feet as well as my bleary eyes to try and locate my discarded boxers.

Instead I found Mom’s cummy underwear. I groaned inwardly as I stooped to pick them up. Fir some reason, habit maybe, I smelled them. I smelled the dank, sharp odor of hours-old cum. Not yet dried. Too cold down near the floor. I toed around some more and found my boxers. They had been rolled up into a cold, sweat damp wad. I shook them out and slipped them on. They felt a little gross. But I just needed them for as long as it took me to pee and come back.

I cracked open my bedroom door and peeked carefully into the hallway. Mom’s panties were clenched tight in my fist. I just needed to make it to the bathroom a few paces away. Then I could stuff them into me and Mila’s hamper.

The hallway floor groaned under my weight as I tiptoed. Goddamn noisy old house.

I made it to the bathroom. I shut the door, locked it. I left the lights off. I popped open the hamper and plunged Mom’s panties in until the conjoined smelly adolescent laundry was up to my elbow. I hoped that was deep enough. Maybe Mom wouldn’t even spot them until they’d already made it through the wash. Gosh, I sure hoped. They were ridiculous with cum. I had chilly residual cum moisture in my fist just from holding them, as there hadn’t been a part I could touch that wasn’t gooey with my refrigerated spunk.

I sighed immensely. The panty ball was no longer in my court. I had safely, soundly, returned them to sender.

I sighed contentedly and shivered as I peed. I flushed and washed my hands. I looked at my murky adolescent double in the mirror. I let myself feel how tired he looked. I did not let myself feel how creepy he looked. I dried my hands on my own bath towel.

There came a soft rapping of fingertips on the bathroom door. Mom’s nighttime knock. I froze.

“Hon? Can I come in for a sec?”

My heart stayed frozen in space. My body opened the door. Mom slipped into the bathroom beside me.

“You can shut it again,” she said.

My body closed the door.

Mom locked it.

Then she turned and stood between me and the door for a second. She was breathing rapid, shallow breaths. I could smell her toothpaste. The light through the window behind me cast my shadow onto her. She had a funny, faraway twinkle in her eyes. She was in her red satin holiday pajamas. Christmas had been weeks ago, but she liked these for their silky feel.

“What?” she whispered.

“Mom, I. Uh. I put them in the hamper.”

“Put - oh? Did you?”

“Uhm. Yeah. They’re in there.”

“Okay,” she nodded curtly. She licked her lips.

I was still mostly frozen, despite a primordial heat suddenly rising from inside me. The stuck, frosty cranks and pistons of my machinery groaned.

Mom gazed at me, her red satin chest rising and falling.

“Um. Did you need to use the bathroom?”

“Not really. No, sweetie.”

“Oh. Um. Right. Well. Okay. It’s late. I’m. I’m uh. Pretty sleepy.”

“My Guy,” she said softly. “You used my panties.”

“I. Did. Yeah.”

“You know, it’s pretty crazy that I let you do that.”

“Mom. I was just going to head back to bed. I only got up to pee.”

“Oh you did, did you?” Mom stepped away from the door, toward me, deeper into my own hulking shadow. Still her eyes sparked in the dark.

“Y-yes?” It was the truth! I had gotten up to pee! The cummy panties were circumstantial! But I could say none of this of course. From her perspective, the much more obvious story was that I had stolen into the bathroom to use her underwear under cover of darkness.

“I don’t believe you,” Mom smirked. She stepped around me, smooth as silk, and popped open the hamper. “They’re in here, yes?”

“M-Mom, don’t. Come on. Please?”

“What? They’re mine! This hamper is for you and your sister. Here, can you find them for me? I can’t see a thing in this dark.”

I started to turn the light on, but Mom caught my hand.

“No sir,” she tutted. But she didn’t explain herself.

I frowned at her. But I supposed she didn’t see it. I reached into the hamper while she held the lid open. I knew by feel roughly where I’d planted them. And sure enough, there they were, still frigid to the touch with boy slime. I almost considered pushing them deeper and claiming I couldn’t find them. It was late, so maybe I could feign confusion and claim I must have dreamt I’d put them in here? Mom saw my face.

“You found them,” she observed astutely. Mom could see things in the dark that others couldn’t see in broad daylight. “Give them back to me, please?” She held out her petite hand.

I handed her the underwear. She held them up and examined them. I knew she felt the cum. She brought them closer. She sniffed them discreetly, which in the utter silence only made the sniff that much harder to fathom.

“Seems to me like you did something else in here besides just pee, sweetheart. Are you fibbing to me?”

I could not answer. I did not answer.

Mom reached down and very simply, very deftly, cupped my balls inside my boxers. My body jolted.

I heard her swallow. “Relax,” she said. “I’m just checking.”

Her hand was very warm.

My face grew hot.

“Wow,” she loosed a trademark Mom chuckle. “And still horny? Poor Guy. What are we going do with you?”

“M-Mom, what - ?”

“Here, sit tight, I have just the thing. Sit.” She pushed me back further into the bathroom. She made me sit on top of the closed toilet seat lid. “Stay,” she giggled nervously.

Then Mom pulled down her red satin pajama bottoms. She steadied herself on my shoulder as she stepped out of them. Her long tan Mom legs were a softer heft than her daughter’s but still lean and lovely. Then she stood back up. Her pajama top hung low, but not quite low enough to hide the minty white shape of her panty-clad sex. These underwear she then reached her thumbs into and pulled down to her ankles as nonchalantly as if she were taking off a sock. Her bush was trim and tidy and glistened darkly in the night.

I gulped.

She looked at me with that mischievous, un-Momly glint in her eyes. She grabbed the panties in her smart little Mom toes, kicked her heel up, and plucked them for me. She proffered them like a kleenex. I half expected her to say, “Here. Blow.”

“Here,” she said calmly. She sounded so much like Mom that it did, if only momentarily, soothe me. “Use these. They’re wonderfully soft. And I only just put them on before bed.”

Mom had taken a bath before bed. I’d scarcely registered the fact. I’d been in another dimension. She was telling me she’d only worn this pair for about six hours.

“Take them,” she laughed. “They don’t bite.”

“Okay,” I muttered. I took them from her. They were warm. They were the texture of satin.

Mom put her hands on her hips. Her face was very calm, very cool, almost clinical. The twinkling mischief had not yet departed from her eyes.

She was the mother of the girl I had just cum into. Well, into her mouth. But still, into.

Mom stepped back into her pajama bottoms and them pulled them as casually back up as she had just a moment ago pushed them down.

“Well, go on,” she smirked. “Why not give them a spin?”

I blinked at her. I think my eyebrows fell. My heart

She cocked her head. She looked at me with those bright, curious eyes.

I looked down at Mommy's satin undies. My stomach felt hollow. I wished I was not hard. In fact, my cock felt enormously engorged.

“Oh, hon,” she scoffed, and playfully punched my shoulder. “I’m teasing! Go on back to bed.” She gave me her hand and tugged me back to my feet. “Just be sure your sister doesn’t catch you again. Please.”

“R-right,” I said, unthinking, unfeeling, making my way back to the bathroom door now. I opened it. Mom let me excuse myself.

“Guy?” she called after me, like I’d forgotten something.

“Hnh?” I froze in the doorway.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

“I love you. Too. G-good night.”

I paused outside my bedroom door to consider the very white garment in my hand. I took no chances. I stuffed Mom’s satin white panties into my boxers. I was hard enough still that the wad was able to nestle sumptuously into the crook of my erection. I very quietly entered.

Camila was snoring. I crept around to my side of the bed. I slid the drawer of my nightstand open as slowly and gingerly as possible. I slipped the satiny white garment inside. Then I very gently tapped the drawer shut. Camila’s snoring abruptly stopped. I heard her sniffle, grunt, and turn over. Then she started snoring again.

I crawled back into bed. I thought about what was lying there, cooling, inside my nightstand. I thought about where they had been as recently when I’d gotten up to pee. I thought about red satin. I thought about how certain pretty eyes still sparkled in the dark. Maybe that was the real measure of a person’s beauty? How well you could see it in the dark?

"Mm'where'd you go?" Camila mumbled, scaring the fuck out of me. She tugged on my arm to signal that she wished to be spooned.

"Bathroom," I said. I very gladly spooned her. I savored her smell.

"Mm. Missed you," she said.

"Missed you, too," I said.

***

We woke up once again to a silent house. Last day of winter break. Parents were at work. But for the first time in too few glorious weeks, it was once again a school night. The grayness of that fact hung on the air. To breathe was to feel gray dread.

So it was a good thing we had each other for company.

"What do you want to do today?" she asked as we munched cereal down in the living room. She was still in her yellow panties and white tanktop. She was a little funky from cuddling well past our sweat point the whole night through. But I liked it. She smelled like us.

"Play more EYL?" I shrugged.

"Okay," she shrugged, too. "First we should check the news and see if there's any chance of a snow day."

"Oo," I oo'ed in concurrence. I fished the remote out of Mom's side of the couch. I turned the TV on.

Shit, I'd accidentally thought about Mom. I was sitting in approximately her spot on the couch. She sat here with her butt. With her soft, but simply objectively, undeniably sexy Mom butt. And gosh, how that woman looked in spandex. And she was a thrice weekly gym-goer. It was, had for at least a few years now, been problematic. Shoot. How long had this been going on? Was this my fault? Had she caught a whiff of my incest pheromones, and that's what had triggered to start acting so bizarrely? She had taken her underwear off, directly in front of me! She had made me sit down beforehand, I guess so that she knew I wouldn't run away? I almost wanted to ask her why she'd made me sit down. What was that about? If I had been standing, I would not have been able to see a lot of the things I had seen. The darkly beautiful things. It didn't matter how dark they were. They had glistened.

By jove, there was a chance at a snow day. Talk of a possible five to ten inches, that most torturous of estimates. Five inches was never a snow day. Ten inches often, but even then not always, was. Our city's snow removal program was insufferably great.

"Ooh!" squeaked Mila. "Five to ten inches?" She clapped her hands in glee.

"Maybe," I cautioned.

"That's a snow day," she said.

"Don't jinx it."

"Knock on wood," she grinned, and rapped her little tan knuckles on the crotch of my boxers. I wasn't hard. But it was still chuckle-worthy.

I chuckled.

"I love how you just like let me touch your penis whenever I want now," she giggled. She went to pet me more gently this time. She delighted at my cock's puppylike response to her return visit. "Awww! He likes me!"

"He does that to everybody," I joked.

"Does not," she pouted, and now started experimenting with other ways of petting her new cock.

I happily let her as I finished my cereal. She let me set hers down for her. She had grown distracted.

"Want me to take these off?" I asked.

"No, hold on," she grinned. "How about this? Does this feel nice?"

She tried a different technique now, very gently rubbing the length of my cock from root to tip with just the bellies of her index and middle fingers.

I smirked. "He likes it, but it's a little too gentle. You can play a little harder with him if you want."

She gripped my shaft through the boxer fabric. She gripped it hard.

"Yeah, that's better."

"Is it?" She stroked up and down. "You know, it's weird how wrong this is supposed to be. Like, I'm holding your boner. You know?"

"Yeah," I said, giving her perhaps a stranger look than I meant.

"But whatever! We love each other! We grew up bathing together all the time. We just didn't know about this stuff back then, or we'd have probably been playing around like this the whole time!"

"The whole time?" I gulped. I wasn't sure she realized quite what she was saying. "Sis. We had to mature first, you know? This kind of thing. It can go sideways pretty easily, you know?"

"Sideways how?" she frowned at me. Her fingers began caressing and coaxing, acting almost boneless as they massaged.

"Sideways. Like. Well. Um. Sis. W-wow. That feels. Pretty. Uhm. PRETTY good. WHOA."

"I mean, you're my best friend. You're hot. And I just love being around you. What could go sideways? Am I missing something here?"

"Y-you can. You can slow. Down. J-just a bit. Wow. You're really. Catching on quick, there. Whoa." I put my cereal spoon-holding hand over hers. "Please. You're going to make me cum."

"So?" she batted her lashes.

"We're watching the news! I'm eating cereal!"

She took the remote and turned off the TV. She dropped the remote loudly onto the coffee table. She cocked an eyebrow at the bowl of cereal in my hand, and the spoon in my other hand. She grabbed my spoon hand and made me set my spoon inside my bowl. Then she took my bowl from me, and set it on the coffee table.

"There," she smirked. She grinned. She laughed. She peeled off her tank top.

"Sis," I laughed, but my voice was strained.

"What do you want to do? Watch the news? Play EYL? Or ... let me keep practicing how to use my new cock?"

"Language," I swallowed.

"COCK!" she screamed, and pounced on me. She wrestled me until I was pinned on my back to the couch. Her body was warm.

"Okay!" I grunted. "You win."

"I always win," she growled, and kissed me hard on the mouth. Her tongue was so hungry, her breath was so hot, her lips were so soft, so twitchy and shivery and awake to my awareness of them. Her hips jerked. She scooched back a little bit so that she was sitting on my thighs. Her fingers worked fast, tugging the waistband of my boxers down and exposing her big brother's cock.

"Good morning," she said sweetly.

Her fingers resumed their magic.

"Mmmmiiiila," I groaned.

"Yeah?"

"I'm. Getting. Really close," I managed.

"Oh. Well. Hang on then," she smirked. She suddenly stopped masturbating me. Noooo. What had I said wrong? What had been the winning dialog option?

"Wh-what's up?" I spluttered.

"Me first, remember?" she frowned anxiously. "That way we can keep going after me, and not have to take a break until after you."

"Ah," I nodded.

"I can take these off?"

"Please do," I grinned.

"You know," she observed as she peeled her yellow panties down and off her long, lean legs. "When we're both like completely naked, I stop feeling weird about it."

"Yep," I said, and took hold of her narrow, pretty hips. I scooched her up so that she was perched high, higher up, and her sex was hovering a couple inches above the tip of my cock. I was so hard. Her pussy was so wet. I almost, almost wanted to fuck my little sister.

"Can you, um," she started to say. "Wait. Hold him there."

"Okay. M-Mila...?"

She hunched over so she could watch herself do this next bit. She lowered her susie's plush wet folds against the tip of her brother's cock. Her eyes flashed up at me, like: they're kissing!

"Mila," I whispered.

She rubbed her sex back and forth against the head of my cock. It felt unbelievably right. And I loved how it made Camila's eyebrows arch.

"G-Guy?"

"Y-yeah?"

"This still isn't sex, right?"

"R-right," I said uncertainly. What I was watching happen right there in the cold hard daylight of our living room sure didn't look like NOT-sex either. Was it bad if she got precum in her susie? I felt like it probably was. But. Well.

"Gosh, GOSH, oh - it, it feels, g-good," she whined, and made a little whimpering sound. She chewed her lip. She took hold of my cock now and changed position just slightly so she could really start humping her brother. Her lips were spread and swollen, her eyes were wild, and her hips were working her slobbering susie up and down the length of my cock. Her miniature tits were beautiful in the flat hard light, and her nipples were dark and pert.

"Fuck, Mila," I muttered. "You're. Going to make me. C-cum."

"Y-yeah? O-okay," she gasped. She was panting. "Do it." She kept grinding along my cock, sliding the glans through her plush, slippery lips repeatedly, using the tip itself to massage her clit.

I couldn't have held it back much longer even if I'd tried.

"Milaaaaaaa," I hissed, and the hot thick rush of my orgasm tore through my whole body. "FUCK, sis, fuck, fuuckkkk, ooooooohhh."

"Ohmygosh, ohmygosh," she gasped and shuddered as she watched my cock spit up all over her still vigorously humping, grinding pussy. She slathered us both in my cum as it oozed between us. She pressed herself so hard into the steel of me that her labia majora squooshed out obscenely around my shaft and threatened to engulf my head. I found myself distracted by a depraved worry that she might accidentally do just that. Take me up inside her. Swallow me whole by accident. But of course that was not about to happen, right? Even if we were to line everything up as carefully as we dared and push with all our might, there was no way I was fitting inside of THAT. Was I? Oh God. Please?

"Did. Did that just happen?" Mila finally whispered. Her hips were slowing.

"It. Did," I agreed, still gasping.

"Gosh," she whispered, and gave the head of my cock one last loving caress. She sat, carefully, clutching her still fiercely horny vulva in both hands, on my thighs. We both watched my messy red cock shiver and convulse. She lifted one of her hands from her crotch and looked at it. It was slimy with mingled cum and susie juice. So was her other hand. "Gosh," she said again.

"Quick shower?" I suggested.

"Yes. But quick. I'm still horny. You weren't supposed to cum yet!"

"You said 'Do it!'" I reminded her.

"Yeah, but! You knew better! Now I have to wait for you to get horny again."

"So sorry. Come on. Let's go shower. I have a feeling I'll bounce right back today."

***

I carried her out of the shower, her legs wrapped around my midsection, and into the hallway.

"My room," she gasped.

"Hn?" I toed at her partly open bedroom door without breaking our kiss. It swung in toward her messy, brightly sunlit room.

"Y-yeah, go," she ordered, and drummed one of her heels on my butt.

"Not my room?"

"Come ON," she moaned, and started squirming.

I stepped forward into her room. I traipsed half-blindly through the detritus on her floor, unable to see my feet. I could feel my still wet feet leaving damp footprints. I could hear us dripping onto carpet and discarded laundry.

"B-bed," she commanded.

I dropped her on her butt on her bed. She kept her legs rung around my butt. She pulled me into her. Well, not INTO her, but into her. We pulverized each other moaningly, laughingly. Then she patted me urgently on the chest.

"Lay," she panted.

I laid down beside her.

"On your back," she sniffed, and nudged me with her knee. I did as she said.

She sat up and let a nervous shiver get the better of her. I saw her pale a little bit, and sort of lose focus.

"You okay?" I asked, touching her thigh.

"Yeah," she answered quickly, and fixed a piece of wet hair behind her ear. "Listen. So. You know how. Like. I've put my mouth. On you. A couple times now?"

"Yeah?" I said, and my dick throbbed.

"Do. Um. You. Want. To try? To put your mouth on me?"

"You mean, you want a blowjob?" I joked. I couldn't help it! I was nervous! She was twelve!

"N-no," she laughed uncomfortably. "Hey. I'm being serious. If you don't want to, that's okay. I just. If you wanted to? I would be like. I would let you."

I sat up and looked her in the eye.

"Camila," I said, and held her hand. "I love you."

"Ewww," she cringed. "That is NOT what I wanted you to say to that!"

I shrugged. I pulled her into a hug. I pulled her back out of the hug.

"What I mean is," I made sure I had her eye, so she could tell I was being her boyfriend in this moment, "I would love to."

"Y-you would?"

"I would."

"B-but you don't have to."

"I don't. But I want to."

"Yay," she said softly. She raised her fists in nervous celebration.

"Okay?" I grinned a little uncertainly. Like, what were our next lines?

She smiled one more time, then donned a more serious, focused expression as she sat back a little and appraised our situation. She shifted a little, putting her weight down onto the bed instead of directly onto her heels. "Lay back," she said.

I laid back down onto my shoulders.

"So. I was thinking like. You just sort of stay there. And I bring her to you."

"R-right," I smiled as confidently as I could. I had never, of course, eaten pussy before. Much less had someone simply plant theirs on my face. But it was Camila asking, so I felt obliged to give her my can-do attitude.

"Ready?" she asked. She crawled up toward my shoulder. She stayed on all fours for a second, looking down at me.

"I'm ready, sis."

"Okay. Here. Watch your - okay," she moved carefully as she swung her knee around my head. All of a sudden, woosh, here we were.

"Woah," I said, and gulped. I was staring at Camila's naked vulva. Her sex. Which was now directly over my mouth.

"Just. I guess. Start. Like?" she blushed, wincing down at me.

I didn't know exactly what to do, so I just sort of started. I reached up and took her thighs. I felt her shiver a little. I kissed the inside of her thigh. Then, the inside of the other. She smelled nice, sweet and warm and a little bit salty, like her expensive bath soap.

"Is this okay?" I whispered.

"Y-yeah," she whispered, and shifted her weight.

"Should. Should I, like, kiss it?"

"Uh-huh," she shivered.

I kissed her cleft, once. Just gently, with the lightest bit of smoochy suction. I was surprised how simply doable it was. It felt and even tasted like kissing other parts of her. This surprised me, but in the next instant - in the next kiss - calmed me most wonderfully. Here at last was that final fabled bit of my kid sister that I'd never gotten to kiss. Of course it would simply taste like more of her. Indeed, it tasted more like her than any other part of her I had kissed. I kissed her again.

"Oh, Guy," she cooed, and touched her chest with one of her hands.

"Does that feel good?"

"So good," she nodded.

"You taste," I licked her, "so good."

"R-really?" she winced.

"Yes. Really." I kissed her vulva, this time, more firmly. And this time, my lips stayed a little longer, and when they left, a string of her juices came with them.

"Oooh," she breathed, and shivered.

I licked her. I licked Camila's vulva. I lapped up a syrupy fluid that tasted like something a tropical flower might make. I kissed her a little longer. My tongue slipped inside of her, just a little bit. I was obsessed with how much she tasted like herself. The same way she smelled and felt and looked like herself. The same way she felt and acted like herself, and the same way she talked and laughed and moved like herself. This was my sister.

"Oh my gosh," she whispered. "C-can I? Can I?" I felt immediately what she was asking. Her leg muscles contracted, her abdominal muscles clenched, and her pussy suddenly ground into my tongue, even accidentally bucking against my teeth.

I moaned. Sometimes, you moan.

"Yeah?" she laughed. "Yeah?!" She ground a little harder now. She was starting to put more weight onto me with each push. I sensed this taking too long. I already held her thighs. I tugged her downward, onto me, like a seat.

'Sit,' I had commanded.

She sat and cried and asked me to stick my tongue out like the "Whasssaaap" guy so she could rub herself back and forth on it.

I sucked her juices down or else drowned in them. I had no idea what I was doing. The mechanics of how this worked were not something I had ever seen successfully photographed. Too much hid behind thighs or noses or even just the vulva itself. Too much of what mattered was a private dance between tongue and labia.

Too much of what mattered was also, I now understood, the taste and smell and the wetness and the heat. The image of the girl's entire frontal landscape cast in surreal foreshortened perspective. Her own bedroom behind her. The unwittingly sexy paraphernalia of her day-to-day. And the moans and the fingers in hair and the hands on knees and scalp and ears and the sounds of breathing and the words of encouragement.

"Guy," she groaned. "Lick my clit. P-please, please lick my clit, Guy."

I tried.

"Hnng, yes, YES, oh, oh, G-guy, yeah, like, like that, like that, and maybe try sucking it. C-can you suck it?"

"Yeah," I gasped.

"Ohgosh. Ohgosh. That’s. That’s it. M-make. Make me cum," she said.

I sucked her clit, guys. It was a straightforward request. And there was clearly nothing else for it.

"OHGOSHYES. YES. I'M. I'M SO. I'm gonna - I'm gonna. GUY, oh, FUCK. GUY. Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, Guy, you're, oh, you're - you're - yes. YES. YES. OHhhhhhh, GOSHhhhh."

We all go a little silly the first time someone makes us cum with their mouth. Don't laugh too hard. I laughed, of course, but she wouldn't have known it. There was too much else going on.

Her legs clamped around my head. Her fingers dug into my skull. Her eyes almost shut, but stayed open just enough to stare hard into my eyes, too. She was crying. Tears dripped down her cheek. She was cumming. Her lips were pursed. Her eyebrows were clenched. She could barely breathe. And then she squirted. It completely startled me. For a second I thought she'd begun peeing into my trapped-open mouth, directly down my throat. But there could be no mistaking this hearty, strong-smelling girl-brew with urine. It was halfway down my throat before I could decide whether it was something I cared to ingest, myself. But drink it I did. She'd sort of set that bar high for the both of us, hadn't she? We were siblings who swallowed.

Weirdly, something about being her in her room made it feel almost obligatory, too. Like, she was the one going to the trouble of hosting and providing refreshments, so the least I could do was ...

"Oh my GOD," she groaned. Her body slowly unwound, and her vulva finally lifted a little off of me. I could see light again. I could breathe, sort of. "Did I? I'm so - sorry? Did I - ?" she apologized-slash-inquired. She looked like she was wondering if she should be mortified.

"What?" I smiled up at her woozily, massaging my jaw and still very much savoring the sights and sounds and smells of this interaction.

"Did I - did you drink? Was that?"

"Pee?" I chuckled.

She went wide-eyed, tiny-pupiled, as I so bluntly said the thing she had been not-saying.

"Not pee," I assured her.

"Ohmygosh," she laughed, and pinkened brightly. Relief washed over her, replaced the next instant with girly- giddiness. "I came? I mean, I ... squirted? Isn’t that what it's called?"

"In porn, yeah, I guess," I chuckled. “Lucky us.” I licked my lips. They were as fruity-salty as the rim of a virgin margarita at Ruby Tuesdays. I glowed.

"I didn't know I squirted," she giggled.

"It was ... quite a surprise," I admitted. But I hoped she saw the awe in my eyes.

"Oh?" she bit her lip, blushed.

"Good surprise. Good surprise," I assured her, and patted her thighs. She was still straddling my head, peering down at me between her legs. It was cute. I could still just raise my head and smooch her on the cleft. I didn’t. But I could. I loved this.

"Yeah?" she blushed even harder. And now she was chewing her hair. "You liked it?"

"Do you see any left?" I showed her my big teenaged boy mouth, empty of girl-cum, maybe a little dehydrated.

She grimaced even as she giggled.

"That's so gross," she said.

"Yeah, you'd better not do it again," I chuckled. "It was probably the grossest thing you've ever done to me."

"Ha!" she cackled, and slapped my cheeks playfully. "You'd hate that!"

"Yeah, I really would," I said, and almost entirely by accident I gave her a meaningful look. I didn’t see it coming, myself. I guess I just accidentally fell in love with her all over again. I gazed up at her as she caressed the red marks on my cheeks her play-slapping had created.

"Yeah?" she repeated. Her eyes flashed with the same weird new understanding I was feeling too. It looped through my gaze and back into hers. It spiraled, boomed, and crackled in the snowbound silence of the girly bedroom.

"Do you think you have it in you to kiss me right now?" I asked finally, using my nicest, sincerest big brother voice.

"Ugh," she rolled her eyes and pouted. She had to dismount my head. She had to shimmy down my body. She had to lay down on top of me like a too-small girl-blanket whose legs ended way before mine did. She had to look into my eyes, her chin resting on the backs of her hands on my sternum. "You smell more like susie than my susie does," she said, and scrunched up her nose.

I puckered, and closed my eyes.

She kissed me once. "Hm," she said, tasting. And then she came back in with tongue. "It's actually not bad," she smirked.

"You're such a good little sister," I said, and stroked her hair.

"Yeah, but am I the best?"

"Hmm," I pretended to think about it. "Yes."

"Indeed," she giggled.

"Indubitably," I chortled.

We made out, reader. We lost track of a whole hour or two. Heavy snow began to fall outside. Even through the sheer curtains we could see as it plummeted from ceiling to floor. She came on my cock again. Her bare, intoxicating susie. No squirt that time. Probably for the best. We should maybe have had a towel underneath us? But whatever. Nothing could have improved that morning. It was the best. I'm sure you don't want to read about it any more, so I'll stop. Puppy love can be tiresome that way.

"Snow day?" she muttered at one point close to lunch time. She pointed at the pink and white TV on her dresser.

"Oo," I oo'ed, and reached and stretched and grabbed the remote off her nightstand without having to sit up and disrupt our perfect, sweaty, sticky, stinky, fusion of bodies. I flipped on the TV. We watched silently as the little tracker at the bottom of the screen scrolled by, listing alphabetically the names of all the schools and institutions that were already closed tomorrow. It was a short list. But it could lengthen yet.

"Hm," she grumbled.

"Hm," I grumbled.

"Do you like it in my room?" she asked.

"I love it," I said.

"Aw," she said. "That's good. I like you in here too."

Chapter Text

When Mom got home, Camila had fallen asleep. It was 5 o'clock, and I was still watching TV on her little pink and white set. No snow day yet. Mom came upstairs and knocked on my bedroom door. I crept out of Mila’s bed to go open her door.

“Hey,” I whispered.

“Oh, you’re in there! Hi! Why are we whispering?” Mom lowered her voice.

“She’s napping.”

“Oh,” Mom peeked in and smirked at her daughter’s panty-clad bubble butt. Camila had put the pink panda panties back on, fresh out of the laundry, before zonking out. “She really is turning into a teenager, isn’t she?” Mom sighed.

“Uh, what?” I blushed. Obviously, Camila’s butt was blossoming wonderfully. But it wasn’t like Mom to say so.

“You two sleep more in a day than I do in a week,” Mom scoffed, and beckoned me with a look to come with her. “Come hang out with me for a bit while I change out of my work clothes?”

“Oh, uh,” I mumbled, glancing behind me at Camila’s disheveled butt in the murmuring glow of the TV. My dick twinged. “S-sure.”

“Thank you,” Mom said. She started taking off her earrings as we walked into her and Dad’s room. Crucially for my mental health, she left the door open, like normal. Mom changed out of her work clothes with the door open all the time. It wasn’t like she ever got completely naked, just down to her underwear, then into something comfortable.

“I was listening to the weather on the way home,” she chit-chatted as she slid open her closet door. “Sounds like you two might just be in for a snow day tomorrow?”

“Maybe,” I winced, and knocked on the wood of her dresser. “Don’t jinx it.”

She kicked off one pump, then the other, and with her toes nudged them neatly into their parking spot amid the other shoes lining her closet floor. “Ugh,” she sighed, and stood there a moment just bending her arches and splaying her toes. “FINALLY.”

“Why do you wear those if they hurt so much?”

“Because,” she bent at the waist and very lithely touched her toes. Mom was big on these aerobics videos she still had from like ten years ago. Her butt in work khakis was quite shapely. Not that it wasn't always, but. Well. “Nmmm,” she groaned as her back and butt and leg sinews stretched.

Then she unbent, accidentally looking like a model as she flipped her hair back, and then stood up onto her toes. She reached up high, her fingertips just barely able to steady her on the slide rail in the upper jamb of the closet door (which I could touch easily, heh, Mom was cutely small). She looked over her shoulder at me. “See? Being up on my heels helps my Mom butt look good.”

She planted back down on her heels letting her glutes relax into their softer, just-standing-there state. Still bonkers pretty. But then she lifted back up onto the balls of her feet, turned at the waist, and looked at me looking at her. Okay, undeniably, up made for a bubblier butt.

“This is about pump height,” she said smirking proudly at her lovely butt, then she frowned and bent down and rubbed at her sore, red achilles tendons. “These shoes aren’t usually this bad, they just had me on my feet a lot today.”

She rose again with a sigh, and started unbuttoning her blouse.

“Find me something warm in there, could you?” she nodded to the dresser I was leaning on.

I fished out a nice kelly green sweater, soft and expensive-feeling, and set it on the corner of her and Dad’s bed, near where she was currently undoing her top. Her back was to me, so I just quietly let her know I’d set it there.

“Thanks. So. What’d you and your sister get up to today?” she asked. Off came the blouse. She gave the pits a quick sniff. Then she grabbed an empty hanger from the closet and hung the blouse on her needs-to-go-to-the-cleaners end of the rack. She turned now and looked at the sweater I’d picked for her.

“Green, huh?” she giggled. Coincidentally, she was wearing a peridot green bra today. (I was reminded, perhaps problematically, of Camila’s eye color.) “I like green.”

“It looks nice on you.”

Mom gave me a funny smile as she grabbed the sweater and started putting it on.

“It does,” she agreed, blushing a little.

She tugged it all the way on, then checked herself very quickly using a mirror. She made a little pursed-lip face at herself as she tugged her dark hair up through the neck and then slipped it into a quick pony using a scrunchie from a basket on her vanity.

I had a pretty mother. And despite its conspicuous non-effort, the ponytail was possibly my favorite do on her. It pulled attention to her ethnic, orchidlike features. Like everyone in our family, her Latina hair was thick as steel, but sleek and healthy like Camila’s rather than mussy and mischievous like us guys’. Her ponytail swayed fluidly and shone in the pink wintry sunset light as it filtered in through the blinds.

Mom’s reflection caught me staring fondly. I pretended I was looking out the window.

“S-Snow let up,” I said.

She smiled sympathetically, then peered out the window.

“Hm, no,” she said, “I think it’s just a break in the clouds.” She bent the blinds apart with a finger, craned her neck, and looked out at the Eastern sky. “Storm’s still working its way over us. Sunset sure is pretty, though. Glad we get to see it.” She let the blinds pop back together.

She turned around and started undoing her nice flowy work slacks as she walked over to me. She unfastened a tiny hook almost like a bra strap and then unzipped the tiny zipper. Its little teeth didn’t even go ‘zip,’ they went more like ‘zeet.’

Fly undone, she hooked her tan thumbs inside, said “Excuse me a moment,” and pulled her pants down. Mom’s soft, muscly legs looked long on her, even though they were probably about the same length as her twelve-year-old daughter’s. She stepped barefooted out of the khaki pants, kicked them toward her hamper in the still-open closet, and then stood with her hands on her bony hips gazing at me expectantly. Her panties matched her bra, I was pretty sure, though her bra was now hidden again.

“Well?” she said. She smirked at me. “May I get into my pants drawer, please?”

“Oh, r-right,” I gasped, and stopped leaning on the drawer she needed to open.

She chuckled at me and dug out a pair of white and gray spandex pants. These she pulled on as she held onto my waist for balance. Her head was down, her pony dangling over her shoulder, so I confess I peeked down the open neckline of her sweater while she steadied herself, and glimpsed deliberately how her small, plump breasts jiggled and joggled as they hung forward inside their pale green cups. Then she stood back up. Her hand stayed on my waist as she looked at me a moment, face sparkly with affection, and then pulled me into a tight, full, Mom hug.

“My boy,” she sighed fondly.

“My Mom,” I replied, and hugged her too.

“Nmm!” she squeed, and squeezed me tightly.

I got hard. It was sudden and unexpected. But she had me in a full Mom hug!

“Ok-kay,” I chuckled haphazardly and patted her back to signal the end of my half of the hug.

“Mmm,” she hummed, and kept hugging me. I could feel the head of my cock jutting into her lower stomach, blindly wedging its way into our embrace. “Oop - ?” she blinked, and I felt her flinch a little.

“God, s-sorry,” I simpered, and got ready for her to let me go so she could make some sort of excruciatingly awkward Mom face at me.

But instead, Mom pulled her head back a little and looked up at me with her face still close to mine.

There was, to my surprise, Mom.

She glanced down. She pursed her lips and shrugged. Her hand went down, and she held the belly of my cock in her thumb and forefinger. She nudged it to the center of my pelvis. Now it wasn’t angling so weirdly between us. Then she put her hand back around my waist and we resumed our hug. Wow. My cock was still touching her, but now it was less uncomfortable, and weirdly okayly, her gesture had let me know it was whatever.

“It’s okay,” she giggled politely. “You’re a teenaged boy. You’re allowed to be embarrassed around me sometimes.”

“S-sorry,” I said again.

“Don’t be.”

We hugged. She felt soft and strong.

***

Mom went downstairs to start dinner.

I lay in Camila's bed, my head against her pillow, and smelled her sleek Latina hair. The TV was off now. The remote was by her pillow. I sighed and wondered if they’d announced our district’s closure yet. More than half the institutions in our city had already declared tomorrow off.

The sky was darkening outside. It was dark in Camila’s room. I got up. I went to my room. I grabbed a book off the shelf. I came back to my little sister’s room. I dug around for her booklight. Then I clipped it on and read until dinnertime.

“Mimi,” I said gently patting her pink panda butt.

“Hnn?” she smiled, and wiped a patch of drool off her cheek. Her pillow was matted with drool too. I swooned a little. Camila had her whole life drooled in her sleep. She had like Mom a modest but distinctive overbite. As they slept, their lower lips hung open, their tongues pressed to the roofs of their mouths, and their saliva slowly found its way out. It was equal parts clumsy, endearing and, somehow, cutely attractive. Even if it kind of smelled.

“Hey kid,” I said, and fully cupped both of her butt cheeks in my big warm hand. “Time to eat.”

“Mnn,” she grunted, burrowing her face back into her pillow. She humped her butt up into my grip.

“What was that?” I chuckled.

“I’m getting up,” she turned her cheek and muttered. “I just … need a minute.”

She let me keep fondling her of course. And sure enough, I felt her butt soften all the way back into its marshmallowy, fully asleep state. Then she began to snore. I slapped her butt. The ripple bounced through her and back into my hand at just the very same moment she startled awake.

“Wha?!”

“Dinner.”

“Fine! I’m up! Don’t hit me!”

She pushed herself up onto her elbows, stared drowsily at her pillow, then rolled onto just one elbow while she kneaded an itch in her eye and squinted at me. She yawned, presently, and stretched. Maybe it was all in my head? But her breath smelled faintly like my cum. Salty like that. She puckered up expectantly. I bent and gave her a quick smooch.

She grabbed my head with one arm and tugged, then with both arms forced me onto her. She rolled onto her shoulders.

“D-door’s open,” I mumbled as she attempted kiss her way down my acutely risk-aware neck. Her bedroom door. I had left it open.

“I’m just. Kissing. My brother.”

She whined when I pried myself off of her.

“I don’t want whatever Mom cooked,” she grumbled.

“Let me guess, you want me?”

“No,” she pouted.

I cocked my head at her, a little surprised.

“Yes,” she switched her story immediately, blushed, and held her arms up like ‘More kissy now?’

“Fine. But just a quickie.

She giggled victoriously until I grabbed her by her wrists and pulled her up. She yipped with surprise as I crushed her into a hard, hungry, masculine kiss. She whimpered and whined. Her butt clenched in my lap. I could feel her wiggle around and try to find the shape of me. I helped her find it. We humped like that, making out, my hard dick wedged between us.

Camila was still only in panties, and a sweatshirt now. It was my sweatshirt, actually, from years ago. It was huge on her, and it smelled like her. Her pussy was hot. She was wet. She was getting off, her mouth sucking on mine, her clit rubbing on of my shaft. She was gonna cum.

Then there was a knock.

“N-no,” I gasped.

“Ohgosh,” she gasped.

But there was no one in her doorway. Had we imagined it?

“Did you hear that?” I whispered.

“Someone knocked,” she nodded, her green eyes gigantic, her pale gaze twitchy and adrenal.

“It was a knock, right?”

I pulled her off of me. She quickly retrieved a pair of dance shorts from off her floor and scampered into them. She grimaced at me as she cinched the drawstrings and tied them in a bow.

“What just happened?” I wondered quietly.

“I don’t know,” she frowned. She whined nervously under her breath. She paced toward me, then away from me.

“Did you see anyone?”

“No?”

“Me neither. And I didn’t hear anyone, like, walk away.”

“Ughhh,” she groaned. She went to her bedroom door and checked. No one was there. She shrugged fretfully at the empty landing. She came back into her room and pointed at me.

“You go. Tell them I’m not feeling good. If they say anything, like, about if they saw, then just say you were trying to make me get up.”

“We were humping each - ”

“I KNOW, dummy,” she stomped softly. “But maybe they didn’t see? And maybe we’re okay?”

“I definitely heard a knock,” I frowned.

“Just go down. Tell them I don’t want to eat. I don’t feel good. I’ll stay up here. You can sneak me food later.”

“Why are you staying up here?”

“Because!” she groaned and looked at me like she thought I might be messing with her.

I blinked flatly at her.

“Okay,” I sighed. I stood up and made my way to her bedroom door. I frowned at it. I knocked softly just to hear how it sounded.

“Guy,” she murmured. “I don’t think they saw, right? But. Thank you for doing this.”

She laid back down and prepared to fake sick for the rest of the night.

“Come back to me whenever they go to bed!” she said just before I shut the door. I smiled and gave her a brotherly nod.

“Hopefully it’s not a school night,” I shrugged.

“Either way, you’re spending the night,” she insisted. It was dark in there. I couldn’t see her face as she spoke. But I could imagine what it would be like to kiss it. I smiled in her direction, told her somewhat loudly to “feel better,” and then continued to smile throughout dinner.

Nobody said shit. It was just a normal dinner. Except for one thing Mom said.

I had asked Dad to pass the big side salad bowl. I was on maybe my third helping? She’d made a killer side salad, but the thing she said still felt out of place.

“Somebody sure is enjoying his GREENS tonight,” she said. She said it in just such a way that Dad could chuckle amicably and assume she was just being a goof. But when I looked at her, she smirked around the bite of food in her mouth and rolled her eyes at me. Her toe poked my leg. I looked at her again. She beamed, still smirking, still chewing.

Fuck me. But we were a family of smirkers.

I smirked back.

***

“Stay and help me with the dishes?” Mom nudged me with her hip after dinner. We’d all somehow made our way into the kitchen. Dad, to grab the phone. Mom, to clear her plate. And me, to pour myself another half-glass of milk.

“Kay,” I burped.

“Excuse you,” Mom said.

Dad took the cordless into the other room.

“You start rinsing, I’ll clear,” Mom said, getting the spray to the perfect dishwashing temperature before inviting me to take over. She flicked her fingers dry and wiped them on the dish towel she always carried with her throughout family mealtimes. It could dry, wipe, and insulate. It gave her a cute, scrappy charm, the way she’d sometimes slap it over her shoulder to do something with both hands, or fold it into a perfect square before using it as a potholder, or how she’d chastise it if it got wet by accident.

“Here,” she said, already back with her first delivery of dishes. I got to scrubbing, but I was incurably slow and methodical. Mom piled up the last of the dishes, and then went to my other side to be in charge of putting dishes in the dishwasher, or else hand-drying the hand-washed ones. She had a fresh towel at the ready.

As I handed her dishes, she asked me things.

It was all just family-talk. The sort of stuff you’d ask a kid on potentially his last night of winter break. How having to go back to school was making me feel. What kind of classes I had coming up this term. Who I thought my teachers were going to be. Any jerks? … Any hotties?

“Hotties?” I cringed.

“Sure! I’ve been to parent-teacher conferences. I’ve seen those faculty. Some of them barely look older than you guys.”

"And this makes them hotties?" I cringed still harder.

"You know what I mean," Mom rolled her eyes at me.

"I have Miss Carrie this semester for Speech. She's one of the cheerleading coaches. She's ... pretty."

"She's ... pretty?" Mom smirked.

"A lot of guys say she's hot."

"A lot of guys," she nodded.

"Myself included."

"There it is," Mom laughed, and snapped her dishtowel hand's fingers as she put a freshly dried pan away.

I chuckled, too. But then I just sort of went back to doing dishes. I didn't have much else to say about school. I just wanted a snow day tomorrow. And if that only meant postponing school one more day, that was still one entire day I wanted very much to get to spend home alone with my sister. I wanted to prove to her how much I had not minded going down on her - or had that been her going 'up' on me? Mom sensed my quietly pleasant mood and let me finish the dishes without further small talk.

"Okay then!" Mom sighed and clapped her hands dry on her towel when we were done. She proffered it to me, too, so I could wipe down the empty sink. "Let's throw it in the laundry room," she said when I'd finished. "Come with me a sec. I need to start a new load."

"Sure," I shrugged. We'd been having an enjoyable time together. And Camila wasn't expecting me upstairs until after Mom and Dad had gone to bed. Not that I wasn't eager to return to her. But I just had time, was all, if I wanted to spend one more nice, normal moment with Mom.

***

The laundry room was dark.

"Can you turn the light on?"

"Sorry. Yeah. Sorry," Mom said, and did. "I was just thinking," she said, and went into her laundry routine, pulling out a load of wet clothes and tossing them in the dryer. Then she stopped and looked at me.

"Yeah?"

"Do you like hanging out with me?"

"What's not to like?" I asked her, and watched a smile bubble up irrepressibly before she wrangled it back into a smirk. She smirked at me.

"You," she stuck her tongue out at me. "You're as bad as your dad."

"What? Dad likes hanging out with you, too?"

Mom squinted at me. "I'm serious Gael. I need you to listen to what I'm asking." She reached over and shut the door to the tiny, silent room we were in. Dad had gone downstairs with a phone call. Camila was upstairs faking sick. We were alone on the first floor, in a closet sized room. And now the dryer started up in earnest. Mom stepped closer to me so I could hear her speak softly.

"Can I tell you something serious?"

"S-sure?"

"And get a serious response?"

"Y-yes."

"Yes, … ?"

"Yes, M-Mom."

She stepped toward me and kissed me on the cheek. Then she stepped back again. And she looked into my eyes.

I blushed.

"I'm glad you're my son," she said.

"M-me too," I stammered.

"I know that the situation between us recently has been a little … different. And I can see that it’s affecting how you see me,” she nodded discreetly at my heather grey sweatpants protrusion. “Now before you pass out from embarrassment, let me just remind you: I am your mother, and I love you no matter what. You are perfectly welcome to be yourself with me. You can feel how you feel. You can want what you want. And I’m not going to yell at you, or punish you, or reject you. You’re my baby. You’re my boy.”

“I’m your Guy,” I finished the triplet out of age-old habit. I gulped and blushed as she cracked a grin back at me. I was just grateful she’d teed up something for me to say at all. Otherwise, I was at a profound, pulse-pounding loss.

“But,” she said. Her face went neutral.

Mine slackened.

“I need to make one thing clear. Okay?”

I nodded as normally as my nerves could permit.

“If you need to tell me something, anything,” she squinted at me, “even if it’s something a little embarrassing. Then you can take this moment. Right now. And say it.”

She blinked at me. She closed her lips. She pursed them thoughtfully. She nodded at me gently. I could tell her what I was feeling and she would receive it with unconditional gratitude.

I said nothing. I choked. I think I just didn’t have the guts to tell Mom to her face that I had … untoward desires. I could too vividly imagine a timeline where I told her and she broke down weeping. In this tiny, noisy room with me just standing there like a dope, choking at her, Mom reached up and touched my arm. She gently squeezed.

“How about I ask you a few short, easy questions instead? Would that help?”

“Y-yeah, may-maybe.”

“Okay,” she said. “Question one. Do you find me attractive?”

My heart accidentally beat backwards, choked on its own spit, and then started whooping and coughing and thumping its own chest inside me. It held up a finger to let me know it was fine. It just needed a sec.

"Well, of c-course. I'm your kid," I chuckled and almost burped. God, it would have been better if I had. The alternative was still weirdly noisy and had a smell.

“How very sweet,” she cringed and rolled her eyes as she wafted away the stink I’d just clouded the tiny room with.

I blushed.

“Question two,” she held her nostrils shut as she raised her other hand open-palm to my chest. She softly pressed there, as if it was where my Question Two button was hidden. Like she might unlock a secret door behind a bookcase inside me. “Do you find me … attractive?”

My heart bulged, imploded, then turned what felt like bright, glowing blue. I felt a secret door behind a bookcase inside me swivel frictionlessly open. Two spaces that had only ever been two spaces, separate rooms, became brightly, bluely one. I peeked out. Mom peeked in. She smiled and waved at me.

“Hello?” she giggled.

“Hi,” I sighed.

She looked at me with a cutely motherly mixture of excitement and restraint. “Do you need me to repeat the question?”

“N-no,” I murmured.

She nodded. She smiled softly. She very, very slightly cocked an eyebrow at me.

“You’re absolutely beautiful.”

“I am,” she agreed.

“You’re so … “ I blurted, as if I hadn’t quite managed to close the tap all the way after I’d answered.

Mom pursed her lips to signal she was listening, and eager to hear whatever I had been about to say.

“You’re like, difficult to be normal around, sometimes.”

“Ah,” she nodded, blushed, barely suppressed a very fond sigh. “I apologize for that.”

“Y-you can’t. It’s not anything you do. It’s just how you are. You’re … a … Uh-h. You’re a.” I gulped. But I had no spit in my vocal tract. So it was like someone crinkling a paper bag inside me.

“I’m a hottie?” she smirked.

My eyebrows scooted up onto my forehead. My mouth bent up into a grin. A laugh popped out of me. I clamped my hand over my stupid mouth. But the steam just kept billowing inside me. As Mom watched, her gears turning with invisible complexity, I felt myself blow up like a cartoon balloon. Her eyes widened gradually, in direct proportion to my inflationary state. And then all of a sudden she poked me. I burst out laughing. She’d finally done it, ladies and gentlemen. She had discovered my hidden tickle spot.

It was loving validation.

“Question three. You ready?”

I shrugged. I was pink in the face. I was painfully hard in the sweatpants. This was the most I had been allowed to be myself around Mom in ages. In eras. This blue, thumping, funny-smelling space we shared was a Summer’s day of intoxicant nostalgic force. It choked Mom up, too, that’s for sure.

Mom blinked at me and saw something that made her change gears again.

"Actually? Let's save question three for now," she smiled mercifully, and sighed at me like I was a surprisingly early sunset on a too-fun day.

"Okay," I chuckled.

Then, in a feat of cosmic motherly mojo, she renormalized us with a single, quick, squeejerk hug. Secret doorways shut. Cabin pressure normal. Oxygen levels stable. Here we were again, back in the Us Sweet Regular Us dimension. She had done it, the sorceress. Brought us there and back.

"Why don't you go on up? Check on your sister?"

"I think she's faking it," I admitted. Whatever. Small potatoes. And Mom had just performed a minor miracle for my benefit, so.

"I know," she smiled. And she gave me a quick Mom kiss on the side of the head. "But tell her I'm worried 'sick' about her."

Mom mugged at me like she thought this pun was clever.

I declined to chuckle.

She laughed.

I opened the laundry room door and left. Back in the downstairs hallway, I took a moment to regather my adolescent self. Mom had sort of de-aged me in there. My clay was still re-hardening.

"Hey," she poked her head out.

"H-whoa?!" I startled.

"Sorry," Mom chuckled. "I just wanted to tell you that I love you."

"Oh. I love you, too."

"That is all. Thank you."

I nodded, smiled uncomfortably, and excused myself to go back upstairs.

***

"Are they in bed already?" Camila asked, sitting up and grinning hopefully.

"N-no," I shrugged. "But like. I figured I'd drop in. Check on you. See how you're holding up."

"Don't come in here," she said loudly. "I might be contagious." Then quietly she slipped out of her bed, scampered effortlessly through her obstacle course of a bedroom floor, and beckoned me in. She peeked out the door behind me. "Where are they?" she whispered.

"Dad's in the basement. On a phone call."

"Hm," she nodded, understanding. Dad's phone calls could take hours. As a matter of fact, this was why we weren't as online as other kids in our cohorts. Dad could be penalized, financially or even legally, if we ever tried to log into AOL while he was on a particularly sensitive call. Why didn't he just have a separate phone line for work? We asked the same question. But Dad could be very Dad about certain things.

"She was doing laundry last I checked."

"'Kay," Camila nodded. She inched the door shut and then very carefully and slowly, with evident practice, let the knob softly, sub-audibly relatch.

She wrapped me in her I-want-to-kiss-and-stuff hug. Her feet on my feet. Her legs to my legs. Her belly to my cock. Her mouth to my mouth. Her left nostril to my left nostril. Her left eyelashes to my right eyelashes. Her digestive system to my digestive system. Her pulmonary system to my pulmonary system. Her vocal tract to my vocal tract. Herself to myself. Sister to brother.

"Why do I love you so much?" she asked. And she kissed me some more.

"Because we work together," I said.

"It's hard to stay calm about it!" she giggled, and her whole body shook on me.

"Aww," I chuckled and hugged her as tight as I dared. She screamed into my deep, soft, stinky sweatshirt.

Suddenly I flashed back to the laundry room. It hit me like a bolt from the blue. A warm, thumpy call to truth.

"I need to tell you something, kid, and I need you not to freak out," I blurted. Uh-oh. Had I forgotten to fully close my tap again? Shit, I really needed to get that thing checked.

"Kid?" she grimaced. If my intent had been to prepare her for bad news, I had succeeded.

"Kid," I doubled down as pleasantly and normally as I could. I put my hand on her chest. I softly pressed her there.

"Whoa," she muttered, and a little gasp of a laugh came out of her. She smiled at me nervously. "What do you n-need to tell me?"

"Mom. Um." I froze. Camila's response.

Her head had twisted sideways. She had not expected me to go this route. 'Mom?' said the face. It tilted still further. 'MOM?'

"M-Mom just. She just. Told me to tell you," I took a gulp of breath as non-awkwardly as I could. I'd forgotten to breathe before I started talking. "She's cool. With you faking sick."

"You TOLD her?!" Camila gasped, and struck me reflexively.

"Ow," I frowned at her, and gently caught her wrist before she could do it again. She let me hold her. Then she tried to jerk away so she could hit me again. She succeeded.

"Why'd you TELL her, you JERK, that's so AWKWARD, what if she SAW us before, now we can't just say you were taking CARE of me - "

"That story was never going to work anyway," I shuddered, remembering. "But - but hey. Stop." She was trying a third time to hit me. "Listen. They didn't see us. Nobody knocked. I don't know what we heard, but it wasn't your door." I reached over her shoulder and rapped lightly on the door. The full length mirror hanging on this side of the door rattled quietly.

"What?" she looked at me like I hadn't successfully made any kind of point.

I opened her door to where it had been when I had knocked on it earlier. I let go of the knob. I knocked. The mirror rang audibly through the hollow wooden door this time.

"Oh," she blinked. "Huh. So it wasn't...?" She pointed at the door. Her face scrunched up, confused.

I smiled at her, and shrugged, and admitted, "I have no idea. But I think we can relax. And chill out. I promise you, Mom and Dad were acting totally normal at dinner. Neither of them saw. Or they would have definitely said something."

I ushered her away from the door again, back toward her bed, and shut it behind us. The mirror rattled when I shut the door.

"So what WAS that then? We both heard it." She laughed with breathless relief as she tip-toed algorithmically across the rubbish-strewn floor. I had to guess my own path, because I wasn't quite catlike enough to recreate hers.

"No clue," I made it to the beanbag chair and plopped down, content for the moment with this comfy, squeaky, staticky destination.

"Did something fall?" she frowned, looking around her floor.

"I don't know how you'd even be able to tell," I frowned, too, seeing only flotsam and jetsam all around me.

"I don't see anything," she squinted, and pursed her lips. She sighed again. Her shoulders relaxed. She looked at me. "We have got to be more careful," she said firmly.

"Seriously," I agreed.

***

"Do you want to um ... do that thing ... that you did before ... again?"

"Right now? We're in the middle of this conversation!" I waved my hand at the intense new dialog we were having with Tomoko. I didn't even turn to look at her. She was sitting behind me on the bed somewhere. The exact position had changed a number of times in the past hour, and I'd stopped keeping perfect track as I'd grown more and more immersed in EYL's late-game melodrama.

Tim had set us on a whole new, much more righteous, and yet much more sensuously gratifying trajectory with our new and improved playthrough. He had streamlined our understanding of how to please her, and then embossed it on our souls by informing us that this simpler, more compassionate approach was also the secret to unlocking Tomoko's true ending. The one with the GOOD sex. Not only should we not have made a pass at her in the library. But we'd already messed up several times by then. No more. Now we were as one with the game, and with Tomoko. She was our third, shared love. The other corner of our triangle. She was our Tomochan. And right now, the conversation we were having was of god-tier importance. For all we knew, this was IT. This could finally, at any moment, prove to be THE scene. The wily one.

"I know," she blushed. "It's just. Sorry. Never mind."

"Well, now, hey - " I started to apologize. I made as though to turn around, but too late. My sister's hands appeared at the sides of my head from behind. They brought me swiftly and almost ungently down onto my back from sitting. I kept the controller in my left hand. I wasn't sure what this was, what she was doing. Could I sit back up afterwards? She appeared over my face. Her face was red with mischief. She hunkered down, craned her neck, and smooched my confused lips with her upside-down lips, then popped back up and planted her pretty pink panda butt on my face.

I hadn't even paused. The dramatic music continued soaring, mid-flight.

I felt her knuckle at my chin. She tugged her pink panda panties to the side. She slapped playfully at my mouth, and begged me to stick out my tongue. I obliged like the dog that I was. She shifted her weight accordingly. She buried my tongue in her folds. She tasted like hot girly soup. But I couldn't smell her. My nose was being crushed especially and specifically by the stretched-taut fabric of her panties where they bridged the divide between her butt cheeks, coincidentally also where the panda's big pink nose was printed. I grunted with discomfort. I patted her butt. The pat said, 'This part needs to let up.'

"S-sorry," she oopsed, and I felt her leave my face entirely. She peered down at me, through the low-hanging sweatshirt, beneath the upside-down horizon of her naked abdomen, and smiled with embarrassment. "Want me to take them off?"

I nodded and thumbs upped as I rubbed my barking nose gristle.

She giggled, rolled off of me, and quickly peeled off the incestuous undies. Then she got up and sat right back down.

Now my little sister's bare butt crack was in my face. And the rest of her naked lady parts were directly above my mouth, eclipsing it, humbling it, like the alien spaceship from Independence Day. I stuck out my tongue. I tasted her syrupy lips. I parted her secret folds. A tart, silky goo lisped from her lips back to my lips. I licked it and broke it and swallowed it.

Her fingers appeared between her legs, and she parted herself. I saw the pink of her inside the tan and brown of her. My tongue went in. I licked her, and sucked her, and ate her. She tasted pink. Her thighs squeezed me, and her susie juice began to come down in earnest. I drank it like warm nectar, because that's both literally and poetically what it was. Her one hand clutched the back of my head behind her, and in too little time, but probably several minutes later, she came and came. Boy, I felt swell. And I drank her up.

When she had finished giggling, and I had finished wiping my face with the pink panda panties she'd offered me, I gently rolled over and sat up again.

She looked up at me from her pillow. Her eyes were hazy with the aftermath. "You like me ..." she smiled. She pointed drunkenly to herself. "You like this ..."

"Ayup," I beamed.

We laid there and looked at each other, caressed each other, and said nothing you probably want to read for, like, an hour? I don't know. We heard Dad go to bed, though. And later Mom knocked on the door.

"Hey you - oh? You're both in here?"

"YES. Does it MATTER?" Camila answered harshly, drunk on her own girlish power perhaps, or else just overcorrecting in the direction of acting normal.

"It doesn't, does it?" Mom shrugged, Camila's Camila-ness like water off a duck's back to her. "I was wondering if you were feeling any better, sweetheart. Are you alright?"

"No? But I feel better with him here. Don't make him go."

"Of course you feel better with him there. He's your Guy."

Camila rolled her eyes at this old cheesy joke and continued to give Mom her 'May I be EXCUSED?' face.

"Y-yeah, I just hope she's not contagious," I mumbled half-confidently, trying to inject a little normalcy.

"It's not," Camila huffed at me. Then to Mom, "He'd be feeling it by now." She made sure to look and sound uncertain.

"Well, hm. Maybe let's not chance it."

We tensed in Camila's bed. I felt it. The hard shiver.

"With how much you guys have been hanging out, you've probably both got it. I think it's probably for the best if you guys both to stay in bed and rest tomorrow," Mom sighed a little morosely. "It's just ... The timing is a little tragic."

"Tragic?" we said.

"Yeah," she sighed. "I checked just before I came up, and I guess it's a snow day tomorrow."

"WHAT," we said.

"Anyway, g'night. Get some good sleep, okay?"

Camila cheered. She bounced on her butt on the mattress beside me, then jumped out from under the covers and started dancing all around on top of them. She almost stomped on my knee. She twirled her arms and closed her eyes and shook her hair and sang, "SNOW DAAAAAY-EEE-YAYYY!" Then she looked around to see why no one else was celebrating. And she saw her brother and her mother both looking back at her, staring in fact, jaws agape, at this twelve-year-old girl who was stark naked from the sweatshirt down.

"Where are your UNDERWEAR?" Mom gasped.

"Y-yeah! W-where are your underwear?" I tried.

"UM!" Camila blushed so hard she turned almost purple. She covered herself by tugging down the sweatshirt. She glanced around the bed. I pointed discretely to the panties she'd just let me use as a handkerchief to wipe her cum off my face. She quickly, urgently, whimperingly, stepped back into them and pulled them up. "Th-they must have fallen off when I jumped up."

"Good HEAVENS," Mom laughed, her hand clutched to her chest. "That is ridiculous. Gael, how do you even put up with this girl?"

"I - I, uh. I - " I responded, suavely as you can see.

"He knows I'm a MESS," Camila whined, "and he likes me ANYWAY."

"A mess you are," Mom shook her head, chuckling half-heartedly, still coming down from whatever panic-sphere she'd just banged her heart against. "A mess you are indeed. Gosh," she laughed at her own embarrassment. "You startled me!"

"Mom, you're good. We're good. She's just still learning how to act like a human."

"It doesn't come naturally to me!" Camila giggled.

"Alright, okay," Mom winced, her heart actually seeming to throb inside her chest, but she smiled and blew us a kiss goodnight. She shut the door on her way out. She left us there. We nosedived from our adrenaline spike into the fluffy, funny-smelling, girlish bedclothes that awaited us. Her limbs tangled freely about mine. Mine shimmied and danced between hers. We humped and hooted and made each other cum. I made a terrible mess inside my boxers. We took them off. And the next mess she caught in her mouth.

***

Chapter Text

“W-what is this?”

“This,” Mom lifted up the blanket and patted a spot for me, “is the tickle blanket.”

“For me?”

“If you want?”

I stood there feeling like Mom had hit me with a gorgon petrification stare. But she was staring so sweetly. And her was just a nice dark ponytail, not snakes. And she was telling me to come sit with her under the blanket that had for several uninterrupted years now been gendered female-only, from whose purple warmth I had been politely excluded in what I had figured we must all have unspokenly agreed was to be perpetuity. She wanted to tickle my back?

She was braless in a black camisole and gray sweatpants. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She looked like any woman I’d want to let touch me under a warm, shared blanket. But she also looked like Mom.

I sat and she laid the blanket over me.

“Here, get comfy. Did you want to hand me your coffee? I can set it - ” she had already plucked it from my hand and placed it on a coaster on the coffee table.

The morning show was on. I had never cared to watch it, except perhaps on snow days. Ah, glorious, beautiful, schlocky daytime TV. Even the commercials were different! Everything was aimed at the lonely, the elderly, and the impulse buyer. What a treat. I wondered aloud what time Price Is Right might be on.

“Oo, we can check,” Mom squeezed my leg and switched over to the TV guide channel. We were in the family room, watching on the big screen TV. Camila was sleeping in. “It’s just starting!” she said, and flipped to the show just in time for the brassy opening music and the clapping multicolored studio audience.

“Shall we do away with the shirt?” Mom asked, her nails keening about over my t-shirt back in breezy figure eights, rousing my nostalgia receptors like a painter prepping her canvas. I tugged the shirt off and plopped it on the coffee table next to my coffee. I took a sip of coffee. It was hot. I savored the present in its early AM fullness.

“Eleven hundred,” I wagered on the ugly dinette set. None of the contestants agreed with me. I turned out to be way over. “Wow. So it’s a CHEAP ugly dinette set.”

“Hey,” Mom tutted and tapped me on the back. “It’s fine. Not everything has to be luxury class.”

“Says the most luxury class person I know,” I rolled my eyes.

Then she resumed. Gosh, I’d forgotten how elegantly calculated Mom’s approach to back-tickling was. She started off vague and expressive, searching for something, but then gradually began to work in little involutions of order as she zeroed in on it. By the time she was finished with a good back-tickling, you understood yourself a little better, and so did she.

“Am not,” Mom said after a cute delay.

We watched the winner botch a couple of tricky challenges, but then roll a perfect 100 on the Big Wheel. The young man of course went bananas. Bob delighted in teasing him. The contestant’s mother in the audience cheered and laughed and wept for her kid when Bob waved the camera over to her. You loved to see it.

“You love to see it,” Mom sighed, and hugged me from behind. Her warm cotton-wrapped breasts pressed against my bare hot back.

It was a good episode of The Price Is Right. Eventually, Bob reminded us to spay and neuter our pets, credits rolled, and Mom patted my back with artful finality.

“Gosh,” I said. “Thank you.”

“Was it a good one?”

“It was amazing. I forgot how good you were.”

“Yeah,” she sighed a little regretfully. “I missed your back. You were always such a sensitive one.”

“Was I?”

“Ticklish,” she giggled, remembering. “Yes you were. Don’t believe me?”

“Mom,” I shook my head. “Alas. Like I have to tell Camila all the time, I am not remotely tickLOHHNONONOHAHA. Stop! Stop!”

She had found a tiny but insanely sensitive spot just south of my armpit between a certain pair of ribs. She burrowed in spearlike, and drilled a rabid, cackling plea for mercy out of me. Then she stopped and patted me with artful finality, again. “Okay, now I’m really done,” she giggled smugly. “You may swap places with me.”

I blinked, processing her request, as I stared at the visual noise on TV.

“Umwhat?” I mumbled eventually, feeling almost like I was in a dream. One of those where you just can't quiiite get your mouth to work.

“Come on,” she poked me. “You know the deal: No take-backs, No IOUs, Just you do mes and I do yous!”

I mouthed the well worn couplet along with her, but gravely, my back still turned. I could feel her breasts' afterimage on my back, a sweat damp lemniscate beneath my scapulae. Could my back blush? I wondered, and worried.

“Gael,” she said a little differently. I turned. I saw why it sounded different. Looking at her felt like seeing the sky poke through during a storm. I was instantly calm.

“Mom,” I nodded.

“Can I have a kiss?”

“Sure."

I leaned, twisted a little awkwardly, and kissed her.

And I looped through time. I had forgotten the waxy vanilla. I had forgotten her muzzle. I had forgotten the particular rhythm with which she pursed, smooched, and relaxed her lips. I kissed her on repeat in my head as I sat back again and looked at her.

She had matured, too. Her breath was sexier. Her face had a different, softer wisdom. There was a buttery sweet banana smell on her too, by jove, that I attributed to a crinkly tube of prescription-strength sunscreen she’d started using after last year’s float trip incident. Smelling it reminded me of Mom in a green and white bikini. Those had been the days when I could just admire her. When I hadn’t started wondering, yet, if there might be other dialog options I might hem and haw over.

I stood up so Mom could get up, too. She kept the blanket wrapped around herself as she maneuvered underneath to get her camisole off. “Tah-dah,” she said, and poked her hand out to set the dark slinky garment on the arm of the sofa.

“Really?” I reddened, straining to sound impetuous.

“You’ll be alright,” she furrowed one dark eyebrow. She stepped toward me, still wrapped in the blanket, and nudged me onto the sofa. Then she had me sit all the way back with my legs apart so she could sit between them.

She glanced at my crotch as she sat down, I’m pretty sure. I didn’t dare look down to see what she was looking at. I could tell by her face. I just knew in my gut. It was bad.

To make matters worse, Mom’s butt and thighs were form-fitted to sit snugly but not uncomfortably between my legs with her big soft aerobics tushy up against my crotch. She was a slim woman whose cushioning was modest but beautifully distributed. Thankfully, she scooted forward toward the edge of the seat to give me easier access to her entire back.

She had readjusted the blanket about her front so that her bare shoulders and back now lay open to me. A sleek tan landscape of toned muscle, healthy fat, and a smattering of freckles. I didn’t even know what to think. I didn’t want to look.

But then Mom, sensing my discomfort, or maybe just knowing, or remembering, said, sweetly, reassuringly, over her shoulder, “Begin.”

I touched my ten nails in a ring formation to the small of her back, and then began to bloom them outward, blossom across her shivering skin and then split apart and rise on the warm salty breeze.

“Mmm,” Mom sighed, eyes closed. I could hear when her eyes were closed. She sounded more relaxed. Like she was dreaming.

After The Price Is Right came, unfortunately, Jerry Springer, whose show our family had just never loved to have on. It sort of stank up the room, is how Mom might have put it. She flipped back to the TV guide channel. And then she kind of dozed back into her dream state again. She loved having her back tickled. 

It was a pleasure to get to be her tickler. It had been too long. Why had we ever segregated? If there was one thing I had learned for certain from this last mindbending week, it was that far from being grossed out by the women in my family, I genuinely missed these parts of them we'd cordoned off over the years. These were my favorite people. Privacy was one thing. But these were their textures, their shapes, their receptivities to touch, all living components of the persons I'd adored.

We had kept ourselves lonelier than need be. Harder to love. We had made it weird.

“What is it about nudity?” I asked the universe.

“Ha!” Mom laughed.

“I mean it! Why did we decide at some point that it was not okay for you and me to do each other’s backs anymore?”

“You grew up.”

“I’m the oldest I’ve ever right been right now, and I’m tickling your back, and we’re okay aren’t we? So like,” I shrugged, feeling my oats, “I seriously don’t get it.”

“If you don't get it, you don’t get it,” Mom shrugged and chuckled.

“Geez, Mom, seriously. What are we even watching? Can we please change it?” I asked. It was some sort of public access show. A lady and a guy sat next to a big map. They were trying to find the capital of a country I hadn't heard of.

"It's what’s on," Mom answered pleasantly.

"It's old people looking at maps."

"My Dad used to love these two," she said, smiling unflappably.

"Oh," I said.

I sort of felt bad. Mom had loved her Dad. I continued to work my art on her long, lovely, violin-like back. I hummed as I non-listened to her and Grandpa's stupid map show and its sleepy duet of babbling dorks.

I wondered idly if either of these hosts were still alive. They'd be about Grandpa's age, I wagered. I chose not to ask Mom if she knew.

Instead I took that curiosity, melted it down, dipped my fingertips in it, and leisurely, lucidly, calligraphized it onto her bare, warm skin.

She giggled softly and shuddered with joy.

Neither of us had been impolite enough to mention it outright, yet, but I was hard as a rock. I had been all morning. Camila had wrapped her sleepy, greedy fingers around my morning wood when I'd tried to leave for coffee, and had begged me to stay in bed; this had petrified it into an all-day boner.

“Can I ask you something?” Mom said dreamily.

“Mhm.”

“Do you still believe in God?”

“Whoa,” I snorted. “Really?”

Mom waited peacefully for me to answer.

“I mean. If you’re really asking? No. Not really.”

“Oh,” Mom said, sounding a little sad to hear it. “When did you stop?”

“Um,” I frowned. “I’m not sure. Middle school I guess?”

“I see.”

“Mom?”

“Hm?” she sniffled.

“Is that … okay?”

“Well I suppose it has to be, right?” she laughed emptily.

“Gosh,” I gulped. “Sorry I answered.”

“I didn’t believe when I was your age either,” she confessed. She turned slightly, peeked at me, over her bare shoulder. She smiled at me. She did look sad though. Mournful, even.

“What changed?” I asked her.

“Well,” she sighed. She looked at the TV again. Or rather, in its direction. “My dad died.”

“Grandpa?” I snorted. He’d been a cantankerous goofball, and a radiant but brief presence in my early childhood. “Him dying made you believe in God?”

“Well, no,” Mom opened her eyes. I could hear her wake up. “It … made me hope there was something, though. An ever after, I guess, or at least a point to it all.”

“I see,” I grimaced. Spirituality made me fidgety.

“Hope is how they GOT to me, I guess, is how YOU would put it,” she bumped me from behind, and chuckled at her own expense. Her bum humped comically against my hot steely erection. “Ope,” she giggled. And she apologized demurely. “C-careful, Mom,” she chided herself.

It was almost like she was drunk. I took that as s compliment. That meant I’d given her a good tickling. Good! After so many years apart, it was fulfilling to know my homecoming was worth the wait. The prodigal back tickler had returned! And now he was free to go about the rest of his day, right?

“Can we just cuddle for a little?” she asked quietly, her back tense, her head turned just enough to let me see her eyelashes on one side. She scooted backwards again more gently this time.

“Like this?” I muttered, eyes wide. 

Mom put her butt against my cock.

“Mhm?” Mom said.

She laid back onto my chest and pulled her blanket up over us again, across her bare frontside, trapping us inside extraordinary heat. Like sitting at the very reddest edge of the fire. And she relaxed upon me.

“Guy, honey? Is this okay? Too warm?”

“N-no,” I said.

“Good,” she smiled audibly. “Mm. You’re nice and cozy.” She wiggled her rump against my raging hard-on.

“I’m s-sorry,” I blushed.

“I’m not,” she giggled, and ground her butt purposefully, lustily, mind-erasingly up the underside of my Mom-hungry bulge. I swooned. I groaned. I gripped her by her hips, half of each hand on her sweatpants waistband, half of each hand on her bare soft hips, and crunched my horny bones up into her humping, pumpkin-like Mom butt.

“OHh,” she gasped, then realized she’d let our blanket shimmy loose down her frontside, exposing her. She grabbed it back up in one hand and clutched it to her breasts. “Guy, baby, are we funny or what?”

“H-hilarious,” I sputtered. I was grinding hard, rutting up into her, testing just how reckless I could be. Very fucking reckless, it turned out.

“Do y-you like cuddl-ling with me?”

“Still. Just. Trying.” I grunted and grunted. “To get. Comfortable.”

“Oh, here, let me help,” she laughed.

And then she wrapped her hands around the backs of mine and guided them to her breasts, where she pressed them and held them as she settled into place. Her body shifted modes, began to move on me in a way Moms never ever moved on their children.

She began to ride my dick, her ass moving like a pendulum, a wave. She was grinding into me with her ass cheeks, and the motion was traveling all the way up the length of her back. She clutched my hands to her hot sweaty tits as they swam in my grip, her chest skyward, her back arched. Her body was moving on me like she was fucking me.

“Better?” she breathed.

“Getting there,” I panted.

“Oh?” she grinned. She laughed. She pried my grubby paws from her beautifully small Mommy tits and pivoted in my lap. She sat side saddle for a moment as she plucked an errant strand of hair from her mouth. Then she turned and clambered onto me, facing me, straddling my cock with her full horny Mom weight. The blanket was off of us entirely now. We scarcely needed it. The heat of her was enough to melt steel. My hard-on evolved beneath her weight into something sturdier still, something more resolute and pure, crystalline in its intent.

She was a furnace. She pulled my hair in her grip now. She placed her other hand palm down on my sternum. She gently pressed my secret button. I giggled irrepressibly, and she kissed me on my sweaty forehead.

“Look,” she said, smiling seriously. “Look at us.”

“I - I am!”

“What do you see?”

“M-Mom?”

"What else?" she panted. She kissed me hard on the mouth and ground her cunt against my dick through our clothes.

"Y-your b-boobs?" I said stupidly. She was grinding on me. I had no IQ. And technically, I did see her boobs. They were awesome.

"Yeah," she snickered. She sat back and let me look. She reached up and squeezed her left tit at me. “Honk,” she said.

I chuckled.

“You like me like this," she smirked, blushing.

"I love you."

"Oh," she bit her lip, "that was the right thing to say," and I felt her pussy muscles clench on my cock.

We kissed until we ran out of air. When she came up for a gasp, I looked her in the eye and saw her.

"W-what's happening?" I muttered, breathless, my mouth tasting different, tasting like Mom's sweet, warm, coffee-flavored spit. What on earth WAS happening? Why was I learning so thoroughly what all the women in my family tasted like?

"I'm tickling you," Mom whispered, and grabbed the tickle blanket again. She threw it around her back, wrapped us both inside it, then returned her lips to mine. She hugged herself tight against me, crushed herself down into my lap, my incestuous hard-on. Mom's tongue didn't tangle and tumble around inside my mouth like my kid sister's. Rather, hers explored, caressed, and savored. This was the direly kind tongue of a woman who adored me more than she could ever say, do, or kiss.

I was an absolutely shit kisser by comparison. But she didn't seem to mind.

I groaned as she resumed humping me, slowly, intently, with every fiber of her butt. She cooed at me. She took my hand and placed it on her tit, held it there, made me hold her soft sweat-damp breast with my bare palm. She squeezed my hand to make me honk her tit, and a shared breathless giggle escaped both of us.

"I'm b-beginning to think m-maybe we're being a lit-little TOO silly," she panted, and moaned, and the timing of her moan with my upward humping motion made her voice do a funny little warble. "G-Gael," she gasped, and pulled my chin up so that she could kiss me some more. She sucked my bottom lip between her teeth and nibbled on it.

"T-tell me what you w-want," she panted, and bit my ear.

"C-can I?" I grunted.

"Mh-hmm," she panted.

I reached up and grabbed her tits again in both hands. I squashed them together with my palms and with each hand's thumb and forefinger encircled her areolas, like I was giving her nipples finger-glasses. I felt her hot, horny heartbeat inside her. She groaned softly. And then as if on command, I lost control. I took as much of a mouthful of my own mother's delicious-looking boobs as I could get. I sucked first at one fat, Mom-flavored nipple then the other. I let the slurping sounds be loud and childish and ridiculous. Mom both laughed and didn't and grabbed my head with one arm for balance so she could keep rutting hard against me.

Her pussy growled against my cock. Our friction was fleshly and rough. Human genitals can take - and administer, I was learning - quite a hefty beating in the name of pleasure.

"I want," I mumbled around her nipple, and then licked at it with a broad, hungry tongue. "I want your tits."

"Oh, come now," she scoffed, and lightly smacked the back of my head. But she didn't remotely try and stop me from sucking her tits as she said this.

"What?" I chuckled, blushed, and humped hard up into her.

"Mmm - hey," she groaned despite herself, then pushed my face away from her chest for a moment to look me in the eye. She stopped humping me, and a hump or two later, I begrudgingly reciprocated. She peered at me as if she were trying to get me to stop joking. "Guy, babe. Tell your mother what you want," she said calmly.

"I don't ... know?" I winced.

"Well," she sighed. "Then let's pause for now." She patted my chest through my shirt with some finality, then sat up off of my lap, taking the blanket with her, and rolled back over onto the sofa cushion beside me. She set her feet back down onto the carpet, and spread the tickle blanket back out over our laps.

Just like that, we were done. Back to being mother and son. This time, the transition didn't feel quite so magical and frictionless. I was still hard as adamantium. If I came right now it would slice through the blanket. How was she able to just simply STOP like this?

"You alright?" she asked politely.

"Y-yeah, um," I gulped. "I just need a minute, I think. To think."

"Need to cool off?" she chuckled.

"W-well, I mean," I blushed, tried to suppress my frustration, sadly succeeded.

"Me too," she sighed, and fanned our blanket in her lap. "It was fun, though?"

"F-fun, yes," I squirmed. She was fanning the hot, dankly floral smell of her up into both our faces. Did she know she was doing this? Did she understand how pheromones worked?

"Not TOO silly?" she asked gently.

"M-maybe a little," I conceded a single chuckle to her cause. She was really trying to make things okay for both of us.

"Good," she chuckled back, and gave me a side-hug and a peck on the head. "A LITTLE too silly is the perfect amount of silly.”

I took a deep, ostensibly calming breath, and tried to think flaccid thoughts.

“Hey,” she nudged me. “I like having you back under the tickle blanket with me."

“M-me too,” I quivered. My cock hopped in my lap, causing the still blanket to ripple.

Mom glanced down at it and then smiled back up at me apologetically.

“Guy, do you maybe need to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh? Uh-um…!”

“Oh, go ahead,” she rolled her eyes and lifted up my side of the blanket. “If you hurry back, I’ll tickle your back again.”

***

“Oh my God,” I almost buckled at the knees, remembering the exact melody with which Mom had said ‘If you hurry back,’ and clattered the porcelain as I steadied myself on the heavy lid of the tank of the toilet. Jets one and two of cum splattered the underside of the upturned lid. Splurt three hit the back inner ring of the seat cushion. Schlorps four, five, and six dropped directly into the water. Seven, I had to squeeze out by hand. And finally, eight spooled out some seconds later after I’d already flushed, pulled my pants back up, and begun to wash my hands. It was one of those big, banging orgasms that rang in your limbs for a few minutes afterwards.

The instant I opened the door to leave the bathroom, I realized how nauseously hopeful I was that Mom would have the decency not to say anything about what we both knew I’d just gone and done. She was sitting out there, waiting. And she'd promised a back tickle. I had to go back. I really did want that back tickle.

I couldn’t move. I was suddenly and unexpectedly overcome with guilt. It had simply landed on me like a spider. I clutched at my chest, at my gunshot-like heartbeat, and tried to trap the spider in place. I clenched my fingers, crushed it, unarticulated its limbs into the fabric of my shirt. Forced myself to breathe again. Let my head throb once, very slowly and hot pinkly. Saw stars. And then found myself walking back into the living room.

“Hey,” said Camila, lounging against the arm of the sofa with her legs across Mom’s lap under the tickle blanket. For one circus-like moment, I imagined I saw Mom doing something to my sister under the blanket. I only imagined it. But it still threw me for a loop.

“Come sit,” Mom lifted the blanket on the side opposite Camila, revealing her daughter’s bare brown feet and a brief expanse of open sofa cushion. “I do your back.”

“What?” Camila scoffed. “Why? Since when?”

“I told him I would,” Mom smirked and shrugged. “You want one too?”

“YES?” Camila scowled.

“Lovely,” Mom replied. “But you shall wait your turn.”

She looked to me.

“You. Shirt off, buddy.”

“Yessir,” I chuckled. I was okay. This was okay.

And Mom tickled my bare back. She only used one hand, her left, as that was the side of her I was seated on.

Meanwhile, Camila slouched down into the crook of the arm of the sofa, practically laid down flat, and stretched her feet all the way across my lap. Her plump little calves now rested across my freshly-dejismed, still semi-hard tumescence. She flexed them presently, knowingly, mischievously. Without turning my head, I glanced sidelong at her. I couldn’t quite see her face. She was chewing her fingernails, and a curtain of twirls had fallen across most of what I could see of her side-turned, TV-watching face.

I gently, subtly squeezed her shins, where my hands were rested.

She squirmed and shifted, rubbing my cock’s warm belly side to side. A tingle of alarm sang through me. I took a sharp alpine breath of good clean air. I turned my head and looked at my sister.

“What?” she said, trying to sound disinterested in my attention.

“You’re distracting him from his back tickle,” Mom said softly but firmly, with a berry-like aroma of good intent.

God. I wanted to eat Mom like a strawberry. But there it was.

She traced the old, sacred shapes, that tantric zodiac of tickles only she knew. I went primal, primordial, primary-number-like. She unmade me. Then she neatly reorganized me. At each turn of every fingernail, she carefully and methodically toyed with the boundaries of my expectations. I became aware of an old familiar feeling only she could make me feel. I also became aware of my sister’s bare feet in my lap.

Camila had without warning pulled in her feet, propped up her knees, and wriggled her toes squarely onto my cock through my sweats.

I kept my cool. I panicked only inwardly.

Mom said nothing.

Suddenly she burst out laughing. So did Camila. I blushed, turned to look at them, and saw they were laughing at someone on TV. God, the TV was still on?

“There’s something wrong inside my wiener,” Tim had confessed to me, once upon a boyhood sleepover. This memory always worked to placate even my fiercest boners. It was some truly awkward shit. Tim had confided in me about why he always wet his bed. More than once, too, because I always acted like I’d forgotten, whenever he wet his sleeping bag at sleepovers. In fact, to thus day, I could not remember the particulars of his defect if I wanted to. That information had weirded itself right out of my head. But in its place remained an icky imagining all the more potent for its lack of specificity.

Boner, sedated.

But now my kid sister’s naughty little toes started to knead all the more giddily at the fluffier pudge of my softening cock. She mewed a little. And I caught the barest sliver of a glance just before she went back to pretending to watch TV.

Mom’s fingers went on caressing my back, outlining higher-dimensional diagrams on my skin, graceful and affectionate as ever. I supposed if I didn’t complain about my sister’s misbehavior, then she had no reason to intervene, or even seemingly pay us any mind.

Camila’s feet were dancer’s things, angular and callused sure, but also hypnotic for their grace and intelligence. She could do things with her toes, like circus tricks. She could beat me in Tekken, for instance. Or apply Carmex to her lips. Or carefully, discreetly fondle my shaft and balls through my pants. This, as she kept her eyes glued to the TV and seemingly followed what was happening.

For my part, I couldn’t even have told you what show was on. Some daytime talkshow. It wasn’t for me. I watched it like a sleeping man watches the backs of his eyelids.

And anyway, Mom and Camila were PLENTY to keep up with. Mom’s back tickles were improvised baroque masterworks. Camila’s toes knew how to find my frenulum. And thanks to her own recent exploits, they also had an inkling of what to do with that knowledge. I got harder, and harder, and harder until I felt a sheen of nervous sweat break out over my back, like a sudden outgoing breeze from inside my very veins. I shuddered. My hot kid sister was kneading my cock with her bare feet and teasing my frenulum with her toes!

“Unm,” I grunted.

Camila’s toes froze mid-fondle.

“Hm?” said Mom.

“I think I might need to grab another, ah, cup of coffee.” I leaned forward, away from Mom’s delicate touch, and picked up my half-full mug of forgotten coffee.

“Are you making another pot? Would you mind brewing some for me too?” Mom asked as she accepted the corner of blanket I had just removed from myself.

I stood up facing away, and tried to hide my shame by strafing sideways out of the room toward the kitchen. Probably I just embarrassed myself. But it was all I could think to do.

“Why are you walking like that?” Camila snickered.

“Honey?” Mom called, sounding mildly confused.

“Oh, y-yeah, I’ll brew enough for both of us,” I answered.

“You okay there?” Camila scoffed.

“Cami, leave him be.”

“He totally has a boner,” she whispered loudly.

Mom giggled once, irrepressibly. Camila could always get to her. But then she regathered herself. “Ahem. Would you mind handing me the remote, dear?”

“Ugh. Where is it?”

I started up the the next pot of coffee and let myself zone out staring into the small circular orange-red light on the coffee maker signaling that the burner was on. I was playing with fire, wasn’t I? This was probably not going to end well, whatever this all was. Half my family had recently come out to me as interested in me as a sexual playmate. And I guessed I had come out to them, too. So then … why did this all still feel so warm and cuddly? Why did it smell like fresh-brewed coffee? Why couldn’t it just always be like this?

After a long series of gurgling noises, the coffee maker clicked itself off. An additional circular light lit up beside the orange-red warning light. This one was bright green. I sighed and topped off my coffee and Mom’s. I left some leftover coffee in the pot on the warmer. I carried our coffees back out to the sofa.

“Whoakay,” I snorted.

My sister was seated erect and cross-legged between Mom’s thighs, tickle blanket draped across her lap, completely topless. I scoffed and fake-retched in the role of her poor unsuspecting brother. But I think I also blushed. And my boner hadn’t fully receded to begin with, so there was cause for urgency as I handed Mom her hot coffee at her request (I had tried, yes, simply setting it diwn on the coffee table), watched her sniff it sumptuously, smile like the Folgers woman, then slowly sip from its hot black edge and then go “Ah,” at me. Then I got back under the blanket.

Even absent any direct family-member contact, my poor cock perseverated under the covers. He was not merely horny. He had the unflappable swagger of a recently masturbated cock that was ready for the real workout.

But come on, what was I even thinking?

I sipped hot black coffee. I thought hot black thoughts. I pretended to watch this nature documentary Mom had changed it to.

“Okay young lady,” Mom said at last, and slapped Camila’s bare back. “My turn!”

“Mmnngg,” Camila writhed between Mom’s legs. “Five more minutes?”

“I just gave you a full half hour!” Mom scoffed, already pulling off her black camisole (for the second time today, on this most blessed of Snow Days).

“Wha? MOM!” Camila reeled around to find her mother exposing herself to both of us.

Oh, right. After a brief delay, let’s call it shock and awe, I remembered to act grossed out at the sight of Mom topless, flabbergasted at her audacity, and unable to look at such an atrocious display of high-quality nudity.

“Oh, here,” Mom rolled her eyes, and tugged the blanket off of Camila so she could conceal her cute naked breasts like a proper lady. Nevermind that Camila was still topless herself.

Camila whined and crawled around behind Mom. Mom winked at us both as she sipped her coffee and made herself comfortable between her daughter’s legs. I wondered briefly, insanely, if she might try covertly to rub her perfect Mom bum against her daughter’s crotch while she received her back tickle. I mean, I knew she was capable now. But obviously, no, they proceeded to simply sit there, unhumping, like regular run-of-the-mill mother and daughter.

And we watched the nature documentary.

Eventually, Mom thanked Camila for a back well tickled and excused herself to get ready for work. She grabbed her cami from the coffee table, but defiantly opted merely to carry it with her as she sauntered topless out of the living room.

“Yay, Snow Day,” Camila said sardonically once Mom was gone. “What a thrilling start.”

“What?” I chuckled. “I’m having fun.”

“Yeah, doy, you are,” Camila sneered, “you and your gross boner. Does it not even phase you that those are MOM’s boobies?”

“I mean,” I snorted, and only half thought about it, “sure it phases me. But also, they’re boobs.”

“Hers are barely even bigger than mine!”

“And I like yours too,” I shrugged.

“You are SO gross!” she blushed and kicked me with her bare feet under the tickle blanket. I laughed and waved them off. She dug her toes into my shirt, trying to tickle me or something, who knows. I grabbed her right foot and bit her big toe. She yelped. I snorted with the toe still stuck in my teeth.

“Eww stop! It tickles, STAWP!” she cackled and accidentally kicked me in the face. I surrendered, laughing giddily as I tugged her by her legs until she was arched on her back across my lap, the blanket over her bare chest, clutched up to her chin like a child scared of the boogie monster. She giggled unusually, her laughter strained by her contorted torso. “Pull me up,” she grinned. “We haven’t kissed all morning.”

I pulled her up to sitting, then she repositioned herself so that she was sitting side saddle across my lap. My cock strained against her hamstrings. She wiggled back in response.

“Hi,” she smiled at me.

We smooched - by accident - like brother and sister, purely out of habit, then snickered at ourselves.

“We can do better than that,” she pouted.

“If we must,” I sighed, feigning indifference.

“Hm!” she grunted, grabbed my face in her hands, and probed her toothpaste-flavored tongue as deep inside my coffee-flavored mouth as it could reach. I felt her lick the way back of my tongue where the bitter-sensing taste buds were. There was no bitterness to detect. Just smooth, wet tongue. I liked how bad Camila was at kissing. It was cute, and full of surprises, and in a way she was very good at being bad at it.

I admit, though, it felt somehow wrong of us to be fooling around under Mom’s blanket, even if she clearly didn’t mind us using it. We kept things PG while Mom got ready upstairs. When we heard her start coming back down, Camila swiftly and simply slid backwards off my thighs, back into her original lounging position against the arm of the sofa. When Mom poked her head in to say bye, all that had changed was I was in her seat now, holding her daughter’s legs on my lap under her blanket.

“I had a lovely morning with you guys,” Mom blew us a kiss. “Thank you for the coffee and the tickles.” She gave me a sweet, funny look as she said this.

“No p-problem,” I waved back.

“I hope you two enjoy your snow day together. Any big plans?”

“Uh,” I shrugged.

“No!” scoffed my sister. “That’s the whole point of a snow day! Now get out of here, MAWM,” Camila cackled. “And have fun at WORK!” To be clear, she was joking. This was Camila drunk on the promise of a parents-free afternoon.

I was feeling it too, to be honest. A buzzy excitement in the heart, in the loins, in the very middle seat of the front row of my imagination. Like a very good, very stirring show was just about to begin.

Mom sighed at us from the living room doorway. “I just love you guys, is all.”

“We love you too, now GO!” Camila ordered.

“Fine. I’m going,” she smirked wearily. “But you should put your top back on, young lady. You know how sensitive your brother is to the sight of us girls.”

“Disgusting,” I said, and ‘bleched’ for emphasis.

“See?” Mom pouted. Then she turned and left. A minute later we heard the garage door groan open and shut, and saw her SUV pull out into the wintry moonscape out the living room window.

“She’s gone,” Camila whispered.

“Yay,” I smiled.

We undressed underneath the tickle blanket, hurriedly and unceremoniously.

“I hope you’re ready for how horny I am today,” she growled as she climbed aboard my naked lap.

I sighed happily as my hands found their favorite new spots on her perfect young butt, her slim waist, her smooth hips, her pert booblets, and the side of her soft, silky neck. She sighed too, but then giggled as if she had just remembered something hilarious.

“What?”

“My butt. Is on. Your PENIS,” she hooted, eyes glinting, and she wiggled her bare buttocks on my boner, which I admit was stiff. I humped up against her a bit, in return. She was hot to the touch, hot to my cock, and hot to the incest-loving part of me. I could hardly believe her boobless, barely pubescent nudity was as much a part of me now as my own right hand. I squeezed her close against me, my palms on the soft cheeks of her bum. My cock strained at her. We made out and hugged and humped until things started to get so wet down there we could no longer ignore the hazard we posed to the upholstery.

We agreed like hurried animals to relocate to the floor. I stood with Camila hugging me, shoved aside the coffee table with my foot - not too hard, minding my coffee - then knelt and laid my skinny brown belle on her back on the carpet. For a second, I knelt there between her legs and admired the girl smiling up at me. She was so happy. She fixed some hair behind her ear. Then she rolled her eyes at me.

“Okay, I get it, you like me. Quit staring at me and kiss me.”

“Okay,” I said. I grabbed her under her knees. She flinched, yipped with surprise, as I pushed her knees up to her chest.

“G-Guy?” she blushed as I stared hungrily, unabashedly, at her profoundly beautiful vulva. Her plump outer labia opened. Her glistening inner labia were only just parted as if shy, each lip two-toned cocoa without and pink within. Her child-sized clitoris still hid beneath its hood, but the flush within her skin still betrayed how cutely erect it probably was. An aroma, challenging and sweet, wafted up from a warm, dark, secret place. The smells of my little sister drifted into my nose, into my memory banks, and pulled the whole of me inside out into the present. Here we were, Guy and Mila, on the living room floor, in our empty house, on the morning of what might have been the last proper day of our childhoods.

“Are you just going to stare, or …?” Camila cringed, sounding as embarrassed as she looked. Oops. This was a silly pose to hold a naked person in for too long. I chuckled apologetically, asked her to take over holding her knees for me, and then slowly caressed her upturned hamstrings all the way down to her buttocks as I scooched back and lowered face between her legs.

I kissed her stomach. She giggled. Her tummy hopped like a bunny. Then I kissed her belly button. She was an innie up here too. Her little girl skin was hot to my lips and my cheeks and the tip of my nose. I kissed my way down past her belly button, lower, lower. I kissed the flat ticklish pillow of her pelvis, down past where her panty line would have been. I kissed her little smooch-sized parcel of newborn pubic hairs. I kissed her hamstrings, her taut hot leg muscles, and tasted the salt of pheromone-rich girl sweat. God, I had always found Mila’s various funny odors so cutely tolerable, but this was way past tolerable. This was intoxicating. This was dangerous. I almost wanted to eat my kid sister.

I lost control. I grabbed her butt cheeks in both hands and dove in face-first, forgetting to be careful, and lapped her flat-tongued from perineum to pubes. I smacked my lips and savored the flavors, close-eyed, like a sommelier. Tangy, musky, faintly sweet, like a sour plum. I took another juicy bite. It was just as good the second time. I slid my tongue up through her folds.

My little sister squeaked. Then she moaned.

Her fingers clawed and relaxed and then clawed my head as I kissed and licked her delicious little susie. Her plump labia and their two-tone pinkness, the flat surface of her perineum, the damp skin at the base of her crotch where I would find the source of her pungent scent. I stuck my nose and lips in her inguinal creases, sucked at her flesh, and let whatever vocalizations this inspired to erupt.

“Ohhmygod, Mila,” I grumbled. I lapped at her again. I sucked her little clit. I smooched it. Her back spasmed off the rug.

“Y-yeah?” she snicker-giggled. “You like m-making out with Miss Susie?”

“Mmmn,” I groaned, and did in fact make out with Miss Susie. I slurped obscenely, making ridiculous, joyous noises.

Her hips gyrated, her legs stiffened. The taste of her juices coated my mouth, salted my lips, stuck to my chin. Her whole body arched, her stomach bulged. I held her legs firmly but with my left hand slid my palm under her buttocks and up to the small of her little back.

“I’m gonna - I’m gonna - I’m gonna - !” she whimpered.

I felt her pussy spasm in my mouth. It felt so good I moaned in reply. I held my little sister’s pussy in my mouth and sucked and licked. She grabbed my hair, her breath came fast and ragged. She let out one final long squealing sound.

“Uuhhhnghhh … haaah … haaaaah … oh my GOD, Guy - ! Oh, god. Guy. Ohmygod, I love you so much. You - you - youuu…!”

A jet of hot girl juices spurted from inside her into my mouth.

I didn't swallow. I let my little sister fill my mouth. The flavor was mild, tangy, faintly sour. It was her and only her. I swished, considered, appraised. I took due care, even kind of chewed it, then finally swallowed. I don’t know what the fuck was wrong with me. That was my little sister’s ejaculate.

Camila flopped her head and back onto the rug, panting, chest heaving. She let her knees down slowly and lazily onto the carpet, and let me lay down next to her. She lay with her eyes closed. I just watched her face as her chest heaved with giggly, post-orgasmic vim, and watched the small bumps of her breasts as they rose and shivered and fell.

“I squirted again!” she proudly, gigglingly announced.

“Yup,” I said, grinning at her with my head propped on my fist. I licked my chops and burped.

“Ew,” she scowled even as her eyes beamed up at me.

“Again?” I said, and gently caressed her slit.

“N-nono,” She flinched wildly and grabbed my wrist. “Give a girl a minute, GEEZ!”

I chuckled. She relinquished my hand. I used it to fix another piece of hair out of her face.

We smiled at each other like insufferable dorks in big dumb love with each other.

“I like you a lot,” she whispered.

“I gathered,” I said.

“Do really you like me as much as I like you?”

“Excuse me?” I snorted. “Do you need me to prove my love again?” I joked, licking my lips as I gestured to her steaming, perfect crotch.

“Yes,” she grinned. “But in a little bit. For right now let’s just be cute like this.”

“If you say so,” I sighed.

“Kiss,” she pouted.

I kissed her.

“More,” she pouted.

I kissed her more. More turned into sucking, licking, nibbling, teasing, necking, fooling, smooching, and just like that I was back to glorifying her susie with my lips, teeth, and tongue. Several fast-flying minutes of this earned me another very satisfying grade schooler orgasm. No squirt this time, alas. But she had filled my cup plenty of times, regardless, just from her endless stream of juices. I rolled her on top of me and guided her back to sit astride my face.

It was my favorite view. I think it was hers too.

We got really, really lost in time.

“Ugh, where did I leave you this time?” Mom barked as she came stomping in through the front door. Her SUV idled outside. We hadn’t heard her pull back into the driveway. We hadn’t heard her car door open and shut. We hadn’t even heard her key in the latch.

She stormed past the living room entryway and directly up the stairs with a harried look on her face. She had forgotten something, apparently.

“Ah-HA!” she cried, victorious, from upstairs.

Then she came prancing back down, clutching her ID badge by its lanyard. This time she paused to look in on us. We were snuggled under the tickle blanket watching TV like a couple of normal everyday siblings. The blanket was pulled up all the way to both our chins so that my socked feet and hairy shins poked out the bottom. Our clothes lay hastily piled in our laps beneath the blanket. The coffee table was crooked, but more or less back in place. We’d tried.

“Hey,” she smiled. “Look at you two.”

“H-hi, Mom,” said Camila somewhat awkwardly. The stinky steamy heat inside our blanket thrummed with our conjoined anxiety. Neither of us was touching the other, but neither of us needed to. Shock and terror had us bound by our very hearts.

“Cozy enough under there?” Mom smirked.

Camila went pale. I blushed.

“Forgot my stupid badge,” Mom said and held up her quarry. “Again.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Way to go, Mom,” Camila said.

“I know, I know,” Mom pretended to curtsy. “I am a very impressive person.”

“Right,” I said.

Camila rolled her eyes and pretended to be more interested in the TV. Lord, had that thing actually been on this whole time?

“Well,” Mom sighed again. “Back to winter wonderland I go.”

“Drive safe,” I said.

“Uh-huh,” Mom nodded, turned to go, then hesitated. She lingered in the doorway, keys and purse and things jangling, and squinted at us. “Hey. You two. Look at me.”

We already were.

“I’ll be home late. So will Dad, most likely. Feed yourselves, stay warm, and try not to watch too much TV, okay?” She gestured dismissively at the show neither of us was actually watching.

“Okay,” we answered diligently.

“Alright,” she sighed again. Poor lady. Working on a Snow Day. She made for the front door. She opened it wide. Even from under the blanket we felt the icy draft shiver into our house. Mom’s jangly person stepped audibly back outside into the bitter knife-sharp wind and the clomping, crunching snow. We heard her reenter her vehicle. We watched her back out and drive away. We found each other’s hands under the blanket and clenched tightly.

“Holy. Moly,” Camila whispered.

“Maybe let’s be more careful from now on,” I suggested.

Camila gulped, shivered, and tilted sideways onto me. She rested her head on my shoulder, I rested my cheek on her head. Somehow we calmed each other down. Still couldn’t have told you what was playing on TV.

“Guy?”

“Mm?”

“Wanna play EYL?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

She hugged me. I hugged her back. We quietly redressed under the blanket, turned off the TV, and got up from the sofa. Camila helped me fold the blanket back up, then we left it draped over the back of the sofa how Mom liked. We hugged once more for good measure. She let me squeeze her butt and fondle her. In fact, she liked it a lot.

“Mine,” she grunted and pulled my face down to hers.

“Oof,” she muttered. She scrunched her nose up at how my face smelled. “I still can’t believe you like licking me down there.”

“Very much so, yes,” I grunted.

She giggled as I kissed her all the more intently, groped her, and now sniffed my own face’s smell bouncing off of hers.

***

Back up in my room, we couldn’t help ourselves. I practically tore her clothes off of her. She raked mine off, too. I gnawed on her. She chewed on me. I sucked her nipples. She pushed me onto my butt on the side of the bed. She climbed onto my lap. She grabbed my cock and mashed the hot red head into her sweet brown vulva.

“Ugggh,” she groaned. “I wish you FIT.”

I humped up against her. The hot wetness of her pussy slid over my glans and against my frenulum, over and over, her hands squeezing, pressing my cock against her, using me like a toy to rub her little girl clit. It was so sexy, and also kind of hurt a little.

“I kinda have to pee,” she whimpered as she worked her clit.

She was going to cum. I held onto her bum as she did. Her hair swirled in the air like an angry little cloud. Her butt bounced in my hands. Her breath hissed through clenched teeth. I kissed her. She came hard, shuddering. A spasm rocked her body. I hugged her as she grunted through it, squeezed her so her naked little body wriggled and rubbed against me. She squirted hard three times all over my lap and, subsequently, all over my bedcovers. Then she squiggled free of my grip, let herself down onto the floor, and started licking her juices off of me.

I don't even want to go into how mind-melting it is to have your little sister slurp and suckle her own slimy wetness off your thighs and cock and scrotum.

I picked her up by her armpits.

“You don’t have to do that,” I kissed her.

She thrashed like a marionette trying to get free of her strings.

“Let! Me! Go!” she kicked.

I did. She shoved me onto my back, swung her leg around my stomach, and sat with her behind to me as she hunched over and resumed sucking my cock.

I yelped when I felt her little teeth on my head. She was going at me like she was eating an ear of corn, but with much less control and much more intensity. I was as hard as I could be, but the rest of me laid here hungrily eying my sister’s raw, sweat-shiny backside. Feeling emboldened by just how feverish she was, I grabbed her by her ankles and tugged her haphazardly, up the length of my body.

I wanted to eat her butt. I wanted her to sit on my face again. I wanted her to suffocate me and cum in my mouth and give me another mouthful of her juices.

She wanted to eat my cock whole, and then my balls, and then probably the rest of me. She groaned excitedly, excessively, as I plugged her anus with my nose and slipped my tongue into her molten hot, plump little puss. I had to keep lifting her and shifting her forward to keep her little clit within my reach, but that didn't slow us down at all. I loved the taste of her and I was so lost to lust.

Eventually she pulled forward again. I could sense a change in her movements and heard the squishing sounds of her playing with her little puss and rubbing my saliva around. Her wetness dribbled onto my face. She masturbated furiously right, RIGHT there. I stuck my tongue out and caught an errant fingernail by mistake.

“I’m. Gonna. P-peee,” she groaned.

“Seriousllghgh?” I gargled as all at once she lowered herself onto me again and started riding me, backwards, cowgirl. She slid her ass back and forth against my nose, crushed my sinuses with abandon, and mashed her full weight against my tongue. My tongue went almost numb from the misuse. It was incredible.

My cock slipped in and out of her antsy, frazzled hands. Her face occasionally bumped into my glans, or her hair got tangled in her grip, or she got overzealous and gagged with only about a third of my length in her throat. Some well intentioned subroutine still meant to get me off into her mouth, to get my cum into her belly. But I didn’t have time to enjoy the moment or even properly realize what was happening because it happened so, so intensely. Her ass, hole and crack and all, was beating my poor nose runny. Her pussy was not just wet but actively secreting, drizzling, down the back of my outstretched tongue. In little windows of opportunity, I gulped, glugged whatever had pooled in my throat, and gasped fir air.

Her whole body, from her bottom to her chest and all her fingers and toes and her tummy and back, went tense and still. Her spine went rigid.

My cock throbbed jealously at what felt like his little lover’s umpteenth orgasm of the morning. She gripped him in both hands. She screamed into my groin. A hot gout of girl-cum jetted from her susie and into my open throat. I drank it with woozy gusto. Then more came. This time it didn’t just spurt, it sprayed and sprayed. And then I realized it was pee. Ah, fuck. Well.

I choked. I spluttered. I coughed. She peed all over my face. All over my bed on either side of my ears. I opened my mouth to catch the hot, salty stream. I let her fill me like a cup. Then I swallowed while she peed all over my lips. Then I opened back up and let her fill me up again. This was fucking nasty. This was fucking nasty. I was barely able to think, to feel, or to do anything but chug her hot girl piss into my stomach. This somehow made more sense to me then letting it soak my mattress. Unlike my kid sister with the hair trigger bladder, I no longer slept with a mattress protector under my sheets.

“Ohhhhh,” she groaned into my thighs, clawed at my leg hair. “Ohno, ohno, ohno…” she whimpered.

Finally, the stream tapered off.

Camila slowly rolled herself off of me. We were both still so out of our minds with lust and hormones and raging horny animal want. She immediately spread herself for me. Her pink slit, puffy, swollen, dripping with pee, drool, spit, girl juices.

“Lick,” she commanded. “L-lick me clean.”

I did. I went right back at it, mashing my nose back into her pussy lips. I was hungry for it. She didn't stink, at all. Not like sweat. Her scent was raw and intense. Pungent like sweat is pungent, but with a warm, spicy, musky, sex smell to it, and the sweetness of a fruit or nectar or candy from another country, the kind you can’t even tell what it is by the picture on the wrapper.

“Ffffuck,” she growled.

I licked and kissed and sucked her raw. I took her clit back in my mouth, my hands gripping the back of her thighs and ass. I tried to devour her.

Camila gripped the covers tight as another orgasm rolled through her. She lifted herself slightly and held me close to her steaming crotch by her feet. She whimpered and hissed and mumbled into my mattress, the springs creaking with her spasming weight. She clenched her ass hard. It pressed my nose painfully up against her. Her pussy throbbed. A long, high-pitched cry rose up out of her throat and reverberated around my bedroom. She kicked her legs a bit, I think? I wasn’t really keeping track anymore. My ears were full of her cries of ecstasy and her hot wet pussy juices and the scent of her ass. I had forgotten I had lungs at some point and I think I was trying to just drown myself in her, which, yep, sounded like an excellent idea to me at this point.

She flopped backwards off my face and onto the covers beside me, still shuddering.

“YOU,” she gasped rapturously, and slapped me backhanded across the chest. Then she left her little hand there, limp, twitching, spent. “YOU ARE AMAZING.”

“Urp,” I burped. Something gurgled hotly, menacingly deep inside me. All of a sudden I needed a waste bin.

I belched hot piss and pussy flavored puke into the trash can under my desk. I can only imagine how this looked and felt to behold for my delirious, slap-happy sibling. My bare ass clenching in the air. My spine arching. My wretched noises bouncing off the hollow wooden backboard underneath my desk. There were stale Cheerios down here. One stuck to my forearm. Here, too, was a Hot Tamale. I saw it and gagged, barfed again. Eventually, I was empty. I withdrew from under my desk. I re-righted the desk chair I’d toppled. I sat down, plopped really, woozily and waited for my vision to return to me. The image of my nude kid sister in repose on my wet, disheveled bed appeared like a Polaroid slowly developing in front of me. The smells, too. I burped again, but kept a careful grip on my gag reflex.

“I drank,” I gagged a little, “your - y-your pee.”

“Yep,” is all she said. I could faintly discern the unabashed bliss in her pale green eyes.

“Never again,” I held up a finger. “Please.”

“Sorry. Accident,” she giggled and shrugged lazily. “You didn’t HAVE to drink it, you know.”

“Ugh,” I moaned, trying not to believe her.

“Do you still love me?” she asked.

I burped once more. Kept it down. Then took a steadying breath.

“Yes,” I muttered gingerly. “But can you help me, like,” I gestured grimly at my bed, “clean up?”

“Right now?” she pouted.

Another wrong-bellied lurch from deep inside. I spun and dived for the trashcan.

False alarm.

“Fuck,” I muttered. Stood again. Winced at the pooled liquid contents of my waste bin. “Let’s start with this.” I stooped, cinched the can liner shut, double knotted to be safe, then took it all the way out to the bin in the garage. Yes I was naked. But I had socks on, so it was fine. Actually, it was refreshing.

As I got back up to my room, my naked little sister elbowed past me out the door clutching all my covers.

“Help me with the laundry?” she asked.

I nodded, followed her, and was rewarded with a nice eyeful of Camila’s naked butt.

“Gosh,” she snickered as we stuffed the soiled bundle into the wash. “Stinky.”

“Don’t,” I groaned. “My stomach is still upset with me.”

“Like I said,” she raised both hands defensively, “not my fault. Technically speaking.”

“Just go,” I said, pushing her out of the cramped, piss-smelling laundry room and back out into our brightly sunlit, odorless main floor hallway. Snowy bright white light bounced around the tiled hall through various windows from adjoining rooms. Camila’s bare feet made soft smooching sounds as we padded across the chilly tile back to the stairs. As I followed her up the steps, she crawled slowly, teasing me with the view she was providing, and peeking frequently to see how bothered I was.

“Yoooou drank my peeee,” she teased.

“Seriously stop,” I groaned, and put up a hand pleading for her to give my guts a break.

But she just rutted backwards into it, high-fiving my open hand with her soft bare ass.

I grunted with displeasure, then chuckled despite myself.

“Again!” she demanded, giggling like a child, and waving her butt side to side at the ready.

I sighed and put my hand back up.

***

“Do you think we’ll actually get to have like ACTUAL sex with Tomoko?” Camila asked idly as she tickled my back.

“Maybe,” I shrugged. I was tidying up our in-game inventory. We’d let it grow cluttered. The only things we truly needed right now were in our hotbar. The rest could go in storage, or else I could sell it at the second-hand shop across the road from our little house.

She kissed me on my back. I flinched, pleasantly surprised. Then she giggled. I now had gum stuck to the skin of my back.

“What the?” I felt at it, pried it off. It stuck, stretched, and then finally snapped free. I wadded it back up and dropped it in the waste bin, which now sat at my feet (just in case) with a fresh clean liner.

“Thank you,” Camila said sweetly. “I was done with it.”

“You are a terrible girlfriend,” I grunted.

“Am not.”

Tomoko led us around the garden she and her classmates had been tending. Then a curious new dialog option appeared, one Camila and I had never seen before. We had been through this very sane scene in our previous play through. It was supposed to end with Tomo-chan confiding in us that she liked to let her mind wander whenever she was in the garden, at which point if we asked her “... to thoughts of what?” then she would demure, blush like the repressed anime girl that she was, and hurriedly change the subject back to gardening.

This time, however, we had the option to present our beloved kid sister with a gift. Gifts in EYL were significant things. They could rapidly increase a character's heartpoint score. They could unlock new features of a character relationship - the ability to visit them in their homes, or to take them on dates, or to study together with them during exam weeks. Gifts could also trigger special cutscenes.

There was only one thing this could mean, in our current situation. Our heartpoint score with Tomoko was, of course, already at max, and had been for 90% of our playthrough, thanks to Tim. We also had the full suite of relationship "abilities" with Tomo-chan, including helping her at bath time - which, yes, included scrubbing her back while both our character and her were butt naked; but alas, the whole bathing together thing was perceived as non-sexual by the Japanese siblings, and anyway, cartoon clouds of steam obfuscated anything that might have been interesting to look at. Suffice to say, though, THIS never-before-seen gifting opportunity, here in the privacy of this adorable garden, and as the sun was just beginning to set no less, was a thrilling prospect to these real life American siblings.

"What do we give her?" Camila chewed her hair anxiously. Suddenly she was perched on my back, her chin on my shoulder.

"It's obvious," I grinned. I had just gotten done moving this very gift to the front of its column in the inventory menu. I plucked it out and offered it to the little cartoon girl. It was a pink and white panda holding a red rose.

Camila squealed into my ear, and slapped at my back.

Tomoko stared down at it. The screen panned to the panda's big beady black eyes as her cartoonish cartoon hands grasped it gently by the shoulders, then the little rose between the paws, and finally the blank name tag around its neck. She lifted it to her face.

“What will you name it?” our character asked.

Camila slapped at me again and giggled and I shushed her to no effect.

The screen went dark as the gift's text dialog opened up, with a bright, gushing, sparkle filter all over like the background was made of solidified orgasmic energy. We had attained Tomoko’s fondest possible awakening. What awaited us was anyone’s guess.

The sparkles faded away one by one until, magically, the sole remaining glint was from a tear in Tomo-chan’s eye. Sorry, reader. Long story short, pandas were super important to Tomoko, roses reminded her of her (our) deceased mother, and this particular in-game day was the anniversary of the woman’s passing. Our in-game father had been called into work again (typical). So we had in fact elected to go to the garden by way of lifting Tomo-chan’s mood.

And now Tomoko began to weep. She hugged the panda doll tight as she admitted, “I don’t know what to name her.”

“Good grief,” I said excitedly.

“Shush,” Camila said, hypocritically I might add. She was bouncing rapidly, almost vibrating, on my bed.

Our character knelt down to hug Tomo-chan.

Our hug was accepted.

This was very special. Tomo-chan was usually very touch shy. We could hug her if we really went out of our way to get her alone and then moved slowly to get her attention, then we could hug her. But this was a hazard to her heartpoint score. Something to do with the trauma of losing her mother, we supposed.

“Y-you’re holding me,” Tomoko said.

Our character nodded.

“You … love me.”

Our character blushed, nodded again. Then a concerned question mark arose from our head.

“It’s okay. I … like it.”

And so the hug continued. The music shifted tones, from something like pink to scarlet.

“Big Brother? Do you think Mommy would … understand if … if we … ?”

And BAM, we kissed Tomoko. Or she kissed us. Our character’s faces snapped together and the music swelled to hot air balloon fullness. The camera panned, tilted up to the clouds, and then the whole world turned white.

There were no more dialogue options now.

We arrived back at our empty, Dad-free home, and Tomoko led us by the hand to her room (which, as it was rural Japan, was also Dad’s room, but whatever) under the pretense of wanting me to help introduce the pink panda plushie to her new room. Once in there, Tomo-chan invited us to sit and pray. As she led the prayer, she explained to the panda who we each were, who Dad was, and incidentally, who our Mom had once been.

Camila fully wept. It was a terribly sad, sweet scene.

Then Tomo-chan said to the panda that she had a confession to make.

Camila’s hand clawed its way into mine, then held on tight.

“If you want, I can be your Mommy,” Tomo-chan offered the inanimate pink object, “and … if he wants … Big Bro can be your Daddy?”

Tomoko looked to us now.

Oh, my misrake, there was one more dialog choice awaiting us:

> Accept

> Decline

> Touch her

The answer was not immediately clear. Camila was crying like a little girl and so she claimed she didn’t know what to do. She shrugged and sad-laughed and told me just to go for it. It felt … not incorrect. I mustered up my big brotherly courage, and made my selection.

Our character reached out and touched their little sister’s cheek. She nuzzled our hand. She kissed our hand. Then she blushed hot pink and apologized.

Our character shook his head no. No need to apologize.

Tomo-chan blinked at us. She blinked at the bear. She nodded briefly as she said, “Amen,” and then she pounced over the plushie and onto us, smothering us in kisses and tears and bouncing animated hearts.

Camila cheered, and rolled over top of me, into my lap, and gave me kisses from below. Her tears salted my lips and cheek and chin. I snorted in horny charmed amusement and tried to reciprocate as I continued pressing the button to confirm each stepwise progression of the scene.

Our character grew bold and grabbed his kid sister by the hips as she kissed him. Tomo-chan giggled and wriggled in surprise at this. But it was welcome, we could see, and so our character grew more daring yet. He put his hands on her thighs, slid his fingertips up her legs, into her dress. Another big heart sprung out of Tomo-chan into the air over our characters.

The camera changed angles. Now Tomo-chan was standing before us. We were kneeling, almost eye-to-eye with her. She was a very small twelve-year-old. Probably not actually "twelve" in the original Japanese version, if we had to guess. And but now she was asking us if we wanted to help her undress. The game smartly declined to give us a dialog choice here, because of fucking course we wanted to help Tomo-chan get naked for us.

"Ohmygosh, ohmygosh, ohmygosh," Camila squeed.

We slipped the straps of Tomoko's dress off one shoulder, then the other, and helped pull it down her slim, pink figure all the way to her ankles. She stood now in a white camisole and pink little girl panties. She lifted up her arms. We pulled up the cami. Tomo-chan blushed and covered her pink nipples, but then our character gently moved her hands away, and then reassuringly caressed our little sister's cheek.

"That's like you and me!" Camila gasped. "Remember? Remember?"

"In the fort," I nodded stoically. In truth, I was fighting back tears. Plus my little sister was now seated fully in my lap again. I wasn't sure how she had slithered around to the front of me so effortlessly. She flexed her perfect butt against my erection.

"She said she wants to be the Mommy!" she was breathing heavy with excitement. "She totally wants to have sex with us!"

"Y-you're kind of distracting me," I said, referring more to her ass in my lap than to her commentary.

And now Tomoko held out her arms to signal we could pull down her panties. I pressed down on the direction pad. Our character slid the pink panties down the slim pale legs of our beloved little sister, revealing at long sweet animated last her [mosaic-censored] susie. All for us. And the panda.

"Oh my Gosh," Camila bounced harder in my lap, "Big bro!"

"She's naked," I confirmed.

"She's NAKED!" Camila screamed for joy. Then she fully bounced up and off of me, to her feet. She tugged down her leggings and underwear. She shucked off her camisole. And when she was done she looked at me like I was an idiot. "Well?" she scoffed.

I sighed and started scooching my sweatpants down my thighs. She grabbed on by the heels of my pantlegs and yanked them off in one horny swoop, stumbling back a little, but then catching herself and throwing the sweatpants victoriously against the wall behind her. They slid with a kerflump onto my desk, and knocked over a jar containing my mechanical math homework pencils. The pencils rolled clickitily hither and yon. One fell off onto the carpet. Camila even yanked my socks off, now, as I rolled my sweatshirt off over my head.

"There," I said. "Now I'm naked."

"Now we're ALL naked!" Camila beamed proudly at the TV screen again. Indeed, our character was now undressed as well. I must have accidentally sat on the controller while Camila had been manhandling my legs and skipped past the parts of him taking his clothes off. Shoot. Now I would forever wonder if he'd simply undressed himself, or if he'd let his little sister help. What if she had said things while she helped him? They would probably have been REALLY cute things!

"Damn," I sighed.

"Yeah?" Camila smirked at me, chewing her lip, and posed naked before me like a preteen cover model - for some, um, extremely inappropriate porno magazine (but one that all of a sudden I privately, darkly, self-loathingly wished existed; God, just imagine if one ho-hum morning Dad slipped one of THOSE under my door). The lone stripe of daylight in through the crack in the blackout curtains fell like a racing stripe just off-center up my sister's nude, pre-adolescent body.

She stared at my cock. My cock stood up all the way as she stared at it. "Yeah?" she repeated with greater confidence this time, and she sauntered toward me, out of the light-stripe, into the brief happy dark between us.

Tomoko laid our character down on her futon mat. We left our in-game Dad's rolled up, I noticed. Yeah. That would have been weird. Would have given us twice the space to operate, but would have also been weird. Dad's character kind of always sucked the air out of the room, whenever he was home. His futon probably could have had a similar effect. Instead, we made her one narrow mat suffice.

Camila instructed me to keep playing. She knelt down at my feet. She nudged the controller in my lap, signaling me to lift it up so she could maneuver into the crook of my thighs. She wrapped both of her hot, sweaty hands around my steel-hard erection.

"You're missing it," I said.

"You can tell me what's happening," she said, shrugging and licking her pink tongue across her tan lips. "And I'll look if I want to."

And Camila kissed me on the head of my penis, while Tomoko kissed us on our chest. Camila was a fast learner. She already had my dick figured out. I supposed it wasn't all that different from tickling a back, once I thought about it. Granted, my brain was feeling kind of scrambly at the moment. My twelve-year old sister was about to give me her first proper, on-her-knees, let-me-do-this-for-you blowjob.

I really should have been focusing on what the heck our characters were doing right then in the game, but ... Camila was kissing down my cock now. Licking her way back up. Milking me in her hands, stroking me as she watched my reaction, giggling a little in shy but proud timbres I knew well from times she'd picked up quick a game I'd only just shown her, started to beat me at it in just a few short tries, and but then never wanted to gloat so much as make me admire her, and so she invented these flute-like little giggles.

Her lips parted and she tried to take the head of me into her mouth.

"She's l-learning how to give us a handjob," I said. I groaned, and I clutched at the carpet with my toes, and my sister moaned around my dick as I told her.

"It's ... Tomo-chan's? F-first time. Ob-obviously," I rolled my eyes at the ham-fisted dialogue. "It-it's ours t-too," I groaned.

"Nuh-uh," Camila grinned as she slipped me back out for a moment. "Hey, Guy. Um. I kind of want to spit on it. Can I spit on it? Like, not to be gross. I just think it'll help with this," she said, and shimmied her hands up and down my shaft.

"G-go ahead?" I said, eyes widening as she then with zero pomp or circumstance hocked a minor loogie onto my cock. Then another. These hot little blobs swiftly drizzled down into her hands' grips. She used their moisture to speed up, and then she spread her hot gooey saliva around and around like clarified butter all up and down my girth. She spit a third time onto the very tip of my cock, this time apparently just for pleasure, and purr-giggled as she watched the foamy liquid quiver and drip down a random stripe of glans tissue and down into the vigorous tan hand job-blur below. As the excess spit slipped into her pistoning palmworks, I could hear it squizzle and spluice and join the rest of the liquid coating my raging hot member. God, the heat. If the hot fresh spit felt cool, it was only because my cock was absolutely radiating right now.

"And now?" Camila asked. "Keep talking!"

"Oh-h," I squinted, having lost myself for a moment there. I pressed X to continue moaning with pleasure in my little sister's hands. "Sh-she's getting us off."

"With just her hands still?"

"Y-yes?"

"Aw," Camila pouted.

I giggled like a little kid.

Camila did too.

She continued to jerk me off with her spit. I loved how it smelled. Don't judge me.

Tomoko made our character cum. I hesitated on whether to tell my sister. I suspected the sex scene wasn't over yet. The dialog was still going. The music hadn't changed, nor the camera work signaled any kind of conclusion, yet. Indeed, it switched simply to him switching places with her, laying her on her back on her futon.

"We switched places," I told Camila.

"Hm. Okay?" She considered this and even turned her head to look at the screen. Her hands continued to masturbate me somewhat distractedly.

"Sh-shhhe's asking us," I spluttered as my sister turned her head back around, glimpsed a dewdrop of precum, and lunged to lick it up, "if-if-if she can teach us how to t-touch her," I mumbled.

"Oh?" my sister said, and grinned up at me. "That sounds familiar, too. Did Tim already tell you about all this or something?"

I grunted. Shook my head. Chuckled. It was a funny accusation, considering how weirdly dead-on much of this did in fact feel. Maybe there was just a way to these things? To how big brothers and little sisters courted each other? That was a nice thought to have as my little sister now stood up between my legs, still holding my cock in one of her hands while her other fingers steadied herself on my knee. She climbed aboard.

"I like you to touch me ... like this," she placed the dewy, spitty head of my cock to her cleft, smushed it in, and we both watched how the firm sponge of my cock head squished her drooly, baby-soft labia apart. She moaned into her throat. It rose to a whimper. And then she opened her eyes again and looked at me. Her irises were such a pale, pale green, but for the stormy hazel rings around their outer perimeters. Set against her tan cheeks they shone like polished peridots, I shit you not, like actual perfect gems. She blinked at me.

We kissed.

"Tell me what's happening," she whispered, and continued to use my cockhead like a dildo.

I couldn't help it. I started laughing. "She's s-sucking on us. Wh-while we touch her."

"Mmm!" she hummed with amusement, and craned her head over her shoulder to look. "Wow. H-holy shit." Tomoko was sucking our character's cock. Damn. Yeah, that was pause-worthy.

"Keep going," Camila breathed, centering herself, reeling in her own urge to cum all over me again, and then climbing back off of my lap. "Here," she said, and now knelt on the bed beside me with her knees parted so I could access her susie. "So you can, um," she blushed and snorted, and even as she continued to masturbate my cock with one hand she took my button-pressing hand, so that now I had to play left-handed, and put it between her legs. "Here you go," she winced as she waited for the always-intense moment of first contact. I touched her inner thigh. She gasped. I drew my fingers slowly up toward her susie. She sighed. I nudged one of her lips. She smirked.

"Quit teasing," she said.

I pulled back my hand, licked my thumb, and then used it to very very appreciatively massage her clitoris through her clitoral hood. My little sister wasn't just letting me do this. She was eagerly inviting me to do this. She WANTED me to touch her beautiful little susie.

"Okay," she breathed nervously and bent forward, almost sort of laid down on the arm I was using to pleasure her, and lowered her pleasure-addled grimace to my lap while I continued to finger her the best I could without digitally penetrating her, "C-can you hold my hair while I do th-this?" she turned her head, and with one expert hand bundled all her dark twirls up into a single, grabbable handful for me.

"But keep telling me what's happening," she muttered. Then she took a deep girlish breath, opened wide, and swallowed the most of me she'd ever dared. Like, impressively, almost half my length. Then she gagged, pulled back up, spit on my cock, and caught her breath. "S-sorry," she said.

"T-Tomo-chan is cumming, I think," I said.

It certainly looked that way, anyway. Her little cartoon back was arched. Her full body blush was at peek neon. Little energy lines were shooting out of her. And at last, a single tiny heart floated up, and then popped like a bubble - no, like a super-massive singularity popping into a supergiant supernova. The camera shook. The walls of her and our in-game Dad's bedroom rumbled. A picture Tomo-chan had drawn in confidence for her therapist, and that Dad had framed and hung without her permission, fell and cracked. And then as the dust settled, a single little music note on a puff of a gasp of child-sized pleasure out of Tomoko's smiling mouth.

Followed by a series of cartoon Zzz's.

"Aww, she's like a little kitty," Camila gushed. Then she resumed practicing her deepthroat technique on me. It was a little bit maddening, trying to follow the game's cut scene while withstanding one of the most sexually upside-down-ifying experiences I had ever withstood. And god, the noises. Poor kid. But she wanted it so bad. So I let her.

Oh, shit, right! And I was supposed to be fingering her, too! I woke my hand back up between her legs. I gave her hot, sticky vulva an apologetic pat. She sort of giggle-gasped, and then cooed and patted me back on my hip. She humped my fingers a little. I was welcome to resume.

And the gosh-dang cutscene wasn't over yet!

"Now whath?" Camilla asked as she paused for a breather but still let the head of my cock rest on her tongue.

"She's swallow- ERM, I mean."

"Whath?"

"Well," I'd already spilled the beans. "I g-guess we came. In her mouth. And-and sh-she's swallowing it."

"Ooooh," Cami cooed delightedly, "ITH thee now?"

"Cami, b-but wait," I stammered hopelessly. Camila began jerking me furiously, and sucking me as hard and as deep as she could. My sister-fondling fingers fumbled clumsily between her thighs as the thinking-doing part of my brain went entirely offline. The noises of her sucking me were ecstatic. Baffling. Truly ridiculous. She even gagged once, but KEPT sucking, even despite the awful, painful-sounding, groanlike-reflex noise this induced in her throat. And uglier still, reader, was how disgustingly yummy the clarinet-like vibrations of her groaning felt as she continued to bang my cock against her tonsils.

She was making me cum, so help her gosh, that she might swallow it, and that we might continue this impromptu game of following along one-for-one with a cartoon sex scene.

Yet even as I slid helplessly over the precipice toward orgasm, I was certain, deathly certain, that the sex scene was not over. I understood too well this game's cinematic language - which music cues, what camera angles, heralded the impending falling action of a 'scene.' But the cues I was hearing and seeing currently, these close throbbing synths and strings, these delirious rarified storyboards, told me we were still deep in the middle of this particular scene.

God Almighty, but Camila was not to be stopped.

"C-Camila, C-Camila," I gritted my teeth, still holding her hair as carefully as I could in my fist as her hot, sweaty skull bobbed up and down determinedly, as insane noises squelched out the sides of her lips, and as she siphoned with heat and spit and white-hot sisterly want an orgasm so unbearably skull-fracturingly intense from all the way inside me that I could not but squeal like a piggy as it burst out of me.

"MMMMN?!?!" Camila startled at the sound she'd made me make, and then of course, an instant later, shattered into uncontrollably laughter with my cock still inside her mouth. Which is probably why she accidentally sort of bit me, or whatever we wanted to call that, and why she choked as with startling force in that same blinding instant my first jumbo jet of cum leapt out of me and crashed directly into the back wall of her throat. I pictured it sliding down with a kerflump and knocking over a jar of pencils inside her. She hic-coughed wildly, and yanked my cock wholseale out of her face. She hunched over in my lap and spluttered all over my thighs. I think she even sort of sneezed my cum up into her sinuses by accident, because I don't think that was just snot suddenly oozing out of her nose onto my nice freshly changed covers. Gosh, yikes, and I think it burned, too, if I could go by the awful shade of purple pink rising into her cheeks, eyes, and forehead. She coughed again, wetly, raggedly, terribly. She pounded her bare chest.

I, for my part, tried to direct the rest of my cum into my own lap. The best I could. Probably got it everywhere, anyway.

And, well, this was awkward.

But at least now we had an excuse to take a break from this game she'd decided we were playing.

***

Chapter Text

"M'fine," Camila grumbled some minutes later, but still leaned into my shoulder.

She let her eyes close as we watched Tomoko do a cute little 'oh my, what's all this white sticky stuff’ routine. Cami sniffled gingerly. I wondered what cum in your sinuses must feel like.

“Sorry,” I said again.

She shrugged on my shoulder.

“Did it to myself,” she said. It was true. She’d kind of lost herself for a minute there.

“You hungry, by the way?” I nudged her gently.

She frowned up at me, incredulous.

“That supposed to be funny?”

“Actually, no,” I chuckled. “I mean it’s lunch time.”

She huffed as if the very idea exhausted her.

“I could eat,” she sighed. And she slouched off of me. She stood, stretched, and yawned. We were both still completely naked. I liked watching her stretch. The way her girly lines twisted and contorted, how her butt stuck out, her back arched, and her arms reached heavenward, stretching her circular brown areolas into brown ellipses. Ugh. I was already horny again. Her nipples sang, ‘Suck us. Flick us. Hurt us if she wants!’

She waited for me to stand up, too, then trudged behind me out into the hall.

“Wait. Should we put some clothes on?” I asked. “Just to be safe?”

“No?” she shrugged disinterestedly.

I frowned and rubbed my chin. Little flakes of dried on girl cum fell off on my fingers. Mom had said she and Dad would be home late. Plus, she’d already come back once to grab her ID badge, so it was unlikely she’d be making any more surprise returns. Hm.

“Well?” Camila paused at the top of the stairs, having slumped ahead of me. “Come on, Mr. It’s Lunch Time. Let’s go.” She pointed at me to go ahead of her.

I looked at my naked sister.

She looked at her naked brother. She smirked warily. “What?”

“You got cum up your nose,” I snorted.

“So? You drank pee,” she scoffed.

“Hey,” I put my hands up half-defensively, half in surrender, “I threw it back up.”

“Still counts,” she snickered, and took a step down the stairs. I sighed and began to follow her.

“I feel like we need to get you to a specialist or something,” I teased grumpily as we thumped down the carpeted steps.

“Haw-haw,” she said flatly.

I made us PB and Js how I liked to do it, where I toasted the peanut butter side but left the jelly side soft. It made the sandwich almost sort of like a tostada, at least in my head. I don’t know. I was half gringo.

We ate and chatted about school. Tomorrow was coming whether we liked it or not. Snow Days were often, unfortunately, school nights.

Camila admitted she was excited because a new boy she thought was cute was going to be in her class starting this semester. He’d visited the classroom last month, and she was pretty sure he had thought she was cute, too. I chuckled warmly, remembering how straightforward and sweetly painful 'crushes' had been at her age. Obviously, a girl who looked like Camila was going to be the object of many poor boys’ first brushes with heartache.

“Are we breaking up then?” I joked.

“Pfft,” she giggle-snorted, “and let you go back to being my creepy, panty-sniffing older brother? I don’t want to be NAKED with him, Guy. I just want him to be my valentine! We’d be sooo cute together.”

“Oh. Riiight,” I grinned and rolled my eyes.

“And so what if I like making you a little jealous?” she purred. She tickled the back of my hand on the table.

Ugh. She was a precocious one.

“But seriously Mila?” I put my hand flat on top of hers like a serious person. “You cannot do ANY of the stuff you and I do. Not with kids your age. Not with anyone until your older. You understand that, right? You could get in a WORLD of - ”

“DUH,” she flipped my hand away. “Leave me alone. I know how to be a kid.”

“Sorry, I just had to say it,” I shrugged unapologetically. “It’s like. Seriously serious. No joke.”

“Uh-huh,” she rolled her eyes. “So hey, remember when you drank my pee?”

“I get it, I’ll stop,” I desisted.

“And then you went right on licking me?” she grinned, enjoying hurting me.

“You told me I had to,” I muttered.

“And THEN,” she slapped her hand onto my hand on the table, “you THREW up like a GALLON of puke in your trashcan?”

“Cam,” I grimaced.

“That was so sweet of you,” she said, and beamed at me.

“I’m not joking when I say please don’t ever make me do that again.”

“It was. An. ACCIDENT!” she dug her fingernails into my skin.

I laughed at her fury.

She went for my face.

And then somehow that turned into us making out naked in my chair at the table. Our mouths tasted like peanut butter toast, grape jam, and milk. One of us at some point bumped the kitchen table and tipped over a glass, but we’d both already downed our milks, so it was whatever.

“What if I squirt?” she panted. “Don’t-don’t you like that? Mm. In your m-mouth I mean?”

“Squirting. Isn’t. Peeing,” I grunted.

My boner was pushing against the underside of her nakedness. I held her by the butt in my chair, and she sat in my lap like a child. It was so insanely incestuous, how little sisterly she felt in my lap, how big brotherly I felt in my chair, here at our mother-fricking kitchen table.

It was hard to focus with her little hands groping me, with her tongue in my ear and her fingers on my nipples.

So I decided I didn’t need to.

I slid my empty sandwich plate aside. I uprighted the toppled glass and moved that out of the way, too. Then I put my hand in the middle of her chest, pushed her off me, and she flopped over backward onto the kitchen tile with a squeal of shock.

“Gael!”

I pulled her legs open. I dropped to my knees. She gasped in delight and opened herself wider. I held her down with one hand on her stomach. I suckled her clit. She craned her head to peer down at me from her back. She gawked at me, bug-eyed and awestruck, as I put her entire clitoral region into my mouth and sucked. I tried everything, absolutely everything I knew to try on her.

It was fun. And delicious. And it happened on the kitchen table, right at the spot where I always ate my meals. Yes, I laughed about this to myself as I ate this particular meal.

To her great credit, and to my great relief, Camila only squirted. Naturally though, I flinched, and as much of it splattered across my nose and eyes as made it down my throat. I was starting to feel addicted to the stuff. It was so sweet. I imagined it as liquid gold. She gasped, laughed, panted.

Then she was dragging me up onto my feet again. Then she was trying to drop back into my lap again.

But no. Not on the kitchen floor, if she please.

She laughed in my arms as I swept her off her feet. Literally. We were already naked, so we made it to the stairs without much hassle, only knocking one photo frame off the wall with my shoulder along the way. The picture inside it survived, thank goodness. She was still laughing as I dropped her into my bed. Then we were all limbs, all hot mouths, and wet tongues. And I was getting hornier than horny as the game in the background, and its music, reminded us we still had an important mission to accomplish.

It was time, in fact, for Tomoko to ride that guy. And Camila, too, had begun to bounce in my lap, her pussy lips suctioning hotly around my erection as her wetness made my shaft shine in the midday sunlight.

It was the middle of the day, and we were riding each other to completion in my bed. The cutscene on screen was now at its crescendo. So we followed it there, too, I guess, and rode one another until the hotness boiling over between us finally popped.

“G-Guy?!” Camila gasped.

Oops. Oh no.

“M-Mila… I’m s-sorry. H-here, if-if you just, I can pull out. If you just s-sit up, I can … oh my God, I’m s-ssso sorry.”

“You…” she whispered. She was looking down at her crotch. I was looking down at mine. They were, for the moment, one crotch. So to speak. Jesus Christ. What had I done?!

“Can you? Sit up?” I asked. I was clenching every muscle in my body, trying not to feel whatever my cock was feeling right now. The inside of my sister’s actual vaginal canal.

“N-no,” she whimpered eerily, like a small animal. “NO,” she barked and slapped my hand. It had dared to try to help her lift up. She remained firmly planted on my lap, with me stuck inside her. “It. Hurts,” she clarified.

“I d-didn’t think I fit,” I mumbled helplessly, monstrously. Was I white with horror or red with shame? Could it be both? Could I be pink with horror-shame?

Tomoko’s pink panda lay tipped over beside her futon, her beady eyes twinkling as she watched her new Mommy and Daddy going at it.

Suddenly, an insane pulling feeling on my cock, a fist-tight tugging offward, like she trying to castrate me. Camila disgorged me from herself. My red, slimy, sorry cock flopped out onto my pelvis. She reached between her legs and felt at her susie, then checked her fingers. Blood, reader. Blood was there. Blood stained my cock, too.

“Gosh,” she murmured.

I reached over and got her a couple of tissues off my nightstand. I didn’t know what else to do. I grabbed one for myself, too. I dabbed at the cherry red stains on my cock. We each soaked our white tissues red. I handed her the whole box. I got off the bed entirely, stood up, gathered up the garishly used tissues in my waste bin. The mess of them crumpled all together in the can like that looked like I’d had a horrific nosebleed.

Horrific was right.

“I’m sorry, Cam,” I said sincerely, and tried to place a hand on her cold, sweaty back. She twitched at my touch. But she let me keep it there.

“S’okay,” she said. She was sort of crying. She was sort of keeping it together. She went and laid back against my headboard, gathered a whole massive clump of tissues, and clamped them all tight between her legs. Then, she loosened her hand and peeked at the carnage.

To my vast relief, she went, “Oh?” And she showed me how surprisingly little blood there was on this latest tissue-clump.

“Is she already … done bleeding?” I mumbled.

“Is she?” my sister asked too as she stared down at her poor susie, her worried face a dark reflection of my wonderment.

Eventually, she decided it was really over. She set the only lightly spotted mass of tissues aside. They silently discombobulated on my nightstand, one of them flopping half-floatily to the floor. Camila now sat in a very gynecological pose, hunched over, inspecting herself.

“It ... doesn't LOOK that bad,” she said hopefully. She looked up at me with a curious, analytical look like, ‘Do you concur, Brother?’

“R-right,” I winced. “Y-yeah. She looks. F-fine.”

She looked better than fine. She looked edible. God, my sister’s cunt looked like a confection of perfect milk chocolate.

“Um, can I ask you a favor?” she cringed.

“Yes,” I said maybe too eagerly. I felt hellishly indebted to the girl. “Please. What?”

“Can you, like ... look?” she asked, hunching her shoulders as if bracing for a gross-out response. Cutely, she covered her susie with her fingers as she asked, too.

“Oh, yeah!” I shrugged overly nonchalantly. “But, um, you mean like?” I very regrettably pantomimed ducking down and peeking inside a miniature vagina.

She cringed even harder, blushed, and nodded. “Yeah, j-just to see if everything is like. You know,” she shrugged tensely. “Doing okay?"

“I feel you, yeah,” I nodded rapidly. I pointed to where I guessed she wanted me to … lay on my stomach? And peek inside of her vagina? She bit her lip at me, and patted the covers like ‘yes, correct, here.’ She kept her susie hidden behind her other hand's fingers.

I crawled onto my bed, up between my sister’s upturned knees, then lowered myself to my belly. My cock was still hard. Crude animal thing that it was.

“Wait,” she said.

I peered up at her.

“Kiss first?” she said.

I pushed up, gave her a quick kiss. She held my gaze for a second after. She smiled.

“It’s okay,” she said.

I didn’t have a response to that. My only dialog options appeared as strange proto-linguistic runes to me. I just sort of blinked at her, then let myself lower back down. Camila waited until I was fully in position, then pulled her hands away, revealing her poor embarrassed vulva to me.

Hello, susie. Yummy. Smelly. Pretty. I kicked back the urge to smooch her on her puffy lips. I glanced up at my little sister’s face and gave her a quick nod like, ‘let’s begin.’

My sister pulled her labia apart for me. And I couldn't see shit.

“Um, can you also sort of,” I tugged gently on her hips to get her to roll her pelvis upward slightly. “Hm. It’s um, dark.” I reached over and moved my bedside lamp, too, but it didn't help.

“Booklight?” she suggested.

“Right,” I said, matter-of-factly. I hopped off the bed, ran to her room, unclipped the light from her book (some lame-looking kids book called Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone) and then came right back. It all felt very project-oriented. Like we were in this together. I cozied up between her legs again and waggled the booklight at her proudly.

“Good boy,” she said, and patted my head.

I shone it on her vulva, which she had momentarily released from her fingers to lovingly caress my skull. I got a minor erection. As unsexy as this task technically was, the scent of her was wild, and her fingers in my hair were pure boner fuel.

Camila’s nude, spotlit susie glistened and glittered in the booklight. Tan fingers reappeared to part sumptuous lips. She rocked her pelvis upward without me asking. She held herself open for me, and entirely inappropriately, I swooned.

I mean, ahem, I narrowed my gaze, aimed the booklight, and peered coolly into the red-pink entroitus of my loving, trusting, elementary-school-aged sibling. Vaginas, however, I was puzzled to learn, were not actually open little tunnels waiting to be booklit. They were more like tight, cushy sleeves you needed a speculum to open. I could peer only so far in, and then the cheeky, visceral tissue became too snuggly nestled to let me see any further. But what I was able to see looked … fine? I guess? What was I supposed to use for reference? Porno pussies? Those were entirely different animals. Camila's susie was a kitten. Those things were lions, tigers, lynxes.

“Well?” she asked, chewing her lip.

“It’s um. I mean she’s um. I don’t see anything, like…” I squinted and gently pressed my spit dampened fingertip into a spot I thought might help to pry her canal open a little. To no avail. She giggled a little. I clicked off the booklight and shrugged up at her. “You're too tight for me to see much, but, like, she looks good.”

“Seriously?” Camila asked.

“Yes,” I said. "No lie."

“What about my hymen?”

“Y-your … hymen?” I repeated the strange word.

“My hymen!” she conked me on the head. “The thing you pop when you have sex for the first time!”

“Sis, I think that’s just, like,” I gulped, “a euphemism? Or like, a metaphor?”

“My hymen is not a ‘metaphor.’ It should be right near the front. Don't you see, like, a little ring, sort of, or whatever, just inside?”

“A ring?” I winced. I turned the booklight back on. I squinted with newfound intrigue at the susie before me. I knew what rings should look like.

“Gosh,” I said, trying to find thus mysterious, literal ‘ring’ I had apparently ‘popped.’

“How do you pop a ring?” I wondered aloud.

Camila rolled her eyes and showed me with her hands: left hand’s finger-thumb loop was hymen, right hand’s fist was cock; try to put fist through too-small loop, aaaand ‘pop.’

“Oh,” I blinked. I looked hard for a broken or torn ring of flesh. I didn’t see anything like that. Nothing looked hurt. As bright pink and red as things were in there, nothing was visibly bleeding.

“Ugh,” she groaned and took the booklight from me so she could inspect herself. “Huh,” she muttered as she angled the light every which way, trying to find the crime scene. “Well okay,” she said. “I mean I definitely bled, though, so … that’s … a little worrying?”

“R-right,” I said, though I visibly had no idea.

“What do we do?” she asked.

Was this a rhetorical question?

“Um,” she patted my forehead, letting me know could vacate her crotch-space. I sat up on my heels. I tried to look big brotherly. It was the only way I could think to look.

“I think we should maybe take a break for a while,” she suggested.

I nodded reassuringly.

“No more sexy time until we can be sure she’s not, like …” my sister cringed again, and pressed another tissue to herself to check that, yes, unbelievably, she was done bleeding. It was like we had accidentally gotten away with it.

“Let’s just be sure she’s okay,” I confirmed.

“Yeah,” Camila said distractedly, dabbing again.

“God, I really feel bad,” I said.

“Stop,” she said softly, and glanced at me only long enough to convey she meant well.

I did stop. I crawled over beside her and joined her sitting against my headboard. I sensed she needed me to be a silent big brother in this moment. I tried not to watch. But the only other thing happening in the room was the pedophiliac incest still actively, on uninterrupted loop, happening across my TV screen. Tomoko’s pale polygonal hips ground back and forth on her big brother’s [mosaic-censored] cock, back and forth, baaack and forth…

And while this continued, my sister went on trying to solve the mystery of her fast-healing susie.

****

“Hey,” she nudged me awake.

I snortled, choked, and looked around startled. “Wh-what’s wrong?!”

“Nothing,” she smirked.

She was on all fours, hovering above me.

“Oh,” I said blearily, and smiled up at her. Then I yawned a big stinky yawn, stretching too so that my furry pits opened wide to join the stench-fest.

She kissed me on my head.

“You fit inside me,” she whispered into my ear. Then she pulled up again to see my facial reaction. Whatever it was - abject horror? - made her giggle. Lit from above, behind, like this, my sister’s hovering nudity was a living, breathing shadow.

“You fit,” she whispered.

“I-I-… no. Now hold on. I didn’t. That didn’t. Camila, please, I-I’m not…”

“Ohhh, re-LAX," she giggled. Then she lowered her body onto mine. “We’re okay."

“I’m. I’m. I’m s-sorry.”

“Shush,” she put a dainty finger to my lips. “You didn’t mean to. I know. You don’t have to keep saying sorry. It's whatever!" I felt her shrug her bony little shoulders.

“It’s not whatever.”

“Do you want me to suck your cock?” she asked cheekily, nuzzling my neck.

“Do I want you to what?” I choked.

“Because I want me to,” she smiled, and bit me. I flinched. She snickered. “Please? I want to prove I can do it!"

She stared at me. I watched her smile grow into a grin as the wall I'd tried to put up cracked.

"Please," she humped me once, reminding me we were both nude, "I need practice."

“You need p-practice,” I said.

“Yeah,” she cooed, “practice.” She drew out the ‘ss’ in ‘practice,’ and then began kissing and smooching and sliding her way down my torso.

“Wait, wh-what happened to the - ?” I suddenly noticed the TV screen was black.

“Hm?” She glanced behind her. “Oh. I shut off the TV. Game’s still on."

“Oh,” I blushed.

“We lost, anyway,” she smirked.

“What? We did?”

“Uh-huh,” she smooched my navel. “We cheated. We did something they didn't. So we lost.” She shrugged like, 'oh well, win some, lose some,' and I chuckled despite myself.

I had sincerely not meant to penetrate my kid sister. She was twelve, for fuck’s (literal!) sake.

“Ohh-kay,” I shivered as she licked my pelvis like a kitten. Little licks, here, there, lower and lower.

“Bet you kind of wish we hadn’t stopped, though, huh?” she teased further. And right on cue, her delicate fingers found my aching hard on.

“Mila, n-no,” I whispered.

“Liar,” she grinned, and licked all the way up the belly of my shaft.

I watched this in awed, googly-eyed silence.

My little sister grinned up at me. Her tongue remained out. I could see in her eyes the cogwheels were turning.

She looked down.

I looked down, too.

I got to watch as my big dick sank slowly into her small, determined mouth. It was difficult for her. She tried to push a bit too quickly, but I could hardly tell her to stop, nor was I about to chastise her for not wanting to wait to get good at this.

Camila tried again. It was no easier this time. Her soft little voice sighed frustratedly around my cock.

She kept her mouth closed as she pulled away again, sucking gently as she did, making sure I saw the goofy, coy look she shot up at me with as she did. She popped off of me and licked her lips.

“Gosh, I like putting you inside me,” she smirked, and then sucked me back down. She gagged audibly, whimpered angrily at herself, but kept her throat impaled, willing her reflex to relent. My cock was indeed inside of her, smooshed about a third of the way into her little cheeks. I felt her beleaguered tongue batting and slurping at me. Her hot saliva dripped everywhere. The way she had me in her mouth, her teeth scraped on me now and then. That should have been unarousing, probably, but by this point I was deeply, deeply lost.

Inside her.

And, okay, let it never be said I am a strong person. Yes. I did. I sort of wished we hadn’t stopped. I sort of wished my little sister was the kind of kid who could take the entire length of her brother inside her pussy and not complain that it hurt. I wished I could fuck her like the girl of my dreams. I wished she could ride me like a full-blown lover, or let me rail her from behind like I’d once accidentally once caught Dad doing to Mom. I wished for everything I knew I shouldn’t wish for.

“Mmmm,” Camila moaned on my shaft, her tongue still struggling to find space inside her mouth. She couldn’t yet get me very deep. It was difficult enough for her to keep my crown in her mouth. She couldn’t take much more than that third she'd gotten before.

Her lovely hands still managed to be everywhere, though. She cradled my balls with one and played with her susie with the other, rubbing it slowly and then suddenly quickening as though she wanted me to watch what she was doing to herself. She smiled around my cock again.

“Okay. Just so you know. I want to do it again,” she said all of a sudden. And she glanced up at me. She savored my fight or flight response. She savored my precum. She closed her eyes again and sucked me in as deep as her physiology would permit. She choked again. Then she laughed and drummed her fist determinedly on my thigh, and forced her head further down, rammed me into the way back of her oral cavity. I was maybe halfway in, and somehow she did not gag. “Nnnggg,” she whimpered victoriously. It was a new personal best.

“G-good job,” I murmured, and patted her head.

She pulled me back out again. She gripped my cock tight in her fist. She kissed it fiercely, passionately, on the tip.

“I'm serious. I want to try again,” she said again, squinting up at me. “Don't you?"

“S-seriously?”

She simply smoldered at me. My cock was in her fingers. My balls were in her palm. She kissed my pre-cummy tip again, sweetly this time, and batted her lashes at me.

“Wh-what the hell happened to - to t-taking a break? To make sure she was okay?”

“We did,” she shrugged, and nodded at my alarm clock. Whoa, it was aready 3 o’clock? Snow days were terribly fleet.

“But Sis. W-we absolutely c-can’t.”

“Actually, we can?” she smirked again, and sat up. She reached up to fix her hair, which she’d tied into a ponytail, and let the full force of her beauty shine. “I think you can fit. And! I got us THIS.”

She proudly grabbed something from beside her on my bed. What the heck was that? How did that get there? It was a purple tube of something or other. I blinked uncomprehendingly at it.

“Lube?” she scoffed at me. “You’ve heard of it, yes?” She tossed it to me. I flinched, and it hit me in the eye. “Sorry,” she giggled.

“Ow,” I said, rubbing my face and inspecting the slightly greasy-feeling tube with my one good eye. “W-wait. Where did we get lube?”

“Mom hides it with her vibrator.”

“With her WHAT?” I sputtered.

“You didn’t know THAT either?!” Camila cackled. She bent forward and crawled again toward my stupid, non-computing face. She gave me a peck on my nose. “Well. Now you know. Mom has lube. And a vibrator.” Camila lowered her voice. “I've used it sometimes. But it's a seeecret.”

“Y-you - !"

“Uh-hum,” she straight-up licked from the tip of my nose to the knit in my brow. “I’m naughty.”

“But isn’t that… isn't it ... weird that it's ... Mom's?"

“Says the Guy who was all like ‘whooooaaa’ at her boobies this morning!”

“Th-that’s not the same!"

Camila hungrily, growlingly, bite-kissed me. It hurt. I yelped. She dropped her body onto mine. I felt her pelvis mash into my stomach, her hips buck, and she started aggressively grinding on me. Her violent kisses pounced from lip to cheek to shoulder. I grabbed her bare sweaty ass in both hands. It was small and strong and very, very good for grabbing.

“I want to try again,” she demanded. “I want - I want - y-your cock inside of me again. It felt so. G-good. Sooo good. It made me feel so, hmng, SO hot. It made me cum, Gael. While you were asleep, I laid here, and I came. Like, twenty times. Y-you didn’t even. You didn’t even wake up. Oooo-once.”

“No,” I panted, “no, Sis. W-we cannnn’t.”

“I want to! And you do, too!" she said as she slowly, harshly, drove her pelvic bone up the full, pinned-down length of my cock.

“But I don’t f-fit,” I grunted.

“Yes! You! DO!” she snarled, and she bit my nose. I yeowched. She laughed.

“B-but! I made y-you. B-bleeeed.”

“Susies bleed,” she said breathily. “It’s whatever, Guy. She already doesn’t hurt anymore. Especially now ... that she knooows ... mmm," she trailed off, humping me.

“Now that she … knows …?"

“Mhm,” Camila smiled. Our humping had grown so heated I could hear her clit click and smack as it slammed repeatedly against the root of my cock. My own pre-cum was flying in every direction.

Suddenly Camila stopped humping, scooted back a ways, and rose up onto her knees. She bent to look at what she was doing as she guided the tip of my cock to the bullseye of her vulva. I couldn't even think fast enough to do anything but watch. It was too fast. It was too much. It was too dirty. And yet her big brother found his hands holding up her hips anyway. They were shaking, trembling. My hands, her hips.

“We're okay,” she laughed nervously to herself. “W-we just need,” she bit her lip, lined me up, and made her first attempt at engulfing my cock, “p-prACTice.”

It hurt. I grunted hard right along with her. But it wasn’t going in.

“Oh, shoot! Right!” she slapped her forehead, unflappable, and motioned for me to toss her the lube. I did. She snatched it.

Camila squirted a very healthy amount of the goo onto my cock. Was it too much? Was it nearly enough? I was new to lube. I was new to fucking twelve-year-olds. It was cool, chilly, kind of soothing at first. And then I saw her work the rest into herself. The noises it made reminded me of times I’d made her and me macaroni and cheese, stirring the slimy noodles. God, the places my mind went.

“Okay!” she chirped. “This should work.” She grabbed my cock again, lined herself up, and worked me into her no problem.

No problem?

That was it?

That was that. I was in. We were in. My raging boner was inside my little sister, cooking, broiling.

“Hnnnmm,” she whined as she lifted, testing the lube, and then sank allllll the way down onto the base of my cock. I bottomed out again inside her. Nevermind how slim she was. How nubile, childlike, her enthusiasm. How completely nuclear-grade not-okay this was. Nevermind any of it.

Nevermind! I held her by her hips. I squeezed. I smiled at her.

She smiled wincingly back at me.

“See?” she said through gritted teeth.

And she raised herself up and slid alllll the way down onto the base of my shaft again.

She gasped and shut her eyes and grinned in victory. Her toes were curled tight, but the rest of her body was somehow perfectly serene. I looked in amazement between the two of us, at where my big cock had somehow disappeared inside this girl.

It was hard to believe this was the same Camila I’d taught to blow bubble gum bubbles. That I'd shown Dragonball Z. That I'd told to stop coming into my room pantsless.

It was hard to believe it was my cock inside my Mimi, willingly, fondly, stretching her. Damaging ourselves in service to this unspeakably special thing you are so lucky to be reading about. Have I even asked you to thank me, reader? It hurt, how tight she was. It physically hurt. It emotionally hurt.

She looked at me now and her face lit up with the force of the love inside her. It was the most beautiful, radiant, sunshiny smile I had ever seen. And then it disappeared as she bore down on my cock, and she gasped and spasmed and swore, and my cock hurt so bad it felt like my entire body was being crushed in a trash compactor. Too many nerve endings in my cock.

I winced, hissed inward through my nose.

My sister did, too.

“It’s … a lot,” she admitted.

“W-we can. S-stop. If you. Need.” I squeezed her hips gently, reassuringly.

She shook her head, smiling determinedly. She found the lube and added yet more, and then squished herself onto my cock again. I cried out and arched my back, thrusting my hips involuntarily into her.

“GAEL!” she shrieked.

“S-sorry!” I grunted. I steeled my nerves. I stayed my hips. I did not thrust a second time. I trembled violently.

My sister, the most important girl in my whole entire world, sat very, very still for a while. She seemed to be focusing all of her mental energy into one thing alone - the feel of her big brother inside of her. It was harder to wrap your head around than we were making it look.

“Fuck,” she gasped at last, as if she’d been holding her breath.

“Need to stop?”

She shook her head bitterly.

“P-practice,” she said. “Makes. P-perfect.”

She sank further down onto me. She groaned, and then sighed. And then she lifted her ass and let herself sink again, and moaned again, and then whimpered softly in pain as I bottomed out again inside her.

“I’m hurting you,” I whimpered.

“It’s good,” she whimpered. “It’s good.”

She sat back a little more upright, her arms and legs tensed as if she were a runner on the starting blocks. She breathed in through her nose and out through her mouth.

It made me realize how shallowly, too, how very very anxiously I was breathing.

“Look at us,” she smirked courageously. “We’re really, really in love.”

And then she rose and sank again.

And then again.

And again.

I looked in awe as she took me deeper into herself. It was hard to tell how this was physically possible. Where was my cock fitting inside her slim little body? Was I displacing any major organs by letting her make me do this to her? I swore if I looked closely at her tummy I could almost see a bulge plunging up into and back out of her. No fucking way.

“Hnm!” she grunted as she slammed back down the next time. “It’s f-fine. It hurts? But it also. HNMM,” she slammed me again, fucked me hard into her lubricated innards, “feels so. SO. Gggg-GOOD.”

Camila went wild on me then, grunting and snarling and hissing and snorting in victory as she did her best to turn my cock inside out with her body. It was humbling how much stamina was in her. How hot her furnace could truly burn. She glowed with joyous, agonized sweat. It dripped all down her face. Her ponytail went askew, her hair hung down over her eyes, she bit her lip, snarled at me, fucked me even harder. I felt myself climbing.

Inside my sister.

The love of my life.

It was as if every bit of love we shared had become sexualized somehow, turned perfectly and exquisitely into the messy, cummy opposite of itself, turned into the force of what she was doing to me right now. I loved her, I wanted to be close to her. Closer even than this. And yet somehow, despite our taboos, the closest I could come was like this.

I grabbed her hips tight. I fucked her back. I rammed myself into her.

“Ohhhh FFFF- !” she howled.

Her hands were suddenly all over my chest. Her fingers dug into my nipples. It hurt.

She started to scream. She clamped her hand to her mouth. I pulled her down and bit her there, sank my teeth into the skin on her hand.

Her cunt muscles fluttered on my cock, pulverizing me. Let no one say little girls are weak. They are in fact hiding a colossal, behemoth might inside them. I roared in disbelief.

“Ow,” she laughed, breathless, dripping sweat, inspecting her hand for only as long as it took her not to give a fuck. Then she dived back down for another messy, animalistic kiss. Our tongues leapt into each other’s mouths. She bit mine, in fact.

I held her in place in the air by her hips and began to fuck her fast, like REALLY fast, like a goddamn machine built for fucking little sisters. My headboard clanked and banged against the wall. The mattress springs skipped past groaning into wailing. And Camila screamed bloody rapture. We were home alone. Screaming was in-bounds.

The thing is.

The thing is.

When you're with someone you really, truly, deeply care for, the experience becomes a sort of shared telepathy, a two-player-turned-one-player game. You learn to read your own mutual fucking like a book.

Camila and I were not perfect lovers yet, not by a longshot. But the lube was helping. And while there was a little bleeding (oh, stop acting all grossed out; susies bleed! it's whatever!) it was nothing that apparently hurt enough to keep her from climaxing on my cock.

Camila started screaming her climax, too loud for me to possibly hope to quiet her down with words. So instead I fucked her harder. Her body, which had already gone into that state of spasmodic, wild, desperate seizures of climax, was suddenly assaulted with a new level of friction and force, one I did not even know was within me. Camila was wailing. Screaming. Yelling my name. Yelling inarticulate sounds that I knew no other girl ever could. Have you ever heard your own sweet family pet get into a sudden awful snarling spat with some other supposedly domesticated animal? It was a shocking, panic-inducing experience.

And it sent me over.

The world became nothing but pleasure and a deep, feral growl and a desire to never, ever, ever stop fucking the animal currently cumming all over me. Camila shrieked. Her eyes rolled up into her head. I fucked her until the world turned white, and then kept on fucking her while it stayed white. I came in my little sister. Came in my precious Mimi.

Sprayed her full of my cum.

“Ohhhhhh,” she moaned, sobbed, whimpered. I kept fucking her regardless. I wasn't finished, I needed to keep her impaled, she had to keep taking it. She kept gasping, whimpering. I kept thrusting up and up into her.

At some point she slipped, I lost my grip on her. Time itself seemed to have gotten lube on it. Camila fell forward onto my chest. Her bones blasted heat. It took her a moment to register where she was. Who was she was with. Who had done this thing to her. She sputtered a spent, breathless chuckle.

“I am … p-pulling you out now,” she slurred. She drummed her fingers on my red, sweaty pectoral muscle.

I didn’t move.

She shifted.

My cock popped wetly out of her.

Camila shrieked a tiny, sudden laugh, a nervous one. Her heart was suddenly racing. It had hurt, I guess, to pull me out. Friction burn, maybe? But as she lay gasping and shaking on me, I felt her soften and relax, succumbing to her own wizardly post-coital delirium again.

“Gosh,” she whispered.

She hugged me limply. I patted her sweat drenched back. It was a billion degrees between us. It burned to hold her on top of me.

My mind, my poor mind, came traipsing meekly, pale-faced, back in from the cold. It tiptoed into the blazing house fire of its former skull. But it couldn’t find a single place to rest its feet that was not stovetop hot. It shuddered in place. It made to weep, but its tears boiled out as hot, hateful steam. Why had my mind even come back? My head was completely on fire! It was a total fucking loss. My mind was homeless, now, couldn’t it understand? Couldn’t it get that through its thick skull?

It tried. It took this news as bravely as it dared. Then it took one last long sad look around, turned, and went back out into the cold.

We fell asleep, Camila and I, and I had a dream that we woke right back up and fucked again. It was short and sweet and intuitive. I knew, even as I slipped into deep mindless slumber, that it would make for a very nice reality to wake up to. Fucking Camila in her tight little susie. Yeah. Yes please. I slept so fucking well.

***

Chapter Text

I don’t know when I came back to reality, or if it was the first time I had come back to reality, but here I was awake in this reality. My naked little sister lay facing the window, lightly snoring. I poked her. She grunted. She rubbed her eyes and wiped drool off her cheek. She turned and looked at me. She smiled sleepily.

“More?” she murmured.

“Yes, please,” I nodded.

“Mmmmkay,” she yawned, her voice rising to chipmunk levels as she stretched. “You on top this time. My back is sore.” She knuckled at her own lower back dimples as I watched. My cock filled right up.

I felt around for the lube, somewhere in the now-disheveled covers.

“It’s here,” Camila groaned sleepily, and handed it to me over her side.

I thanked her, and squirted a chilly palmful. The tube farted like it was nearly spent. Geez. We were burning through this stuff. Mom would probably notice if her lube tube had gone suddenly completely empty. And then what? Where did one even go to buy lube? A sex shop? We lived in the suburbs. I had no idea where to find a sex shop. And I was just a kid, anyway!

“I think this has to be our last time,” I said.

“What?” Camila snorted, and lifted her head to peer back at me. “Why do you say that?”

I waggled the mostly empty tube at her. “We gotta save some for Mom,” I said, and then yukked as if I was a normal everyday son grossed out about the idea of his Mom using lube.

Camila groaned and rolled her eyes and flopped her head back into the bed. “We can just drive to get more.” She groped for my arm and pulled it over her waist, dragging me closer. Her warm body fit against mine like a dream. “Can you do me like this?” she hummed.

“Golly,” I chuckled against her back, “I can sure try.”

She smiled, and then shut her eyes as she let my lubricated fingers part her labia, as she let me feel for and then locate the place in her where with a good bit of lube and a surprising amount of force I could just, sorta, mmph, yep, wait no, yep, a little harder, oof, frick, THERE we go.

She whimpered comfortably as I slid slowly, frictionally, back into the sweet hungry meat of her.

I could feel how her cushy sleeve had stayed slightly swollen from our last encounter. It was still extra hot, too, like she’d been keeping it in the oven for me. I asked her softly if it hurt. She said yes but she liked it. She urged me to keep going.

I kept going. I wrapped my arm around her again. She took my hand and started sucking one of my fingers. Sort of chewed it. It was hot and yet also one of the most normal little sister things she could have thought to do.

We got into a rhythm. I held her close and slowly, affectionately, drove into her. It was like snuggle-fucking. The only drawback for this rookie older brother, though, was that I couldn’t see my sister’s face as clearly from this angle, making it hard to know just how attuned we actually were.

And it was hard, the more into it we got, for her to arch her back the way and really writhe the way her body seemed to need to. So somehow I wound up on my knees with her behind reared up doggy style and her head buried in the pillows where she could scream without terrifying the neighborhood pets.

This angle gave me the weirdly cute, unfettered, front-row seat to my sister’s clenching, puckering asshole. It was simply tan like the rest of her, and though flushed and sweaty, looked clean as a whistle. I loved how it contracted as my little sister grunted in pleasure. I had this irresistible desire to reach down and run my fingertip along its tight ridges. And, well, I did not resist. Camila was so far gone she didn't even quite realize what I was doing, I think, until I started getting bold.

“Whoa,” she laughed into the pillows. She stuck her face out from under one of them. “H-hey. You. Stop that.” She slapped playfully at my hand. She was blushing. I chuckled a shruggish apology and honored her request to stop. When her face was hidden again, I sniffed my finger. Mmm, yep, that was her. God. Why did everything have to turn me on? I sniffed it again. It got so weirdly yummy, the more you smelled it. It made no sense!

We started going again. Camila moaned into the pillows. I could tell by how much her ass was spasming that we had brought her close to climax. So I went back to ramming my cock inside my little sister's susie. If she'd thought her back was sore before, well, we might have her down for the count after this. I watched her ass clench. She seemed to have lost all sense of anything outside of her pleasure. She had nothing left for conversation. I couldn’t have that. I needed her voice, her words.

I scooted back on my knees, pulling her out from under the pillows. She made an adorable, unintelligible squealing protest, and I reached around and cupped one of my hands over her mouth, but kept thrusting. I pressed my other hand up under her chin, gently, to help arch her neck, and she stopped resisting me.

“T-Talk,” I ordered.

She laughed, moaned. I could see the sweat gleaming on the bridge of her nose.

Her eyes were hazy with pleasure as she craned her neck and peered up into mine, as if she was trying to figure out where I had come from. What wilderness. On what planet.

“T-turn m-mmmm-EE ov-ver,” she said.

So I did. But first, I slipped my hands down her back, felt the softness of her ass, her hips, the tightness of her stomach underneath, her chest’s two hard nipples pressed down into the sheets. And then I pulled out of her, both of us groaning fondly at the mingled agony and relief of parting. Her susie remained slightly opened, her insides glowing deep raspberry pink, runnels of milky fluid slipping out and channeling down her vulva to where they dripped off her clit onto my bed covers. I heaved and panted, feeling zero exhaustion, only hungry, hungry love for this fuckable brat flopping over onto her back on my bed.

“Okay,” she panted, too, and with her fingers pressed to either side of her groin, spread her plump susie and skinny legs wide. “Get back in.”

“Dude,” I said, and laid down onto and into my twelve-year-old lover.

Laying down directly on her flat slender body felt like laying on a hot metal playground slide.

Camila locked her ankles around me. She sucked at the side of my neck. She rolled her hips upward, fucking herself all the way onto my cock. My balls mashed pleasantly against the hard sweaty cushions of her clenched ass cheeks.

The smell of my room was wild: a mixture of sweat, lube, and susie. I didn’t love how lube smelled. But I loved what the smell meant to me now.

“Girrrrl,” I groaned unintentionally as she let me push all the way back in again, and flatten her with the full force of my weight. Camila giggled at me from underneath me, and I felt each little laugh’s crushing strain. I was fucking her silly.

Shit, she was fucking me silly, too. Suddenly her eyes were visible, and in her eyes was this bright, intense, deep-space kind of love, like she was lost in the cosmos. My breath left me in one long happy moan, but then I forgot to breathe back in. I got distracted. It felt so fucking good to look into her eyes while my body ground my cock up and up inside my little sister's warm tight susie, to see her looking at me and looking at me and looking at me while I savored her squishy cunt lips irrepressible squeezing, clutching, squeezing, up and down my shaft, trying to milk her brother. Inside her.

“H-hey,” I grunted.

“Hey,” she laughed, and her face scrunched up with adoration.

But I had something to say.

“I-I d-don’t think I sh’d c-cum in-innn-s-SIDE you,” I eventually managed to splutter.

“Ohm?” she chewed her lip, her eyes shut tight, a vein in her forehead bulging. “Kay,” she winced.

“K-kay,” I said.

And then I felt the urge overtake me, as if it had been waiting for this precise moment to pounce. My balls drew up, my body prepared to blow. My head began to swim with white static.

I pulled myself out of her just in time.

We were both still moaning and grunting as the first, the most voluminous jet of my cum hit her squarely in the bellybutton. Camila was giggling with wild eyes, but as I continued to cum she began to hoot, her eyes wide as she looked down and watched what was happening to her body. My cum painted the sweaty valley of her tensing stomach muscles and glistening hipbones and even reached a little ways up to her neckline. I let myself whimper and stutter as I continued jacking myself off, unloading onto my sister.

“Ohmygosh,” she gushed, “that is SO hot. Come. Come. I want.” She was beckoning me toward her mouth. She wanted me to feed her my cock.

So I did. I clambered forward on my knees, she scooted down on her back, and we met in the middle. She took right over jacking duties.

We moaned and whined and sighed together as the last of my cum went down my little sister's throat. It took Camila a good second to swallow it all. I stared down in rapidly changing disbelief at the sight of this beautiful naked little girl beneath me, who seemed to be working so hard, with the last of her brain power, to swallow my cum, not to spit it out like a normal little sister would, not to gag with terrific disgust, not to just be done with me for good already. God, and how my hairy, sweaty, lubricated, susie-slathered cock must have TASTED. To say nothing of the cum!

Finally Camila stopped moaning, and stopped jacking my cock, and let it slip free from her lips. She stuck out her tongue at me in a little circle. Empty.

I laughed softly, sorely. My cock hurt. My brain hurt. I needed to fall over.

“Okay, move,” she whispered, and pitter-pattered her fingertips on the jumpiest part of my taint. I hopped up reflexively, and dismounted from her facial region. I tumbled diagonally, caddywompus, onto an open patch of bedclothes. I rolled onto my back, guffawed at the stars sparkling in my vision, and heaved and sweated and looked at the cosmos with my sister.

She had sort of half-left the bed when she scooted under me. Now she wearily lugged first one foot then the other back up onto the mattress, meaning both her knees were now bent tightly. She sighed, took a deep shivery breath, and scooted herself back up toward the pillows in a single mighty straightening of her legs. Her face slid right up next to mine.

“Hello,” she puffed. Oof, her breath. But honestly, I fucking loved it.

“You are. So hot,” I blurted, still catching my breath.

“Yeah? Me?” she batted her eyes, the blushing pink corners of her smile practically curlicued with glee.

“I can’t. Believe. How good. You feel,” I panted.

“I’d better feel good,” she chortled. “Because it hurts like frick.”

“Are you. Okay?” I frowned.

She frowned, too. Extra super serious. It was cute.

Then she cracked up again.

“I’m okay,” she shrugged. “But also kinda glad we’re done for today.” She held up the lube tube. “Um. Should we go buy more?”

“Where?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” she cocked her head at me. “You’re the teenager here. Why are you asking me?”

“Camila,” I started. But then I had a thought. “Wait. What if we just had you … ask Mom for more lube? What would she even say, you know, if she thought you were the one using it? Like, that you were already so … curious? Wouldn’t that be a normal girl thing?"

“You want ME. To ask MOM. For LUBE?”

“I don’t know how else we’re going to get it!”

“DUH, we could maybe try going to a STORE?”

“Where?! And how?! It’s a fricking blizzard out there!”

“We have Tim take us in his big ugly van!”

“That’s - “” I faltered. “He’s …” I paused. “Huh,” I rubbed my chin.

My finger still smelled.

“And HE might know where to get some,” she poked me in the cheek, “since he’s not a big dumb DORK like you.”

I chuckled.

“Alright, fine.” I waved her poking finger away.

“Fine what?” It came poking right back.

“I’ll call Tim.”

“You will,” she commanded.

“Maybe we could even buy two tubes,” I thought out loud.

Camila looked confused. Then her eyes lit. “We could buy TEN tubes.”

“And hide them where?” I snorted.

“Up your BUTT!” she cackled.

I went to tickle her. Her tummy was wide open. She jolted and shrieked and her claws flew to my armpits in retaliation. Of course she failed to tickle me. But the joke was on me. My tickling hand was now covered in my cum. She’d kept my runny spunk warm on her skin. But now it cooled on my fingers.

“Lick it. Lick it,” she whispered. She clutched my wrist now in both of her bony hands. “Lick it!” She tried shoving my cummy hand toward my face.

Joke was on her. I’d already tasted my cum before, and knew it tasted like like whatever. So I let her pop my hand right onto my face.

“LICK! IT!” she hollered with delight.

I licked my palm. It tasted like cum.

“Ohhh my gosh GROOOssss,” she hissed through grinning teeth. “Come on,” she batted at me with my own limp, cummy appendage. “Open wiiiiide.”

So I hung my mouth wide open. Why not. She was loving this for some reason.

“Taste your yummy fiiiingies!” she giggled, and made me slurp all four of my fingers at once.

She seemed to expect me to swallow. So I did.

Then I rolled onto my stomach on top of her, and farted.

I groaned with cartoon relief as I laid my hot sweaty chest against hers and the wet, sticky, still-hot patches of cum that covered it. My fart filled the air.

“Nnnooo!” she wailed strenuously from under my bulk. I chortled. Then she kneed me in the groin, in my bare sack.

“My. Nards,” I wheezed pathetically, and half-rolled, half-got-shoved off of her. She scrambled away, kicking and slapping me, laughing victoriously. She left me curled up and coddling my nuts. I looked up at her with big wounded eyes. But she had already thrown my blanket and sheets back over me, and I felt them waft a cool breeze over my hot sweaty body, which was nice.

“THERE. Now keep your farts to yourself!” I felt one more muffled kick through the covers.

The kick made me fart again.

I chuckled in spite of the pain, and now the stink.

“Ewww!” Camila cracked up. I heard her dismount the bed. “I’m leaving! I need to wash all your CUM off me you disgusting FART machine. And you need to shower, too.”

“Hn,” I concurred.

She left. I heard the plumbing churn. Several dozy, fart-smelling minutes elapsed under my covers. My balls did eventually stop throbbing. Then Camila came back.

“ Your room stinks. It needs, like … I don’t even know. But it smells all the way out in the hall.”

“Hello,” I replied.

“Get up already. Go shower. We need to, like, clean up in here. Bad.”

“Right,” I winced as I sat up. And here I thought they’d finished throbbing. Camila pulled off the covers. She was wearing a lilac cami and chartreuse panties. Aww, I liked partially clothed Camila. She crinkled her nose as she woppsed the sweat-damp, fart-smelling, cum-stained comforter.

“I can put everything in the laundry. You go shower.”

“And we still need to call Tim,” I stood and stretched. Joints all over me popped and cracked. Sinews everywhere hollered in painful relief. I was going to feel this workout later, that was for sure. “Gawl-lee, Mila,” I grimaced at the riot of discomfort that was trying to walk to my door. “You did a number on me.”

She scoffed loudly as she led me out the door and into the hallway. “Says the giant hairy man to the tiny little girl he just raped!”

“Raped?!” I froze mid-hallway, right in front of the bathroom door.

“Or whatever!” she laughed and rolled her eyes at me from over the giant smelly bundle in her arms. “Just get in there and clean off. I like it when you smell nice.” She spun on her heels and went downstairs.

“I didn’t … rape you,” I grumbled quietly to myself as I trudged into the steamy, freshly used bathroom and shut the door behind me. I looked at myself in the streaky wet part of the mirror Camila had wiped clear after her shower. I looked like a guy who’d just gotten done having a lot of very good sex. I smirked at myself. I gave me a little nod like ‘Sup.’ I looked at me straight-faced, thoughtful-looking, for a long, heady minute.

Then I heard my sister stomping back up the stairs so I hurried up and got in the shower.

***

“Before we go,” Tim said auspiciously with his hands raised high, “I just need to confirm. We are driving to Walgreens. So that you guys can purchase lube. For your mother. Sara.”

“We used hers all up,” Camila reiterated.

“Right!” Tim guffawed. “Because you guys are boning.”

“R-right,” Camila cringed more at his verbiage than at his delight. We’d known his delight was to be expected. Poor Tim.

“Tim,” I said calmly, and put a hand on his shoulder. He lowered his hands, laid one of them on my arm, and now he was holding my shoulder, too.

“Gael,” he said in his richest Spanish baritone.

“I’m serious. Not a word. Not ever. After tonight, this never happened.”

“I got you, brother,” he said with scene-chewing earnest.

“If you even think about telling ANYONE, I will bite your fricking dick off,” Camila threatened, slash maybe flirted.

“You mean you’ll put your mouth on my penis?” Tim chortled, happy to smash that low-hanging fruit with his trusty home-run bat.

Camila blushed, scoffed, and then cracked up.

“Guys,” I said.

“Guy,” they said.

“Let’s go, Tim."

I may have sort of shoved Tim as he and I clomped out to his van into the searing cold. It was dark, so who could say for sure?

***

“Wow,” said the woman at the counter. She cocked her eyebrow at us.

Tim and I stood there smiling politely. He nodded at her.

“Find everything you need alright?”

“Yes,” we said in accidental unison.

She squinted at us, shook her head, and gave a little sigh. Then she began beeping all our tubes of lube across the scanner. She tallied up our bill and read it to us as she bagged them up. Tim insisted on paying. I shoved him in broad daylight this time, and threw my own cash down on the counter. The lady rolled her eyes, chuckled, and took it.

“You know,” she said, pausing to ding the cash register open and lick her fingertip. “I’m technically supposed to get permission, like from a parent or guardian? To sell you this stuff?”

“He has my permission,” Tim said, once again invoking his sultry Spaniard as he clapped his hand proudly on my back, “and my undying admiration.”

“Timothy,” she grunted, “you are seventeen this February. Nice try, sweetheart. Don’t think I don’t have your daddy’s number.” She handed us our receipt, but kept the bag of lube. “And you,” she narrowed her gaze at me. “If either of you two is the grownup in here tonight, it’s you. Now here,” she proffered the goods to me, “you take this, and you keep it away from him.” She thumbed disapprovingly at Tim.

Tim had unwittingly but profoundly besmirched this pharmacy once upon a time, and his return to it tonight was his first since that fateful mistake. I thanked him quietly on our way out the door. I told him he was a good friend. I also may have shoved him on the ice and made him almost eat it. It was hilarious, however it happened.

On the way back to my house, Tim drove through Burger King. He ordered too much food, way more than we needed. Then he paid, of course. We nibbled fries as we drove home. Drank Cokes. Laughed about the pharmacy visit.

At home, Camila greeted us at the door. She looked anxious to see us. “Hurry, hurry,” she shooed us in. “It’s fr-reezing out.”

We sloughed off our many layers and pieces of warmth and piled them beside the door. We tread on the toes of our socked feet to avoid stepping on the snowy bootprint waffles we’d left everywhere. Then we joined Camila in the kitchen.

We plundered the giant Burger King bag. We drained our large Cokes. We made merry on grease and sugar and the sheer hilarity-making presence of a grocery bag of purple tubes of lube. Here, while we were thinking about it.

“Yo Mila,” I said.

“What?” she giggled.

“Go hide this one where it goes.”

“Shit,” Tim’s eyes went wide. “Can I come too?”

“You can go home, CREEP. You’ve served your purpose,” Camila cringed animatedly at him. She stood up holding the tube I'd handed her.

Tim slouched, defeated. “Should I go?” he asked seriously.

We shrugged at him. We saw each other shrug at the same time. We smirked at each other's shrugs.

I shrugged at Tim.

He smirked back.

“Understood,” he shrugged casually, and graciously excused himself. He didn't even force any small talk as he donned his many layers and pieces of warmth in the foyer. “Fuuuck it’s cold out,” is all he said, and just before he closed the door behind him.

***

“We have lube,” I declared.

“Correction. We have LOTS of lube,” Camila clapped.

We were snuggling on the couch under the tickle blanket again. We had our clothes on. Well, I did anyway. Camila was back down to her classic t-shirt and panties. We weren’t even humping. Just some light kissing. Mostly we were just vibing and trying to make each other laugh.

“But we can’t again, tonight,” she half-sighed. “I need not to.”

“Understandable,” I hugged her gently.

“Careful,” she winced.

“Shit, sorry!”

“Just joking,” she grinned.

I giggled like Pooh.

“You like that?” she snickered. “You fricking galloot?”

Ugh. Galloot was Mom’s word. Camila guffawed at me as I flopped her over and humped the backs of her thighs. She cackled in pain. I tried to get at her armpit. She thrashed. I tried to hump her butt. She elbowed me in the oblique. She put her core into it. It downed me, gripping my throbbing side.

“THAT HURT!” she sobbed.

Her face was ragged with emotion.

I suffered a fracture-like snapping in my chest, in the walls of my heart, and almost whimpered. I got off of her, off the couch. I knelt down beside her feet. I fought back a wave of extreme anxiety.

“Sis,” I choked. I was talking to her feet. “I didn’t mean to hurt. You.”

She sniffled at me, harshly.

“I got - I did something stupid and I’m sorry.”

“You can’t. Be. That ROUGH with me,” she said as another jagged sob cracked out of her. She sort of kicked at me with her foot, but she didn’t mean violence.

“I … I …” didn’t have a single thing to say.

She sniffled again, and curled her feet away from me.

I stared at the the empty sofa cushion.

“Hey,” she said.

I stared at my kid sister.

She was staring at me. “You don’t do that.”

I shook my head. I mean I nodded.

“Just say.”

“I never ever want to hurt you,” I said. “Oh, fuck me.” I had started crying in front of her by accident.

“Whoa,” she said. She sat up. She reached out to me. “Guy, hey, it’s okay. Aww.” She started crying too. “I know you care about me dude. I know!”

“Ah, kid,” I sniffled, sighed, and then … smirked. “I just can’t stay mad at you.”

“Stay mad at ME?” she balked, and poked me hard in the forehead.

“I forgive you,” I chortled, and raised my arms for a hug.

“You dirtball!” Camila cackled and kicked me in the face.

***

“Ah, fuck, ahh, fuck, ahhh, fuckfuckfuck,” I was saying as we led me blindly, nose upturned, by the hand to the kitchen sink. Blood streamed down my chin into my shirt. I tried to catch it with my hand but then my hand dripped blood on the kitchen floor. I hoped I hadn’t bled on the living room carpet. I prayed. Dad and those carpets, dude. If you respected your life, you respected the carpets.

“Here,” she shoved a wad of paper towel into my hand. She mashed it gently but firmly onto to my nose. It smarted. I felt something gristly and out of place in the bridge of my nose. She felt it too. “What is that?” she muttered as she fondled it.

The pain of her accidentally popping it back into place stabbed me in the guts of my very being. Never had something so close to the seat of my consciousness felt so violently wrong. It made me squawk in crescendoing pain.

“Sorry,” she mumbled. “But I think I fixed it. Here, look down at me for a sec.”

She withdrew my blood soaked paper towel wad and grimaced at what she saw underneath. But she nodded sternly. “Yeah. It looks like it hurts. But I think I got it back in.”

“Oh gaw,” I whined, the pain still making me cartoon-like.

“Oh, you’ll be fine. Guys look sexy with a broken nose.”

“Why do know so much about broken noses?”

“They happen in dance. Toes, too, a lot. And fingers. Ankles. Knees, oof, knees are bad.”

“And still you dance.”

“And still I dance.”

“I like that you dance," I sighed fondly.

“I know you do. Here, shut up. You’re bleeding. Take this.” She tore off another wild length of paper towel and sort of folded it up for me. I took it when she handed it to me. “You want ice? Let me get you ice.” She went and got me ice in a ziplock bag. “Let me see again?” she said.

I lowered the paper towels.

“Hmkay. Well. Here. I like ice whenever I break something.”

I cringed as she very slowly, gently laid the bag across my nose. The throbbing heat in my skin tore at the lashing cold of the bag, and meanwhile bone and gristle relished a moment’s calm. I sighed, sort of, or attempted to. I smiled, anyway.

“Dakes,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” she said.

She blinked at me.

She smiled.

“I’m not saying sorry by the way.”

“Huh?” I throbbed.

“Because,” she smirked. “I’d rather say we’re even.”

“Oh,” I chuckled. Which hurt. “Okay. Wuh-debbuh.”

“Yeah ‘whatever,’” she said, and gently but deliberately pinched a clangorous pang of broken nose tissue for emphasis.

I cried like a cartoon baby.

She held me and shooshed me and told me Mommy loves me.

Eventually, we heard the garage door.

Camila scurried off to hide the lube in her room. When she came back down, she had pants on. We didn’t hide. Hiding a broken nose would have only made it weird. Instead, we stood there exactly how we had been, her stanching my bleeding schnoz, me waiting for the dizzy howling agony to subside.

Dad came in and went, "Huh."

"We can explain," Camila said.

"Yes you can," Dad said.

***

We were grounded to our rooms for the remainder of the night.

"You two dummies need a break from each other," Dad said. He pointed to each of us as we stood there, small-feeling in each our separate bedroom doorways. "Stay in your rooms. No funny business. I'm going downstairs to read, and if I hear anything from either one of you, it's lights out."

"Lights out?" Camila snorted.

"Bedtime," Dad said sternly.

"Oh," she said.

Dad gave me one last lookover.

"Geez. You poor dope." He sighed. Then he grumbled as much to himself as to me, "Your mother is going to have a fit."

I nodded.

"You know that, huh?" he said. "Well. Good luck to you both, then, yeah?"

He started down the stairs.

"Daddy," Camila whined.

"Don't you 'Daddy' me," he laughed, already at the squeaky bottom stair. "There's nothing I can do to save you." He chuckled at himself. We stood there sulking as we listened to him descend into the basement humming 'She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain.'

"Going downstairs to 'read' my BUTT," Camila pouted.

"Definitely going to look up porn."

"Naked ding-dongs for dorks," Camila said.

"Green-eyed Latinas," I said.

"Big hairy - heyyy, that's NOT funny," she giggled.

We tip-toed out to each other and met halfway between each other's doors. We hugged, kissed, and held each other close for a second. I lovingly fondled her butt. She playfully squeezed and pinched at mine. I chuckled. She purred. Then we hugged again. Then we kissed again. Then she started crying.

"I'll miss you," she said.

"Aw," I choked up a little. "Sis." I hugged her tight.

"Sorry I broke your nose."

"It's okay. Sorry I hurt your butt."

"You hurt my everything."

"You liked it."

"More like YOU liked it."

"You liked it!"

"I didn't hate it."

"You literally told me to 'get inside' you at one point."

"Did not."

"Did, for real. It was ... the sexiest thing I had ever experienced in my life."

"Aww," she blushed, and smooched my shirt.

"Hey," I said. "Look at me a sec?"

She did.

"You liked it, right?"

She smiled hard.

"Yeah," she said.

We shared a chuckle, and another kiss.

"Okay good," I sighed. "Because I dropped like seventy bucks on lube tonight? And so if we aren't going to needhfmmflghbhl - "

I stumbled back. She had pounced!

"HEY," Dad bellowed from the bottom of the basement stairs. His bellows carried. "Don't MAKE ME come UP THERE."

Camila and I exchanged brief, fractured glances of horror in which we also saw our own horror mirrored in the other's eyes. We flew apart and closed our doors.

I panted and clutched my chest to make sure I wasn't dying. Then I clutched my boner, to make sure it wasn't dying. All was intact. I sighed and slid down the door onto my butt and sighed again. I blew a long hot breath of anxiety into my cold, lonely bedroom. God, my nose hurt like fuck. I clapped the ice back onto it. I groaned pleadingly at the ice to do a better job.

Eventually I got up, undressed, and into bed. 'Lights out.' Whatever, Dad. I turned out my light. I shivered under my nice clean covers. Then I put the ice back on my face. I dozed. When the bag was water, I set it on my nightstand.

I fell asleep carefully.

While in the waking world I couldn't even breathe through my nose much less smell, in the dreaming one I could smell something even as subtle and perfect as my little sister's hair. She was there, with me, and wanted me to smell it. She was telling me how it smelled, too. Like coconut and honey, and like some sort of citrus blend, and but also just like hair. She asked what I thought it smelled like. I told her it smelled like strawberries to me. In the dream, she thought this made no sense. And then she knocked me on my head as if to wake me.

When I woke up, the first thought that came unfurling like a rug falling out of a closet into my mind was: Family never smells like much of anything, but that makes whatever we do smell like important.

It was still pitch black in my room. It was the middle of the night. My clock blinked when I blinked. '3:14, 3:14.' I wasn't sure why I was awake. Had I heard a knock? Or had that just been the dream?

***

Chapter Text

“Hi,” came Mom’s voice from behind me, making me practically jump out of my skin. She had already climbed into my bed?! I turned toward her shadowy presence, trying not to act as startled as I felt. She smelled like soapy steam. She must have just bathed. Coconut, honey, some sort of citrus blend. Huh.

“What is it?” I asked, as if something must be wrong for her to sneak into my bed in the middle of the night. And on a school night, no less!

“Nothing, sweetie,” she said softly, and gently laid her hand on my chest through the covers. “I’m sorry if I scared you.”

“Did you … knock on my head?”

“I did," she giggled. "You wouldn’t wake up. Sorry honey. But you must have been having a pretty good dream, huh?”

“Must have been,” I frowned and felt at where I’d felt her knock, as if there might be a cartoon lump to give her grief about.

“You okay? You want me to leave, let you sleep?”

“Ugh. I mean. Yeah. Wait, what’d you even want?”

“Oh,” she said sadly. “I just wanted to apologize. I kept thinking all day about … this morning. And well,” she traced her hand up over the covers toward my face. She found my cheek. “I feel like maybe we should talk.”

“Right now?” I groaned.

“Well,” she winced audibly as she very gingerly felt at my swollen nose and felt me tense up, “I guess I couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s … bothering you, huh?”

“Honey,” Mom sighed, and now she was fixing my bedhead. But she paused to say, “Yes. You could say it is.”

“So okay,” I clumsily moved her hand away. I took a deep sleepy breath, yawned, stretched, and readjusted my pillow so that I could sit up against the headboard.

My eyes had begun to adjust. I could see Mom lying on her side, propped on her elbow, gazing up at me. Even in the dark, her eyes glinted.

“Thanks,” she smiled. “I won’t keep you up long.”

“School tomorrow,” I groaned.

“School today,” she corrected. Her hand reappeared, this time on mine, in my lap. I turned my palms up, and she placed her hand inside. I closed my fingers. Her hand was warm and smooth.

“Listen,” she began. “I know I said that ‘a little too silly’ can be a good thing.”

“The ‘best kind of silly,’” I vividly recalled. “Um. Is what I think you said.”

“R-right,” Mom chuckled uncomfortably. “Well. So. What we did this morning wasn’t just silly, was it.”

I peered at her dark face and glittering eyes.

“It was sexual. We lost control to our bodies, and we crossed a bridge we didn’t mean to.”

“What bridge?” I said maybe a little too indignantly. I was sleep-grumpy.

“Gael,” she said, and her hand cringed inside of mine.

“Sorry,” I squeezed.

“Here’s the deal, okay?” she smiled. “I love you. I want you to be happy. But I also want you to feel safe in your own home. And I’m worried - ”

My cock twitched subtly. Both of us felt it. But Mom faltered only briefly, and didn’t so much as giggle.

“I’m worried that if we continue, you know, seeing what’s on the other side of that bridge, we’re going to get to a place where you don’t feel safe anymore.”

“Y-you mean Dad,” I shuddered. Suddenly I felt like the disembodied hand in my lap was not Mom’s but the Ghost Of Incest Yet To Come’s. I saw visions in the dark. Dad’s face. The news hitting him. The anger, the hurt, the humiliation. The betrayals, plural.

“No,” she said calmly. Too calmly. Like she knew she was dropping a bomb.

“He KNOWS?”

“Shh, no,” Mom chuckled. “Not exactly. Don't worry about him. He’s fine. He gets it. And he trusts me not to let anything go too far.”

"GETS it?" I spluttered. "W-wait, what does that mean? And what is going TOO far?”

“Hmm,” Mom smirked, turning the question back on me. “What IS going too far?”

“YOU should know,” I flap-jawed, “Dad TRUSTS you to know!"

“Dad trusts me. Is right. And by proxy,” she withdrew her hand from mine. It was getting sweaty. She wiped it on my covers. Then she touched my cheek with it.

I flinched. Nose still hurt. She mumbled an apology.

“By proxy, he trusts you,” she finished.

“That’s insane,” I muttered. “But seriously, what do you mean he ‘gets it?’”

“He understands that I'm ... you know." She didn't like admitting she was desirable. "Some moms can become ... difficult figures in their sons’ teen years,” she said carefully, lightly stroking my cheek, my jaw, the rim of my ear.

“Some moms,” I echoed. She meant sexy moms.

“Some sisters, too,” she sighed.

“Ughm,” I gulped. “Look, about the thing with Camila’s underwear.”

“It’s fine,” Mom interrupted me, and gently but pointedly grabbed chin. “It’s fine.”

“They were just in the hamper, and I was in a weird mood, and I don’t know what came over me…”

Suddenly Mom kissed me on the lips.

“Honey,” she breathed, then kissed me again. “It’s okay. You’ve been a good boy since then.”

“M-Mom,” I gasped.

She pulled abruptly back, sat up beside me now, and looked me in the eyes.

“Sorry,” she panted, wiping her lips. “I don’t mean to lose control like that.”

That was her losing control? Yeesh. Truly, I would never ever be able to explain to Mom what ‘losing control’ looked like for real.

“You just surprised me,” I said.

“Yeah?” she said. “Sorry. I have to be better. We have to stay on this side of the bridge.”

“We do? But I thought Dad trusted you?”

“He trusts me to know where to draw the line. And I draw the line at making out with you in your bed in the middle of the night.”

“On a school night.”

She smirked. “On a school night. Shame on me.”

“Bad Mom.”

“I’m so bad.”

We stared each other down in the dark. We could both see in the dark by now. Not that we even needed to.

“Listen,” she breathed. “I know. Okay?” I could hear how anxious she was. “I know how you’re feeling about this.”

“Do you though?” I pouted.

“Honey,” she said. “I’m human, too. We can’t help it.”

“I feel like most mothers and sons do, though.”

“We’re not most mothers and sons,” she said haughtily. “Are we?”

I swallowed. I was so fucking horny for my mom right now. Geez. Was she doing this to me on purpose? Was this how she ‘foreplayed’ or whatever?

“You have my white underwear, correct?”

I nodded.

“Is that you nodding?” she giggled softly.

“Y-yes.”

“Good. Would you like to do something a little silly with them?”

My heart froze in my throat. Sweet, hard, blood-tasting heartsicle. I felt like I couldn't speak, so I just nodded again, and a third time for good measure.

She leaned forward and kissed my forehead.

“Can you direct me to their location?” she purred.

I pointed to my nightstand drawer.

“In here?” she asked, crawling over me to peek inside the dark drawer. “Ah, yes. Lovely. Oo, these ARE nice. Hm. But they hardly even smell like me.” She snickered and added softly, "I'll do better on the next pair."

“M-Mom, what are you doing?”

“I just want to do something silly. Should help you get back to sleep. And maybe take your mind off that poor schnoz of yours.”

“M-my poor schnoz,” I chuckled stupidly, boyishly.

“Yeah,” she cooed in Mommy voice, and she crawled under the covers with me. She laid down beside me, close. “Here,” she said, and took one of my hands. She lifted the front of her nightshirt and put it directly on her tit. “That okay?”

“Y-yus,” I squeed inwardly.

“Kay,” she blushed. “Good. Now we have to try not to make any noise.”

“Mhm,” I promised.

“Okay,” she said, and I felt her hand appear on my bare thigh. I was asleep in my boxers and nothing else. Her hand felt chilly on my blazing hot thigh muscles. She moved it delicately, artfully, playfully through my leg hairs, up toward my groin. “Is this okay?” she whispered sweetly. She kissed my cheek.

I squeezed her tit.

“Let’s take these off, okay? One pair of underwear should be enough.”

I chuckled as I hurriedly pulled down my boxers. Then I tried to put my hand right back up her shirt.

“Ah-ah,” she tutted, gently gripping my hand by the wrist. “Now, put these on.”

She tucked her white satin panties into my hand.

“W-what?” I chortled, assuming she was joking. I was confused. Weren't you?

“Come on,” she patted my pec. “Be silly with me.”

“You want me to put on your - ?”

“They're nice,” she said, drawing her palm in a long smooth swath of warm pleasure down my bare torso. “You will like how they feel."

“Ohmygod,” I whined as I slid my boxers the rest of the way off - I had wrongly figured leaving them at my knees would suffice - and then dutifully, awkwardly, fumbled with the panties to figure out where the leg holes were.

“Here, let me help,” Mom said, and fit the small garment around me feet and partway up my legs. I pulled them on the rest of the way, hoisting my hips at one point to slide them on under my butt. They were … extraordinarily comfortable, actually. Wow. Women just wore these all the time? The satin or whatever it was stretched luxuriously, fully containing me, even as it sweetly compressed me.

“How do they feel?” Mom asked, audibly grinning.

I sighed. She giggled at a whisper.

Then she laid down and cuddled against me. I put my arm around her. She smelled amazing, freshly washed. And there was also that slight scent of musky sex still coming off her, though now that I think of it, that might - WAIT, I could SMELL! I breathed a grand, royal breath in through my poor throbbing schnoz. The chill air burned like hell, but smelled like Mom.

“I guess I should ask permission first,” she breathed softly, directly into my face.

“For what?” I blushed. Her breath was minty and good, even at 3 AM.

“I want to sit on you like this morning, and … tickle you. Like this morning."

“Y-you want to …?”

“Yep.”

“Oh. Wow.”

“Is that okay?”

“So the panties are for …?”

“Their usual purpose. No?”

“Ohmygod,” I quivered. My cock throbbed. Fuuuck. I almost came. I came very, very close. I didn't want Mom's panties to serve their 'usual purpose' THIS quickly. I held my cum in by the skin of my prostate's teeth. Coincidentally, the mental image of my prostate literally biting my cum did help.

“Is that … okay?” She bit her lip like Camila. Hnnngh. “M-May I?”

“Y-yeah, I mean, um,” I gulped, shrugged, nodded. I cleared my throat, too, for good measure. I nodded again. “S-sure. It’s okay.”

“You’re surrre?” she asked again. I heard her smile widen with excitement.

“Yeah,” I giggled.

“Yay,” she cheered softly, and threw back my covers. “Lay down flat, here,” she said, and patted a spot near the center of my mattress. I scooted sideways, then downward, until I was completely supine. Mom swung her knee over my waist. I only just now realized she was bottomless, under her nightshirt. I was literally the only person in this room wearing women’s underwear. Then she sat down her full naked weight onto my sleek, satiny cock.

“Wheeew,” she exhaled nervously. She planted her weight a little more to the base of my cock, feeling out my shape. “Mm. Yep. I like these panties.”

“Th-they’re soft,” I observed. I could feel so much right now. Oh my God. Oh my Mom. Her vulva was a bazillion degrees. Even with the thin barrier of silk or whatever this stuff was, I could feel how wet she was getting, just from this.

Mom then proceeded to sit down, completely on top of me now, her thighs on mine, her butt on my cock. And she ground. She did this little circular swivel, a wiggly kind of side-to-side rocking of her hips. It made her pussy grind all around my cockhead.

Ohmyfuckinggod.

My mouth was open. I could have caught a butterfly in there. I was too aroused to make words. This was actually happening. I blinked at the clock again. It blinked back some time I couldn't properly register before Mom grabbed me by my jaw. Jerked my face around. Made made me look. Watch. See. Forget about time. Think about her.

“M-M-Mom,” I shuddered fondly.

“Does this 'tickle,' sweetheart?” she beamed.

“Mmmm,” I groaned.

“Shhh,” she said. And she humped my cock with her bare ass. And it did tickle, like she had promised. Her asscheeks, I could feel their muscular roundness through the silk. And my cock was throbbing. And the satin panties were wet and growing wetter. Hot and growing hotter. I probably wouldn’t even feel myself cum down there.

“Tell me,” she panted as she leaned forward onto me and now extra-determinedly pussy-fucked my cock through her panties. “Did you put any thought. To what I asked you. Earlier?”

She had asked me in the middle of ‘tickling’ me on the sofa one simple but, for me, insoluble question.

“Wh-what do I w-want?” I gasped. “R-right?”

“Uh-huh,” she chewed her lip. She was truly fucking me, is almost how it felt.

“Y-you,” I said. “I want you, M-Mom.”

“Do you, sweetie?” she giggled breathlessly.

“And. And. But. I don’t know.”

“D-don’t know?” she frowned, looking concerned as she stroked my sweat damp brow, carefully avoiding my nasal region. And as she continued to hump me into annihilation.

“I want us. T-to. To stay. How we are.”

“Oh, Guy,” she sobbed all of a sudden, and now I felt a most unexpected sensation on my cock.

She kissed me. Her eyes were closed. Hers, or mine. My nose screamed in pain. But my heart sang. Mom was cumming on me, for me, because of me.

“Th-there he is,” she said.

I could only emit a low, stuttering moan of blissful unreality.

“Listen,” she whispered seriously through gritted teeth. “I am your mother. First and always. You got that?”

“Y-yes Ma’am.”

“We stay how we are.”

“P-please,” I begged.

“And sometimes,” her voice was rising with feeling, even as she kept it just below a whisper, “we get very, very silly.”

“The p-perfect ammmount of silly,” I ch-chuckled,

Just like that, she lost her composure, and began truly cumming. She gasped like she had tripped on a stair, and gripped my shoulders tight. Her cunt sucked on me through the soaked, squelching panties I had on, as she swiveled and rolled her hips like she meant to wring every last drop of silly out of this.

Mom was shaking now, her breasts were jiggling inside her nightshirt, and so I reached in and grabbed them. I held them gloriously still in my bare hands. I held them more than still. That made her cum more. And sweet fuck, it was happening to me now too. Just as suddenly. Just as accidentally. My orgasm rose up in a great swell, like a tidal wave about to crash, and then just kept rising. The shadow of its impending crash grew. I shuddered. My black bedroom went white and sparkly. I saw Mom.

Then the white sparkles receded to the corners of the room as my cock began to pump. Cum. I was cumming in Mom’s own cunt-soaked panties, into the boiling mess she’d made of them, and only partway through did it occur to me tell her so.

“Aww, sweetie,” is all she could muster, and she kissed me like a lover, not a son. She vacuumed my love into her mouth. My moaning and whimpering. “Shhh,” she whisper-giggled into my open, heaving mouth.

It seemed to happen over the course of minutes, I don't know. Maybe it was seconds. She pulled off of me. Patted me tenderly on the bulge in my panties. Sat on my thighs a moment, coming down with me in the woozy, love-spangled quiet. It was nice here, on what I supposed was the far side of this bridge Mom kept talking about. The grass was even greener than I'd have thought possible. It glistened even at night.

“Well alright then,” she laughed cutely.

“Y-yeah,” I chuckled.

“That … rocked,” she spluttered. She had a minor giggle fit. Then she let herself collapse onto the bed beside me. “Thank you for letting me be silly.”

“M-me too,” I gawked.

She was glowing. She had her nightshirt pinched up and was fanning herself with it. I saw her glistening skin. Her sparkling pussy. She had waxed, I now saw? Wow. For me, I guess? She had even less hair down there than Camila’s susie did.

“Your nose still hurt?” she asked, and smooched my neck exuberantly.

“Kinda,” I lied. It was killing me. My head was pounding. But I could have cared less.

“Good,” she snickered. “And you feel ready to go to sleep?”

“I feel like I could be silly again in like ten minutes, if you gave me a chance.”

“Ha,” she scoffed, and socked me in the shoulder with her noodly, cum-drunk fist. “Not unless you have another pair of panties hiding in here somewhere.”

I didn’t, did I?

“Go to sleep, kid,” she tickled my chin. “School in the morning.”

“Okay,” I said with a puppylike sigh.

“Aw,” she cooed, and hugged me one more time. “We can be silly again some other time, okay?”

“Really?” I asked, still in puppy mode apparently.

“Sure. We’ll have plenty of time for fun,” she chuckled, and sat up to leave. I heard her knees crackle as she lowered her bare feet to my floor. “Promise.” And she stood up, did a little stretch, and let me admire her sweet, sweaty butt in the dark.

“Gosh,” I sighed.

“Yeah,” she sighed, too. She gave me a little pose and a hip-wiggle. “I know. ‘I’m a hottie.’” She made a silly face at me.

“You are though,” I blushed.

“You’re cute,” she blushed.

She yawned.

I yawned, too, and stretched out, and tallied the aches I was nursing.

“Hey. Give me those underwear before you fall back asleep,” she yawned again.

“R-right,” I grunted.

I unstuck them from my person, literally peeled them off. It was more than messy, as they left all manner of slime and chill gooplets in my leg hairs. Feeling more than a little embarrassed about handing her this wet, hot, malodorously incestuous parcel, I handed them to her. She didn’t react whatsoever to their grossness.

She thanked me, and tiptoed to my door.

“You going to need another pair?” she asked.

“Um, I mean,” I stammered in the dark. “Will I?”

“Do you want a pair?” she asked more pointedly.

“Y-yes.”

“Okay,” she smiled. “I’ll see to it. Good night sweetie.” And she left, sneaking bottomless back out into the night.

***

School was fine enough, I guess. I was painfully sore, comically impeded, and decided to tell curious friends and teachers I’d shoveled a few extra driveways for cash. And accidentally slipped on ice and broke my nose. Tim picked up on the cover story and helped disseminate it to his weird little friend group, too, in case that mattered to me. Sucked I couldn’t just brag to my bros about all the pussy I was getting. Alas. If this was the most stressful facet of concealing my incest, I supposed I could deal with it.

Harder to deal with, though, was my newfound swagger. I guess I just emanated mojo now, somehow? Even doddering from class to class as I was, with my stiff back and sore hips and horrifically bruised nose, I felt oddly confident. Over it. So much of high school was a corruptly produced pageant of false bravado and courtly intrigue. Before Winter Break, I’d had a horse in that unfortunate race. Now I was dating someone I not only found more genuine and interesting, but who was fully on board to use up like nine tubes of lube with me and me alone. And, well, okay, maybe with herself alone, too. Heh.

Shit, it was so weird, every single time I accidentally remembered something that had happened the day before, while I was in such a banal, everyday place. Like, I wouldn’t say high school is a ‘sterile’ or ‘sexless’ environment, at least not the reasonably liberal-minded public school I happened to attend, but it felt like a fucking monastery to me on this particular day. Like, oh wow, look at that cute Junior’s butt in those tight-ass jeans. My bro literally elbowed me so I wouldn’t miss a glimpse when Libby Greenwald was walking ahead of us. And I raised my eyebrows like, yep, that’s Libby Greenwald’s butt in jeans. … Am I making sense, here? Sure, there was horniness, hormones, and budding sexual anatomies. But it was all so straight-jacketed to hell. I just wanted to be at home, seated at the kitchen table with a bib around my neck, and my little sister naked on a plate in front of me.

I was also struggling a bit to compartmentalize what was happening with Mom. The thing with her was, um. The thing with Mom was.

Whatever, she just liked to be silly with me, so what. It was sweet, joyous Mom-Guy fun. And hey, she’d waxed her pubes for me. I think. Had that been for me? That was fucking bananas.

Like I said, kind of all over the map on Mom. Each time I found her a nice cozy compartment inside me to hide in, I would find her grazing nonchalantly out in the tall grass of my wandering thoughts again. Daring me not to hunt her. Teasing me into ill-timed boners. Promising me silliness beyond imagining. Weird metaphor? It was a weird day.

It had been a weird night. She had made me don her panties so she could wet-hump me with her waxed vulva. Mom had. Dad’s wife. The lady whose breath literally never smelled, whose sweat glistened odorlessly, although her very occasional gas did make a hilarious ‘poit’ sound coming out her incredibly hot butt.

Ugh. Why boner? Seriously? I was talking about farts! Was there NOTHING you didn't crave?!

All day, it was like this. But you’ll notice I didn’t think much about my nose? That’s what I guess I meant about the surprise swagger. If people were giving me looks or whatever, I didn’t notice, nor would I have given a fuck. When anyone asked, I gave them the cover story, and the conversation moved on. A couple bros joked about wanting to touch it. But I just didn’t fucking care. And as the day wore on, I found myself thinking a hell of a lot more about the sex I would rather be having than about my face.

***

I got home beleaguered but mercifully light on homework. I decided to do it immediately so I could relax the rest of the day. Maybe play some EYL with Sis. See if we couldn’t sneak in some romance.

I came right upstairs after shucking off all my outerwear, and rode that little updraft of after-school momentum to my desk, where I promptly got sidetracked. I spotted something unexpected in my pencil drawer. It was a business envelope. On the front was a heart drawn in either Mom or Camila’s hand. I hesitated to open it. I felt like there was something else I’d meant to do when I sat down.

I went and closed my bedroom door. No one else was home, but I felt safer regardless. I stole back to my desk. I opened the envelope carefully. Inside was a typed letter, neatly tri-folded. It read:

“My little Guy,

“Hope you had a good first day back. If you need to ’chill’ after you finish your homework, and you’re feeling a little ‘sill,’ I left something for you under your pillow.”

Ugh. I rolled my eyes at her pun, or whatever you wanted to call Mom’s humor. And yet that she was such a mommy Mom was a colossal part of her intrinsic appeal. If she had only been hot, it wouldn’t work.

I immediately went to my bed and checked under the pillows. Sure enough, here were a pinkish-purple pair of floral panties. Worn, by the look of the gusset. Freshly worn, by the smell. God. Damn.

Time: paused.

I smelled again. My boner roiled. I shoved my pants down. I grabbed my raging manhood by the cock. I clamped Mom’s incredibly aromatic underwear to my aching nose. It was even better than the ice pack. My mind blanked with lust, then flooded with a hot, fuzzy, static. My head felt like it was going to blow a fuse. But I held fast. I let her scent flood my senses, my thoughts, my emotions. All of me wished to, needed to, commingle with her. The smell of Mom’s lust for me recolored me. I came, and came, and came. All over my floor. Partly on my nightstand. Right where I had been standing when I first uncovered Mom’s sacred, silly gift to me.

Meaning they were still usable, pure, cumless, when I came right back four minutes later for another heady snort.

Fucking fuck. I had a serious incest problem. But to my credit, the second time I came while huffing Mom’s pussy smell like paint, I caught my pervy ejaculate in a tissue rather than spray another indiscriminate load all over my floor.

Getting my cum out of the carpet was going to be a pain. There would be a permanent crusty spot leftover, I just knew it. Cum did that to fuzzy things. I guessed no matter what, I would always have a reminder of this afternoon.

My cock surged with my heartbeat. Mom's cunt’s tangy sweet aroma fluffed my every thought like a pinkish-purple perfumed pillow. Even when I wasn’t holding it directly to my miserable schnoz, I could float on the neurological nebuloids of Momlust having smelled her produced inside my brain. I had grokked. This was now a part of me, somehow. Mom’s incredibly good, naughty, little-bit-too-silly pussy odor.

I took one final, loving snort for good luck and finally put Mom away in my nightstand for safekeeping. What a beautiful, surreally generous gift. Mom had wanted me to know her full, true well. Or, well, okay, how her fucking freshly worn, apparently masturbated-in underwear smelled. But I loved her the same for it either way.

“Hey Guy,” said a voice I hadn’t heard in a minute.

“Chelsea?” I suppressed my startlement. I shut my nightstand drawer. I clenched my cummy tissue tight in my fist. I willfully did not glance in nervous terror at the cum stain on my carpet. Here was Camila’s childhood friend and present day car-pool buddy, Chelsea.

“Mila really broke your nose?” she said, wincing at the sight of me.

“Hey, I helped,” I scoffed.

She snorted.

The nerdy little preteen was growing. She had honest to goodness tits now. At least a B-cup, maybe even a C, not that cup-size meant anything. Her pink-cheeked face, once cherubic, was now perky and angular; she finally looked as precociously smart as she had always been.

She smiled a little self-consciously at me and glanced around at the various posters and things on my walls. I sauntered casually toward her, and stood covering the slimy cumstain with my socked foot. There, that felt better - yucky, but better. I thanked heavens my cock was in my pants, my pants were on, and Mom’s dirty panties were stowed safely away.

“Mila went to the bathroom. I just thought I’d say hey,” Chelsea said. She sniffed. She blushed. “Kinda stinks in here.”

“Yep,” I chuckled. “That’d be me.”

She giggled.

“You guys have a decent first day back?” I asked.

“Yeah,” she shrugged. “Homework, though.”

“Yup,” I frowned and nodded fraternally.

“You have some, too?” she brightened. “Hey. Want to come do yours while we do ours? We could hang out.”

“Um. I just have some math. Should only take like ten minutes.”

“So come hang out for ten minutes.”

I looked at her.

“Please?”

I blushed, sighed, shrugged.

“Yeah, fine. Let me get my book bag.”

“‘Book bag,’” Chelsea snorted. “Yay.”

And so it was that Camila found her best friend and her boyfriend hanging out together in secret in her bedroom when she came back from the bathroom. Neither girl noticed I was unseasonably barefoot. My socks had become makeshift stain removal rags, you see, and were now in the hamper. Deep in the hamper.

“What the heck?” Camila said on entering.

“Took you long enough,” Chelsea scoffed.

“I had to go,” Camila blushed angrily at us. “Why is HE in here?”

“Hey now,” I grunted from the beanbag chair. “I’m just over here doing my homework. Don’t mind me.”

“But I wanted to hang out with Chelsea,” she whined.

“We said we were going to do our homework,” Chelsea gestured to their backpacks on the bed. “And Guy has homework too, so I invited him.”

“I have one quick math assignment, that’s it,” I assured her.

“You do,” Camila squinted at me. What was this for? I was no threat to anybody.

“Let him stay,” Chelsea said.

“Fine. This is stupid? But whatever. You guys clearly LOVE each other, so how could I possibly stop you…” she grumbled as she clambered onto the bed.

Chelsea sat with her back to Mila’s headboard and her workbook in her lap. Mila laid down at the foot, spread her own book open, and sighed heavily.

“Ugh,” she muttered, leafing through the early pages in front of her and counting. “This is like twenty pages.”

“Sucks,” Chelsea sighed. She uncrossed and recrossed her lean, preteen legs. She was a dancer, too, like Camila. She clicked her yellow mechanical pencil. “Shall we?”

“Fudge,” Camila groaned, and asked to borrow a pencil.

I finished way before the girls. I just chilled quietly and watched Dragonball Z on Camila's TV on mute with the captions on. It was an episode that I’d, of course, already seen. So I was free to steal glances at my hot sister’s butt in spandex, or her pretty friend’s lips as she chewed her yellow mechanical pencil’s pink eraser.

They were being so quiet, only speaking at a whisper every couple minutes to remark on the assignment they were each quietly working through. Camila was ahead of Chelsea for a long time. Then Chelsea started trying to catch up. Then they were neck and neck. Then, in a flurry of competitive giggles, they were both done simultaneously.

And then they were on top of me. Their small, warm, girl-scented bodies pressed me into the squeaky beans. I grunted pleasurably.

“Girls,” I said.

“Boy,” they said.

We shared a sort of friendship-snuggle sigh of approval. This was a nice way to be, us three. I missed Chelsea. She and Camila had kind of grown apart. I hugged her in one arm. I hugged my sister in the other. They hugged me back, and we hugged hard. We all three grunted, almost sort of whined, and then gasped sweetly and inhaled again, still holding and now patting and petting each other. These were my girls.

“You want to tell him?” Camila said.

“No,” Chelsea blushed.

“Why?” Camila cackled. “Want ME to tell him?”

“No!” Chelsea giggled. Her cheeks flared red.

“Oh, don’t be a poop!” Camila kicked her friend’s foot on my knee. “If you don’t tell him, I will.”

“What?” I finally chuckled.

“It’s nothing,” Chelsea glared at Camila.

“Chelsea has a new boooy-friend,” Camila blurted.

Chelsea yelped and hid her face inside her hair.

I was puzzled. This was not exactly huge news. I cocked my head at the embarrassed girl on my shoulder. “Congratulations?”

“Thanks,” Chelsea said from inside her hair.

“Guess how OLD he is!” Camilla scratched at me.

“Oh,” my eyes widened a little, “uh. Twelve?"

"Nope!"

"Oh. Well, like. I don’t really super care,” I shrugged. I didn’t want to embarrass Chelsea as eagerly as Camila did. But privately, I had to admit, I was curious.

“Seventeen!” she squeed.

“Ugggh,” Chelsea moaned.

“Is that true?” I chuckled at the poor girl.

“Maybe,” she mumble-cringed.

I let myself have a scrumptious good laugh at this. Both of these tiny(-ish) dancers, once almost like sisters, had completely independently of one another begun dating older guys in secret over Winter Break. It really was like they belonged together. I'd missed Chelsea, I realized. I hugged her again. So did Camila.

Wait. A possibility bothered me. Camila hadn’t been tempted into blabbing to Chelsea that SHE had an older boyfriend now, TOO, had she? … Please, no. UGH. The sheer terrorizing uncertainty of dating a twelve-year-old girl.

“Chels, you can come out now,” Camila teased.

“I’m not, like, a slut,” Chelsea declared, pulling her hair back out of her face. “I just … really like him.”

“He’s hot,” Camila confirmed.

“Who is he?” I asked. It only just occurred to me he was probably someone I went to school with.

“Nobody,” Chelsea said quickly, glancing sternly at my sister, her miscreant pal.

“Yeah,” Camila winked at me. “Nooobody.”

“Is this Nobody somebody I might now?” I smirked at Chelsea. “Is that why you can’t say?”

She just sort of whimpered at my question.

“She’s twelve. He’s seventeen. If anyone finds out, they could get in serious doggy doo,” Camila explained dramatically.

"I'm thirteen," Chelsea muttered.

“So you guys are a secret?” I shrugged nonjudgmentally, and suppressed my tantalization the best I could. “Well hey. You can trust my sister,” I gave Chelsea another little one-armed squeeze, “to tell me as soon as you leave.”

“What? Hey!” Camila scoffed, and slapped me on the stomach.

“Uggggh," Chelsea groaned, "it’s KYLE, okay?! It’s Kyle O’Dowd,” she watched my face carefully for my reaction as she said this name, “okay?”

I guffawed, completely aback.

Sorry reader, let me explain to you why this name in particular made me belly laugh, discard both girls onto the floor, and have to roll into a ball on the beanbag chair. Kyle O’Dowd was a senior at my school, and captain of the varsity soccer team. He had dated the hottest girls in his grade, and the hottest ones in mine as well. I had once heard him say he liked fucking chicks with their socks on. He was one of those guys who had already been entitled to such gratuitous sexual lavishment that at seventeen he could nitpick about his partner’s footwear. I barely knew the guy. He was popular as fuck, though.

And he was dating a twelve-year-old. Our little Chelsea.

I mean, I could see his reasoning. Chelsea was hot. She had always been pretty in the face, and now was growing up to be shaped like a ballerina. Perhaps most crushably, she was just cool for a girl of twelve.

“Thirteen, actually,” she corrected as she and my sister climbed back onto the beanbag chair with me. “My birthday was on Christmas.”

“Oh yeah,” Camila said, and apologized. “So you two are only FOUR years apart.”

“But six grades,” I observed with a snort. She was in sixth, he was in twelfth.

“How is that even possible?” Camila teased.

“He’s just young for his grade! But only because he’s smart! He skipped a grade when he was little!"

“Shit, Chels. Should you be snuggling with me like this?” I chortled, teasing her with yet another brotherly hug. “Would he be okay with us being so ... intimate?”

Camila died.

“Staaawp,” Chelsea cringed, but she was grinning and blushing, too, and wriggled cozily in my embrace.

I smooched her on top of her head. She tasted like vanilla and flowers. I hummed a merry note of genuine fondness.

“You’re okay,” I told her. “We still love you.”

“Yeah,” Camila said, and wiped away a tear. “You’re still our favorite little sister.”

“Even though I’m still older than you,” Chelsea sighed.

“Uh-huh,” Camila embraced her, so that now we were a group hug. “Even though."

“But for real, you guys can’t tell a single soul. You have to swear. Please.”

“Chels,” I said gently. “Relax. Me and Mila know how to keep a secret.”

“Yeah,” Camila snickered, and grabbed her friend by the head so she could plant a sisterly kiss on her forehead. “We’ll protect you.”

“Thanks,” Chelsea said a little fretfully, and it sounded like she was tearing up. “It’s just sort of scary, you know? Like, I really-really like him.”

“I’m sure you do,” I shrugged.

“Yeah. Because he’s hot as frick,” Camila snorted.

“No I mean it! He’s actually really sweet. Like, I don’t think people realize …”

Aaaand I tuned out. I didn't need to know what was secretly endearing about the hottest, most enviable jerk at my high school. It was lovely enough just hugging these two little tartlets in my arms. Both of them so improbably okay with my big awkward, post-pubescent body. My odors. My only slightly concerning half-boner, which because they’d pounced on me unawares, was tucked at a precarious angle that brought it perilously near Kyle O’Dowd’s girlfriend’s bubbly, ballerina butt.

***

We all sighed sweetly when we were done with the hugs, and stood and stretched. Camila yawned, and Chelsea said she should get home. They stood around the room a moment longer, chatting about little sister stuff while they each put away their things in their backpacks. I retired to the doorway.

“Catch you later, Chels?” I waved before exiting.

“Aww, hang on,” Chelsea said. She flew gracefully across the messy floor and wrapped me in a parting hug. She most definitely got a bellyful of extra attention from the accidental boner I’d just gotten watching her budding breasts bobble toward me. But she didn’t remark on it, and neither did I. I supposed she was acquainted with us older guys and our secret, unspoken erections. I tousled her hair affectionately, just like she’d always hated. She grunted, and gently punched me on the back. I rubbed more vigorously.

Then I went back to my room and put my finished homework back in my bag. I zipped the bag shut. Felt good. My homework was done, and it was only like 4:30. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be home until closer to supper.

I had an hour or two of privacy with my own hot elementary school girlfriend to look forward to.

Horny and for the moment alone, I opened up my nightstand drawer and gazed fondly again onto Mom’s pinkish-purple floral panties. But I didn’t take them out. Too risky. Instead, I closed the drawer again, and laid down in bed. I pulled my pants down under the covers. I closed my eyes, faking asleep just in case. And in my head, I imagined I was Kyle O’Dowd. I grabbed my cock in one hand, and cupped the heady smell of vanilla and flowers still aromatizing my palm to my busted, pinkish-purple nose.

***

“Okay, you,” Camila growled, throwing my door open. She bopped me on the head. She had no qualms, apparently, about poking a sleeping dog. “Get up. Come on! We have to hurry before Mom and Dad get home.”

“Hurry what?” I chuckled blearily, and yawned. I hadn’t meant to actually doze off. It was past five. We’d have to be quick, and it’d be risky. I stretched. I was still crazy sore from yesterday. Wasn’t she?

Also, were Chelsea and Kyle O’Dowd, like, hooking up? Was that why their relationship was such a dirty secret? God, what an image.

But I mean, come on. They weren’t even siblings. Who cared if THAT secret got out?

“Get. UP,” Camila yanked on my arm, half-dragging me out of bed. “I want to TRY something.”

“Sex?” I snorted as I slowly rose and trudged after her to the door.

“Duh,” she huffed. “Come onnn. We need to go in my room. That’s where the lube is.”

“You know it’s after five,” I reminded her. Just so I knew she knew.

“IknowIknowhurryhurryhurry!”

She shoved me into her messy-ass room. I stomped on something hard. I tripped on something stretchy. I fell ass first onto her bed, which I’m pretty sure only Chelsea could have made look so neat.

“But don’t get naked yet,” Camila thrilled. She was rifling through her dance bag in her closet. She whipped out a purple tube. I smiled reflexively at it.

“Here!” she tossed it at me.

And then she ran out of the room. I looked at the lube in my hand like, ‘Where’d she go?’ When she came back, she was carrying something I had never seen before.

“What is that?” I frowned.

She closed her door, perfectly softly, using her left socked foot.

“Mom’s vibrator,” she grinned scandalously.

“No,” I gaped.

“YEP,” she guffawed.

And she hopped across the floor and joined me on her bed.

“I wanted us to practice something!”

“And it involves Mom’s sex toy?! Do you gave any idea where that’s been?”

“Shuddup,” she whacked me. “It’s clean. Smell it.” She shoved it indelicately under my busted nose. I winced. It smelled like silicone. Yet I acted disgusted all the same, shoving the implement away from my face, and yowling with disgust.

“Oh, get over yourself, you dirty panty-sniffer!” she snickered and clicked it on. She put it eagerly, sans warning, on my hard, horny, sex-promised cock inside my jeans.

“Wh-whoa, whoa, HEYaaah!” I spluttered and blushed at the happy buzzy sensation. Mom’s vibrator hummed with electronic bliss inside me. “Hnnngg, that-that’s enough!”

“Like it?” she grinned.

“It’s M-Mom’s,” I stammered uncertainly.

“You like it,” she smirked, and gave my cock another quick bzzzzzzzm with the vibrator. She could read my flushed cheeks as confirmation enough, despite my feigned contempt. “Well too bad. It’s for me.”

“What are we doing exactly?”

“I want to try something. Here, get under my covers.”

“With my clothes on?”

“Uh-huh,” she licked her lips, apparently visualizing some sexy outcome I could not guess.

I slipped under the covers.

“No, don’t lay. Um. Stay up? Like you’re sitting.”

“O … kay?” I squinted at her as I sat up against her headboard, where Chelsea had been earlier. Mm. I kind of had feelings for that one, too, didn’t I. Fuck. Was I a pedophile? Is this how that happened?

Not right now. My sister was tugging down her leggings and orange panties. God, the sight of her. The winter sun was pretty much down, so her vulva was shadowy, lamp-lit, sculpturesque.

“Help me undo,” she half-verbalized as she tugged the covers down past my lap and began hastily fiddling with my fly. I went ahead and undid it or her

“So we ARE getting naked?” I sighed, a little exasperated. She was clearly figuring this out as went along. Was I dating a twelve-year-old? Yes I was.

“Actually wait. Zip back up!” she decided, and pulled her own leggings back up.

“Mila,” I said.

“Trust meee!” she whined and slapped my shoulder impatiently. “You start like that, I start like this…” She chewed her lip distractedly as she sort of swiveled to get under the covers with me. She sat, quite pleasantly, on my crotch.

“Hm,” I said to the back of her head, momentarily okay with this development.

“So okay,” she grunted, re-covering us with the covers and repositioning strangely in my lap.

“What are you - ?” I began to ask.

“I’m trying. To pull. My pants down,” she said distractedly. “With one hand.”

“Why?”

“So no one can tell!” she growled.

“Oh,” I frowned. “Um. I don’t think anyone can see us right now, anyway, Cam.”

“Shut up,” she pouted. “Th-there. That should do it.”

With my jeans on it was hard to tell between her spandex butt and her naked butt. Tragically.

“You need to try too,” she informed me. “Here, I can try and help. Your hand and my hand.”

“Wait,” I frowned even more intently. “Camila. Why are we practicing getting our pants off undercover?”

“So we can practice being sneaky,” she grinned and turned to see if I was grinning too.

I was not.

“That’s a terrible idea,” I stated the obvious.

“Dare you to say that again after we’ve gotten good at this,” she frowned. “You’ll see! Once we’ve practiced we’ll even be able to do it when Mom and Dad are home!”

“Sex smells, Mimi,” I sighed.

“That’s what the blanket’s for!”

“And when we’re done? And the blanket has to come off?”

“We wait for them to leave first!”

“Leave? What, like leave the ROOM? What, do you think we’re going to be FUCKING with Mom and Dad there watching?”

“No,” she giggled, and I felt her fingers locate my zipper behind her, practically inside her butt crack. “They WON’T be watching. Because we’ll be SNEAKY. Like sex ninjas.”

I tried to object. But I didn't have time. Camila suddenly unzipped my fly and was back to eagerly figuring out its button. It was a simple snap.

“Hm,” she frowned when she’d popped it open. Sweet freedom for my boxered cock. Mild consternation for my kid sister. “Too noisy, right? I think maybe you should switch pants. Don’t wear these when we do this.”

"Stop wearing jeans when we fuck in public. Check.” I scoffed.

“Just when we do THIS,” she groaned. “And can you STOP being like that? This is something I think we seriously need to practice. If we get GOOD at being sneaky, then we can have more sex!”

“Why not just wait for when they’re gone?” I shrugged. “Like we’ve been doing?”

“Ohh okay,” she scoffed, “and so just never have sex ever?”

“N-no,” I gulped. How horny, precisely, was this twelve-year-old? “I just mean. It’s worked so far?”

“That was because it was break! Now that you and me and Mom and Dad are all back on like the same stupid schedule, we’ll basically always be at school when they’re at work, and home when they’re at home. Unless I’m at dance or you’re at track. But then like. Obviously that doesn’t work either. So. Like. We have to figure something out.”

“And your proposal is … ?”

“Practice. Being. Sneaky.” She tugged. Down. My jeans.

Accomplishing this while sitting in my lap was actually incredibly impressive. But also super obvious from outside the covers. I gently informed her so.

“Well, whatever,” she giggled frustratedly. “We’ll do better next time.”

“Right,” I sighed.

“Where’d you put the lube? Let’s hurrrrry. I’m so super fricking horny.”

“I got it,” I chuckled, suddenly dizzy with excitement, and fished it out from under the rumpled covers beside me. I also stumbled across Mom’s vibrator. “What was this for, again?”

“Oh!” she delighted. “Gimme!”

“Hey,” she fondled me through my boxers all of a sudden, between her legs. “It’s about as big around as you, did you notice?” she purred as she gripped both me and the vibrator in my hand.

“Grooooss,” I moaned, but my cock betrayed a deep-seated non-concordance. Mom had a vibrator the exact same size as her son’s cock. Hell yeah.

“If I put enough lube, it should fit me, right?” she asked, dead serious.

I snorted. Amused.

“Because I mean,” she beamed at me, “speaking of practice.” She wiggled her nose at me. “Wouldn’t it be nice if we like … didn’t even need the lube?” She chewed her lip at me over her shoulder. “I mean, I already get SO super wet anyway. Th-that’s kind of how we found out you fit me in the, um-mm,” she gulped, “in the first place."

She was just sitting on, relishing, my hard cock. I gulped, too. The relishing was mutual.

“D'you maybe want to see?” she whispered.

“See what?”

“Just if you can fit? Without lube?” She glanced over her shoulder at me, handed the lube back to me, motioned at me to put it back in her nightstand.

“Are you sure?”

“No,” she giggled nervously. “But do you want to feel how ridiculously fricking wet I am?”

She grabbed my hand, sucked my index fingertip, and then pressed it into her vulva, slid me through herself from front to back. It felt gloriously novel, to have her do this for me. It felt the most, ‘here big brother, you may touch me here’ my touching her had ever felt. I loved it dearly. And her.

“See?” she whispered.

I rubbed her sweet silky syrup between my thumb and forefinger. Then I licked it. It was yummy. It made me feel naughty.

"SEE?" she whispered again.

“Actually, no, I think I need to check again?” I said, but this time I was brazen, and simply put my finger in her lips myself. Inside her vulva, but not inside her vagina. Just gathering another fun-dip lick of my sister’s sweet susie dew while I could.

“Wow, you ARE wet,” I smirked as I slurped my finger clean again. “More please.” I returned for thirds.

“Guyyyy,” she whined, and writhed, but bodily enthused at my advances.

"You love me," I growled.

"I-I do. I do. I reallyreally do. P-put it in already," she whimpered.

“You want me shove my cock in your pussy now?”

“My p-pussy,” she breathed the word. "Y-yeah. Do it. F-fuck me."

Oops, well that got graphic. To be honest, I'd only used the p-word by accident. But I didn't ... hate? Hearing her talk like this?

She turned and opened one green eye at me, peered at me through her thick dark lashes, and nodded as she humped me slowly and luxuriously, slathering me in herself as she pulled me free of my boxers. “Come on," she groaned. "I wanna ff-f-fuck."

“Okay,” I chuckled, my cheeks brightening at how neon horny she was. I started to lift her by her hips so I could penetrate her.

“But you don’t have to lift me,” she bit her lip and began to sit up.

“Yeah, I know,” I snorted, "but I want to." I gripped her firmly by her sides and yanked her up into the air.

Camila yelped with girlish glee. This hold had the surprise benefit of tickling my kid sister silly. She cackled and thrashed as I hoisted her piping hot, utterly wet butt crack onto my cock and then took to locating as carefully as I could the specific point of entry on which I could impale her. This resulted in a couple of ticklish near-misses, which thankfully only heightened her mania, until on sweet number three I got her fully half-way down my cock. We ... would probably need to keep using lube for now.

But the sudden raw vaginal penetration, on top of the tickling, and the laughing, and the wild, exuberant playfulness, all proved suddenly overwhelmingly overmuch for the young girl, who exploded into a prolonged, high-pitched orgasm. Yeah, dog. I was surprised, too. But I felt like such a stud.

"Mila?" I chuckled, blushing.

I actually thought Camila was faking it at first, or just being like, super twelve about it.

But no. She came on me. She slid down all the way until I bottomed out inside her. She squirted, and I worried for a second she was peeing again - until she did in fact start peeing, and proceeded to fully wet her bed AND both our pants.

"Aw, poor kid," I sighed, and pulled her hair back gently but hornily, soothing her at first, but then just hard enough to make her whimper as she climaxed at length.

She cried and cringed and convulsed on my cock. She couldn’t help but sit there and reckon with the incest happening inside her, the hard log fullness of its meaning, the heavenly insanity of how hot her own big brother made her feel. It was a silent come-down, though. Even as she finished peeing all over us, she bit her lip and made no sound. Only her shallow, tense, nostril-breathing could have given her away.

Then I felt the vibration. Camila lowered Mom’s vibrator, which had apparently been on and in play for some time longer than I could go back and pinpoint, onto my scrotum as I sat there fully balls-deep inside of her. I moaned reflexively, humped madly into her. My cock, and her insides themselves, thrummed with electric heat, like we were fucking on some sort of wild new turbo mode.

"K-keep going. St-stay quiet," she panted.

"Sis, I think you - " wet the bed, I almost said.

"Shhhsh," she snickered, and flexed her crazy core muscles on my cock.

"Ohhhh-fffuuhhh," I groan-gasped like I was falling in slow motion.

And then, wham. I guess I went Super Saiyan and picked my sister up like she weighed nothing. She gasped as I dragged her hot slimy cunt up the over-large veiny mast of my cock. And then she ohmygoshed as I slid her back down. She clenched and groaned and clapped her hand to her mouth to muffle her pained cry.

"You okay?" I whispered.

She nodded emphatically at me to keep going despite her noises. So I picked her up again. She whimper-laughed. And I set her back down. She sobbed. Then I picked her back up. I set her down. I picked her back up. I was Super Saiyan. I felt no weight, no weariness. This was such a heroic way to have sex, just fucking her like a Christmas turkey, masturbating myself with her boiling hot juicy cunt. The vibrator buzzed against her clit, sending humming the whole front of her pelvic bone, in which cradle of utter, brother-sister bliss we both currently resided. The noise this made us make certainly wasn't ninja-like. But hey. We'd get better with practice, we were allowed to be sloppy today.

I felt a powerful urge to cum inside her hungry little pussy, fill her little abdomen with what felt like surely had to be a full pint of pent-up cum, ... but also a brotherly obligation not to impregnate my kid sister. So I didn't. Yet. I fucked her Goku-style to orgasm again and again in my lap under the covers, rumpling the blankets, making the bedsprings squeak, and meanwhile mantrically promising and promising and promising my cock he could be happy without cumming. Yeah, he was a good boy, wasn't he? He was doing a good job. We would be sure to give him some extra good pets, later.

***

“D-did you not …?” she panted after we’d decided to take a break and let our throbbing genitals regain some feeling, Actually, we probably needed to stop and do something about these pee-smelling sheets before it was too late. She pawed at my face, cock-drunk and myopic with love.

“Hey, no worries,” I patted her gently, then lifted her up and off my good little boy for good. We were done here. Even despite the piss we were sitting in, that had been soul-cleansing. Thank you very much. Incest forever. Mic drop.

“No. You. You need to cum.” She turned, scooched, and dropped to her stomach in her own big wet spot of pee. And now she was cleaning my balls with her mouth. Was she high? This was madness. I was a terrible big brother. I felt her suck a testicle into her mouth. She sucked on it and giggle-whimpered at how happy this made her to do. Then she gently nuzzled my balls with her pretty, tan, lightly freckled nose. I think she sniffed my scrotum? Oh, yep. She was definitely sniffing my shaft now, too. Smelling me. Wh-whoa and she jumped straight to sucking on the crown. "Hmmmmng," I grunted irrepressibly.

Camila, ladies and gentlemen.

“Cum!” she commanded. And she began jerking me off, too. But my variously smelly, messy cock was too sticky in her grip. “F-fuck,” she whined, and tried spitting on me too, like to make me somewhat slippery. But it wasn’t enough. She growled in frustration.

“Hands?” I said suavely.

She glared up at me with frustrated embarrassment. Then she saw the lube tube I had cracked open and was offering to squeeze onto her palms and fingers. And she cracked up as she let go of my cock and held out her hands.

“Kids! Come help with the groceries!” Dad called upstairs as soon as he stepped in the door. We heard him clomp away from the bottom of the stairs into the kitchen and set a heavy load of paper grocery bags onto the kitchen counter. “Kiiiids? Where are you?” Footsteps in the hallway. Footsteps on the stairs. Getting louder. Veins of black panic creeping in at the edges of our vision as we lay there helpless. Camila lay stunned in mid-lubrication, but for one hand still unconsciously milking my cock. I stopped its movement. She let out a quiet, high pitched whine of fright.

Some sort of protective instinct kicked in. I was still golden and glowing, a true Super Saiyan, after all. Cue dramatic music. I hoisted Camila up and hugged her confidently to my chest. She gulped. Then I laid us both down flat. I rolled us over. I said, “Pretend you’re asleep,” almost infrasonically into her ear, and she nodded adroitly. But she was still anxious. Dad's hand found the knob. He called her name through the door. Told her he was coming in.

“Guy?” she squeaked, as I let her go from my embrace.

I rolled away from her entirely, sideways under the covers like something out of a Japanese horror movie, and disappeared off of the edge of her bed. I kerflumped as quietly as I could into the shadows.

I left her alone. I abandoned her. I was a terrible brother. I was trash. At least, I supposed, I should blend right in on her disgusting floor.

***

“Hey, sweetheart,” Dad muttered as a parallelogram of bright yellow hallway light cracked open through her bedroom. Thank fuck it didn't reach my feet. “You think you could lend me a quick hand bringing in the groceries?”

“Mm?” Camila mumbled, sounding as sleepy as she could.

“I said can you give me a hand with groceries?”

“Mmkay?” she murmured and rolled over away from him, smacking her lips sleepily, feigning a charming unconsciousness.

“Hey, Dopey, wake up! I need your help," he snorted amicably. Yeah, 'Dopey' was his pet name for her. I know. I agree. But she had always loved it. "Also, have you seen Guy? Did he come home and go right back out or something? His car’s out there.”

“Mm, I dunno,” Camila yawned, and slowly sat up. “Maybe to Tim's or something."

Then, I guess she had a stroke of genius.

"Ohhhh noooo," she feigned shock at herself, "D-Daddy. C-can you actually leave? I-I think I wet the bed.”

“You think you - ? Wait. Did you really - ?” His gentle reaction bounced between disbelief and concern. “Again?"

“Daddy!” she snapped, and slammed her mattress with both hands. It startled me. But thankfully it startled Dad, too, so he didn’t notice the shadow wearing his son’s face amid the detritus on the floor flinch wildly.

“Right,” Dad grimaced, and threw up his hands like ‘I desist.’ “You get yourself cleaned up. Get these sheets in the wash. Take a shower. And then come set the table. I'm feeling like pizza tonight. You?"

“I don't caaaare,” Camila sobbed.

“Pizza it is," he nodded.

“GO,” she said.

“You ... feeling alright? Bad dream or something?”

“Daddyyy,” she groaned.

“Right. Fine. I leave you to it.”

And he shut the door. Slipped quietly back downstairs. Went out into the garage for more groceries.

“Guy?”

“I’m here,” I whispered, poking my head up over the edge of her bed. Didn’t startle her in the slightest. She was too amped up on adrenaline.

“You left me ALONE?!” she hissed as loudly as she dared.

“I had to!”

“You HAD to?”

“Think about it for two seconds, Mila. That was DAD just now."

“You left me LAYING here in PEE,” she cried, “with fricking LUBE all over me," she giggled.

“Come here,” I said, and invited her to get out of her own salty, smelly puddle so I could hold and comfort her.

“No,” she pouted. “You. Here.” And she invited me back into her puddle, so I could comfort her there.

“No way,” I grunted.

She gave me a hungry look. And I caved. Because I really did feel like trash. And if she was kind enough to want this random piece of junk from off her floor to get back in her piss-soaked bed, then yeah, I was honor bound to oblige, aversion to the stench of urine or no. I should be so lucky. Camila was the prettiest girl I'd ever known.

But also, yeah, it was gross. Pretty girls' piss still stank like all get-out. Kind of psychologically itchy to lay in, too. If I didn’t love my little sister more than life itself (no I mean it, life had pretty much sucked for me until this story began) I am certain I would not have been able to do it. Pee is yucky. My sister had a problem. But she also had me.

“Cam?” Dad called up from the kitchen. Fuck, his voice could carry.

“WHAT?”

So could his daughter’s.

“I'm getting Godfather's. You want pepperoni or sausage?”

Camila chuckled with relief. She sniffled and sighed and grunted. Then she took a deep breath and shouted.

“Just CHEESE!”

“Uck,” I whispered disapprovingly from behind her.

“Shush, you’re not home right now,” she bumped me with her elbow.

“Shit, you’re right,” I muttered. And an idea occurred to me. Or half of one did, anyway. Enough of one. “Here, let go,” I said, and tapped the girl-claw suddenly gripping my hip.

“No,” she whispered.

“Yes. I need to go. Let me give you my clothes so you can put them with yours. In the wash, I mean."

“W-wait, where are you going?”

“First, to put some clean clothes on. Second, I uh, don’t know exactly. But I'll figure something out."

"But you didn't get to cuuummmmm," she smiled ruefully, balefully, incestuously at me, and tried seducing me with her lube-and-pee-smelling fingers on my face.

"Hey, it's whatever!" I chuckled, glad she couldn't quite see perfectly in the dark. "I'm just psyched we could fuck without lube."

"EWww," she scowled. "Don't say it like that. That's sick."

"... What. I thought we were saying 'fuck' now."

"It's ucky. Not like that. Uck," she groaned like her meaning should be obvious to me, and kicked off her covers. "Uggggh, I hate when I peeeeee."

Fine. I had ruined her mood. And mine. Great. I excused myself from her mess and her bullshit.

I tried not to think about what I'd just gotten back into and laid in for no reason. Whatever it was, however it smelled, I’d done it for love, I reminded myself. I disrobed beside her bed. I left my damp smelly clothes on her covers.

"Bye," I said, and kissed my fingers, which I then planted on her cheeks while I made a smooching noise.

"Bye," she pouted, but turned her head and smooched my fingers.

I tip-toed naked and extra-cautious through her dark obstacle. I was getting better at this, learning the lay of the land. I could feel that someday soon I would be one with her detritus.

I cracked her door carefully into the blinding light of the upstairs hallway, and peered out over the top of the landing. The coast was as clear and yellow as it would ever get. So I made a break for it. Swallowed my racing heartbeat. Gulped it down. And scampered quiet and crablike, my lubricated cock and balls joggling and ker-flopping like they might tumble off onto the floor and give me away, toes tapping antennae-like between steps, avidly trying to sense which patches of hallway carpet were squeaky, so I could avoid them like my life depended on it. I panicked viscerally the whole time that I sneaked, like a bug making a break for it across a stretch of open sky, practically tasting my blood congealing as it burned like jet fuel in my veins, until I was home and safe and sound in my stinky bedroom. I let out a bellyful of cortisol in one gaping exhalation, and gulped whale-like a bellyful of calm. I panicked a little more. I breathed a little more. I calmed. Down.

I locked my door.

I sat at my desk and stared at myself in the little square mirror on my wall. I looked at the emotion on my face. I watched my own feelings sort of dry up and fade as I sat and breathed and kept my gaze nonthreatening. When at last I felt like I could trust my own reflection not to scare me, I closed my eyes. I sniffed Mom's panties. I started figuring out my story.

***

Chapter Text

Sometimes I felt like such a dork getting ready for track. With my little shorts. And my grass-stained running shoes. And my baggy, regulation t-shirt with school name in blocky letters on the front and my own misspelled on the back. Year after year, there was never room in the budget for the school to buy us letter jackets, so year after year it was just the dorky t-shirt and nothing else. I did not look or feel like a guy I would want to bang if I were his little sister. I mentioned all that newfound swagger in the last chapter? Yeah, but track was dorky, reader, no matter how you cut it.

So imagine my displeasure when I discovered we had a new teammate on the track team this season. His name was Kyle O'Dowd. And yes, he was trying out for track on top of captaining his soccer team. A couple of the other soccer douchebags were here with him, having followed his lead. And naturally, they all three looked fucking rugged in their track outfits. I needed to get it together, apparently. Camila had already warned me she thought this Kyle was hot.

As we circled up for stretches, I kept a reasonable berth. Kyle was more gregarious than his goons, who mostly only seemed to say things to him or each other. My nerdy track friends all seemed to enjoy Kyle. I could admit that he seemed easygoing. His goons could fuck off to eternity. But Kyle was alright. Not a big surprise, I supposed, considering he was apparently an unstoppable pussy magnet.

He also looked oddly boyish in the face to me, at least for someone who had fucked as much as he reportedly had. Were chicks just into hypermasculine little boys? Was that the big secret to being a pussy magnet? Big strong arms, hairy chest, and freckly pink bubblegum cheeks?

Dude could also do rapid-fire sit-ups while carrying a casual conversation and laughing with his bros. On his first attempt at a 400m, he topped my career best. He stood there chatting with the coach afterwards, scarcely even panting, pinching at his shirt and fanning himself with it as they chit-chatted. I might have been staring, or glaring, or something. But he happened to look my way as I lined up at the ready for my first trial sprint of the season. Our eyes met. He gave me a floppy-haired nod. I glanced down at my fingertips. The all-weather rubber track was pocked and ugly and under-funded. I ignored my emotions. I took a deep breath and listened for the whistle.

I guess I topped Kyle's time.

I awoke from my fugue state in the middle of throwing up into the big, rusty barrel trash can next to the storage shed. When there was no more school lunch to eject, I went and laid down on my back in the grass. I stared up at the pale blue dome of my predicament. There was only one medium-sized cloud up there, its white skin porous and cheap, like it had been dry-sponged onto the blue in a hurry. It didn't move. I stared at it, waiting for it to do anything.

Then a towering shadowy figure appeared in my gaze.

Coach was standing over me.

"Up, Guy," he frowned. "You need to walk it off. Come on."

He wasn't wrong. I was letting this shit get to me, wasn't I? I was fine, wasn't I? I just needed to walk it off. Coach held out his thick, callused hand. I took it. "Nice run, by the way," he snorted, and clapped me on the butt with his clipboard as I ambled dizzily away from him. I jogged back toward the track, shaking my thoughts back into place, and fell in line with a familiar face strolling lazily along the outer lane.

"Tim," I said.

"Guy," he said. He chuckled at me. "You puked."

"You shaved."

"Sadly, yes," he rubbed at his face, remembering, grieving. "I did try. You saw. I did my best to be the bearded high schooler. But it was simply too un-high-school, Guy. It too starkly flattered my preternatural maturity. It had to go."

"Tim," I chortled, "No amount of shaving could ever make you less 'un-high-school.'"

"Alas," he shrugged.

We walked silently for awhile. It was alright. The track team was cool with Tim in a way most of the rest of our school was not.

Then Kyle O'Dowd and his goons sprinted by, apparently holding their own race with each other. One of them, fucking Mark, clipped my shoulder. It was whatever, and he did shout "Sorry bro!" But I muttered bitterly at him to fuck off, anyway. He didn't hear me. I ... hadn't actually wanted him to. Mark was a fucking animal. I could too easily imagine him mangling me in a fight.

If you must know, Kyle O'Dowd placed first in he and Joe and Mark's makeshift heat. Mark just barely lost to him. And Joe, bless his heart, the big lug, came panting and flop-footing after them. How was he fast? He didn't look fast. But the stopwatch said he was fast.

"Which one is Joe again?" Tim smirked.

"Joe," I muttered, and nodded Joe's direction.

"If you say so," he chortled. "I can't keep track of all these generic-ass dudes and their generic-ass names."

"Hm," I shrugged somewhat cagily.

High school's petty social politics were just that, but still they mattered considerably more to me than they did to Tim. I wished I could ignore them like he did. But swagger or no, I could no longer simply feel safe inside my secret little tryst with Camila. Not now that I knew even grade school was no sanctuary for the pretty prey of someone as ambitiously fuck-thirsty as Kyle O'Dowd.

"You know, it's not too late for us to quit track and go be mathletes this year," Tim suggested. "We can always come back next year, after these assholes have graduated." He grunted as he said this. "Well. Maybe not Joe."

Joe was currently showing off to one of the cuter girl track members how he could hook one of his feet fully behind his head and keep it there without falling over. She looked both appalled and amazed by his flexibility, as his shorts rode way up and exposed his pale, tender, hairy groin to her and all who happened to be looking. Then he fell over, flailing and grunting and swearing. The girl laughed. She helped him up. Now he was touching her hip, and she was blushing, and all signs pointed to them fucking by end of track season.

"Damn dude," Tim sighed. "What he lacks in brains, he makes up for in ... body hair?" He shook his head in puzzlement. "Truly. No idea where the allure comes from."

"Maybe they'll get bored and quit on their own, once soccer season picks up," I said distractedly, hopefully, but trying also to sound nonplussed. In case anyone who mattered was listening.

As it turned out, the soccer jocks did not quit. They excelled effortlessly, if unenthusiastically. They completely embarrassed the track dorks who'd assumed somehow that this big flat loop ringing the football field was their sacred, foresworn domain, that it was off-limits to the non-dorky, the non-virginal, and/or the genuinely athletic. There was a note of betrayal on the wind, as Coach sat us down and read us the names of who'd made what teams.

And poor me. I wound up on the 400m relay team with, you guessed it, Tweedle Dee, Tweedle Dum, and Kyle O'Dowd. We would be as brothers, henceforth, slapping practice batons into each other's palms ad nauseum for the next eight weeks. Sadly, we would also be striving to protect our high school's reigning championship status. Which meant I really had to try and make this work.

I should have been psyched to have made the 400m relay team as a sophomore. As a bushytailed freshman, I had totally idolized the four-man team that made up last year's winners. They had been friendly, hardworking dudes, all four. Sadly, they had all graduated, too, and were now gone away at the same college together, probably drinking and smoking and making merry with all manner of horny, similarly inebriated college chicks. Gone was my fantasy, all of a sudden, of aspiring to that same kind of wonderful bro-mance with my own cohort of teammates.

This year's returning understudies, the seniors who I'd assumed were shoo-ins for the 400m relay, were righteously pissed to have been snubbed in favor of some parcel of random soccer cocks. Kyle, Mark, and Joe, who as much through sheer genetic fortune as anything resembling discipline, happened to be incredible high-stamina sprinters. And they only made matters worse by being obnoxiously crass, self-entertaining boneheads, totally oblivious to the feelings of those around them. They could have cared less that they had made the relay team. The honor of having been selected for any sport team at any time in their lives was a trivial, foregone conclusion. Winning was their inevitable destiny, everywhere they went. It seemed almost to bore them, as much as to placate them, keep them suspended in their bubble of cock-jokes and cat-calls.

And while I would have happily joined the jilted senior track stars in roasting the soccer jocks I so particularly loathed, they unfortunately had beef with me too, coming out of nowhere like I had with that crazy 400m sprint time and upsetting the order of things by pushing myself way harder than was needed of me.

What could I say? I'd gotten some wind in my sails. I needed to fucking obliviate Kyle O'Dowd, or he might try and fuck my sister!

I had cut in line, was how they saw it. A more respectful underclassman would have held back and let his elders have their moment in the sun. Instead, I outran them just as thoughtlessly as had the soccer jocks, and thus I had just as carelessly contributed to their humiliating relegation to second-string, to benchwarmer status, and worst of all, to the ignominy of an unbromantic send-off. Week after week, they would hold their own little practice in parallel to ours, but always elsewhere, always just out of earshot, always casting us bitter, dismissive looks and wishing us ill.

"What looks?" Mark scoffed when I finally brought it up.

We were sitting in our little four-man circle, or square I supposed, doing stretches in the grass after our lengthy, distractable, warm-up jog.

"Huh? Who's looking?" said Joe, glancing around hornily at the various clusters of girls practicing around us.

"Just ignore them," Kyle shrugged at me. He knew who I meant.

"Ignore who?" Mark spat into the grass, snickering, forever relishing being a dick.

"The old guard," Kyle sighed, and with a single friendly nod, validated my concern regarding the pod of second-string dorks jogging in tandem toward us on the track. "I get them feeling embarrassed. But they need to get over it. If they really cared about their team, or even about themselves as athletes, they would be excited to have us to compete with."

"They should be psyched dude," Joe agreed. "We're going to stomp those other schools, man. They're not ready for monsters like us."

"Those guys?" Mark giggled belatedly, making sure to wait for the second-stringers to be as nearby as possible before he mocked them. "What's their deal anyway? They're mad at us? For WHAT? Kicking ass?"

"Mark, don't be an asshole," Kyle sighed, and gave an embarrassed wave to the second-string guys, who glared straight ahead like they hadn't heard a thing and needed no such wave. "We stole their dream, man."

"So what? It's fucking track, dude. It's like the nerdiest fucking sport."

I confess I chuckled at this.

Mark grinned at me. He liked being admired. He liked it too much. I stopped chuckling.

"I kind of love track," Joe shrugged. "We should have done this every year." He was grinning at a group of underclass girls who were giggling at him. How could he just ... do that? I am one-hundred percent positive if I were to sit here smiling like a lunatic at every girl who happened by, I'd be kicked off the team.

"Do you guys think Cassie Jones would let me eat her ass if I asked?" Joe posed to the three of us.

"Dude, sick," Mark scowled. "You KNOW she doesn't shave."

"Aw," Joe chortled. "How do you know?"

"I told you," Mark punched Joe in the shin. "I fingered her at Allie's birthday. Remember? It was fucking digsusting."

"Ohhh!" Joe's eyes lit up, apparently recalling a fond memory. "That was HER?"

"Guys, please," Kyle cringed. A crew of cross-country girls, underclassmen all, walked past us, sipping from spent water bottles and fanning themselves with their shirts and generally doing a good job of pretending to ignore us as they came back from a lengthy run. We stared, all four of us, at their multiple, variously pubescent butts in matching short-shorts as they left the field and went to catch their collective breath on the bleachers.

"I gotta' say," Mark sighed fondly. "I kind of hate getting older. Feels like you start to miss out on all the freshest pussy life has to offer, you know?"

"Come on," Kyle said, shoving Mark in the middle of staring at the cross-country girls. "Those girls are your sister's age."

"Heh," Mark said. "But you can imagine."

"Yeah, YOU can," Joe scoffed, and threw his water bottle hard at Mark's head.

"Ow, fucker!" Mark guffawed, and rubbed at the spot where the bottle had bounced off of him. He snatched the water bottle from the grass and chucked it back. Joe dodged it. So then Mark pounced on him and got him into some sort of martial arts hold. Joe tried going for Mark's neck. Mark growled and bit his wrist, and still didn't let him go. Joe laughed and accused Mark of cheating by using 'kung fu.' Mark scoffed and looked at Kyle as if for approval. Was Kyle their ref or something?

"Guys," Coach finally shouted at us. "That's enough. How about let's see you practice some more hand-offs, yeah? Joe. Mark. I'm talking to you."

"I gotcha," Kyle said back on their behalf, waving diligently back at Coach. Then he sprang forward from sitting, hopped onto Mark's back, and easily pried him off of Joe. Then he spanked them both once, loud and slappy, and ordered them to knock it off. He wiped himself off. Little bits and fragments of grass. He let out a stiff breath, relaxed, and came over to me next. I was still seated, spectating from the grass. Kyle O'Dowd offered me a hand to stand up. I gave his hand a funny look. He gazed down warmly from high atop the other side of it.

What was his angle? Did he secretly know how much I had been told about him and his sixth grade piece of ass? Might Chelsea have admitted to him how she'd confided in Camila and me? I couldn't tell a single thing by looking at him. He just sniffed coolly and waggled his hand at me. I took his stupid hand. He hoisted me up to standing, then clapped me on the butt with his other stupid hand.

"There's our Guy," he said.

Shit, he knew my name?

***

"I think he likes you, dude," Tim teased.

It was Thursday night, and we were chilling in my room. I was laying on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, wondering what Camila was up to, and wishing she were here. Tim was at my desk, doodling anime girls on a piece of 8.5 x 11 he'd pinched out of my printer.

"Yeah, no, he does. But he likes everybody," I said. "That's his whole schtick."

"You know what he REALLY wants from you, right?" Tim snorted, and paused from drawing to smirk at me.

"No?" I looked over at Tim. What could he possibly know that I didn't? He wasn't even a third-string track guy. He just sort of came to practices and jogged around so he he could tell his dad he was participating in a sport. I didn't know the particulars. I never hassled him about it.

"Think about it. Who's he banging?"

"We don't talk about that. You don't know that, remember?" I glared at him. "It's a secret."

"Uh-huh. And while we can alllll agree Chelsea is a handsome bird, and very probably an absolute treat in bed, insofar as such things can be conjectured about, do you know that she has an even handsomer, even more treat-like classmate?"

"No," I told him.

"Who happens to be her former best friend?"

"Stop," I told him.

"And who, wouldn't you know it, has an older brother that just so happens to be on not only the same track team as our boy wonder, but the same little four-man four-hundred-meter circle-jerk?"

I stared at him.

"No," I said. I chuckled and shook my head. "Nah." I was getting angry.

"Search your feelings," Tim sighed. "You know it to be true."

"My feelings are telling me to get up and punch you in the nose."

"While you're at it," Tim sniffed, distracted again by the boobs he was sketching, "can you bring me another Dew? I chugged this one already."

"They're still warm," I frowned. We'd snagged a twelve-pack on the drive home at his insistence, and popped them in my mini-fridge once we'd gotten upstairs to my room. Now he was on his third barely-colder-than-room-temperature Mountain Dew of the evening. The kid in me who'd once been this weirdo's best friend worried about him having a potential accident in my desk chair.

"I like them warm," Tim shrugged and caught the - no - dropped the can I tossed him. He whoopsed, laughing at himself, then bent down to get it. He gave it a pointless tappa-tap with his thumb and then cracked it open and chugged the foam that came blistering out of it. He almost sneezed, then instead belched a hot, stinging burp I could smell from across the room.

"Nah man," I said distractedly. "That's just gross."

"Yep. Excuse me," Tim chuckled, still sort of burping little burps as he did.

"No," I rolled my eyes at him. "Kyle, I mean. What you said."

"Oh," Tim sighed. "Don't care. Hey. Look." He held up his drawing. It was Bulma again. She was taking a bath this time. Her boobs had been a little overworked, but overall it was a solid drawing. Tim had such talent that, sadly, he was only too happy to misdirect.

"What do you mean 'sadly?'" he guffawed, looking at his drawing again, seeing it differently now that he'd debuted it to the world. "It's only misdirected until it gets to where it's going, right?"

I sighed up at my ceiling.

"Listen," Tim said. "You have a say in this, you know. He's your relay buddy now, right? Tell him Camila's spoken for."

"Tell him my little sister is spoken for?" I cocked my eyebrow at the lame suggestion.

"Tell him you see through his little schemes. You see his fin sticking out of the water, circling. And you're wise to his - "

"Tim-Tim!" came a blissful holler from my open doorway. Camila barely touched my bedroom floor as she flew directly to Tim. "Oh my GOD what is that SMELL?"

"I have no idea what you - [BELLLLCH] - are talking about," Tim loosed another hot, yellow burp.

Camila was already in his lap, and had sat down so fast it set the chair to turning slowly around and around.

"Ewwwwww," she giggle-groaned from inside his swirling stink cloud. She waved her hand, emphatically trying to dispel the odor, and messing herky-jerkily with the chair's angular momentum as she flailed. Tim's socked toe touched the carpet and set them to spinning again, faster this time. Her flailing grew flailier, and she had to grip hip tight for balance.

"You're free to get off," he said, spinning faster still, so that my sister had to cling to him or else fly off backwards. "If you can't handle my many fine masculine scents."

She squealed with tortured delight.

They spun, hugged, and chuckled together.

Once upon a winter break, this might have chaffed. Now I saw it differently. Tim thumped Camila's upper back noisily, like she was a bongo, and her giggles thumped too.

***

It was shaky, but we won our first meet. Mark's handoff to Joe was sloppy. The baton fell, but didn't hit the ground. Joe managed to catch it with the sole of his shoe, a soccer jerk reflex, and sent it twirling up over his shoulder like a juggler, and into his own fumbling hands. He clapped it to his chest, catching it open-palmed with both hands like a baby catching something for the first time, and his face lit up with panicky pride. Then Mark punched him in the ass, swore at him to run, and off Joe took at a gallop. Joe's handoff to Kyle O'Dowd was serviceable. And Kyle's handoff to me was flawless, elegant, like something engineered in a German baton-passing laboratory.

We had already reclaimed our lead, so all I had to do was keep it to the finish line. Easy-peasy. I pushed as hard as I could, regardless, not to embarrass the other teams but to give us a personal best to try and beat next time. Given the ample room for improvement between Mark and Joe, I was sure we'd crush it.

After the somewhat comically easy win, the three pigs went their own way, and I went and found Tim in the bleachers. He gave me the rest of his Gatorade. I glugged it like sweet nectar. I was feeling that runner's high.

Clouds rumpled in overhead, bearing bellyfuls of chill Spring rain. The meet got called early. Poor high jumpers and 1600 meter-ers would have to come back tomorrow morning. We were excused with a whistle.

In the parking lot, as Tim and I were strolling back to his van sipping cool ozone-rich air and feeling like a million bucks, Mark called out to me from Kyle's passenger window. "Yo, Guy-baby, c'mere!"

"Eh?" Tim snorted just as he opened his driver side door.

"Um," I shrugged at him. "One sec." I turned to gesture to Mark that I'd be over momentarily.

"Okay. I'll, uh, start her up," Tim cocked his jaw dubiously at Mark, "and hey," he muttered seriously, "just wave to me if you need backup."

"I think I'll be alright," I scoffed at him and strode toward Kyle's expensive, funky-smelling SUV.

"They're sharks, man," Tim called to me. "Don't forget that."

"It ever occur to you that maybe we're ALL sharks?" I rolled my eyes, not even looking back at him, and I went to see whatever Mark wanted.

"Heyo," he chuckled at my arrival. "We won, man! You psyched?"

"Sure?" I shrugged.

"Aw, I thought you'd be proud of us," he pouted. "We ran so GOOD for you."

"Hey, you smoke?" Joe asked from the back seat. He leaned in between the front seats, poking his head up into the front of the cabin between Kyle and Mark, and proffered a glass pipe of smoking, smoldering weed.

"Uh," was all I could say. Shit. I'd seen this moment in so many D.A.R.E. ads. I knew my script. But I didn't like my script. Where was Camila? She was my dialog helper. I blinked, and like a bongo-drum in my head, I could hear her giggling voice, "Frick yes, DO it, DO it!"

So I leaned in Mark's window, took the pipe, and let Joe give me a quick walk-through on how to hit a glass pipe. There was a carb for my thumb. There was a way to hold the lighter. There was a learning curve to inhaling smoke for the first time. I nodded. I wiped the mouth of the pipe with my jacket sleeve. Then I put it to my lips. It was oddly ritualistic, almost sacred, how I brought the pipe to crackling and glowing under my nose and my crossed eyes. I closed my nose and inhaled. I coughed instantly. Smoke: rejected. I blew ash and hot embers all over Mark's lap and the upholstery of Kyle's passenger seat. Joe chortled at my expense, and Mark's I suppose, who was livid but doing his best to contain himself. Kyle laughed a single good-natured laugh, then winced as Mark tried to wiped the ash off of everything and left smeary black tar stains on the car seat fabric.

"It's this fucker's fault," Mark whined as coolly as he could. He scoffed at the look Kyle was giving him. "Fuck you, whatever. You take it to a cleaner, I'll fucking pay for it. Fuck."

"Alright," Kyle chuckled, and then nodded at me. "Get in. You're coming with."

I gave a look like ‘What?’

"You're helping pay."

"Fuck," I coughed.

"Fuck is right," Mark laughed.

"Here ya go!" Joe said as he popped the back seat door open for me. I clambered in. It smelled like teenage hormones, skunky weed, and expensive cologne. "Don't worry about blowing your load," Joe said sympathetically as he busied himself packing a new bowl. "Everyone's gotta start somewhere."

"So Shy-Guy,” Mark sneered, trying hopefully in vain to invent a nickname for me. Fucking Mark. He was trying, though. Sneering, I had learned, was how he smiled. “What’s with you and Timmy? You guys fucking or something?”

“Nah,” I coughed. Did I mention I was still coughing? Trying not to, but still coughing.

“Whaddyou mean,” Joe yukked, grabbing me by the thigh across the back seat, “Gael here is way too old for Timmy.”

“Oh-HA! Right!” Mark snickered. “Fuck, man." He sighed, relishing whatever cruel thoughts he was having about my childhood friend and sometime social burden. "Do you guys ever wonder, like, who the girl was that Timmy diddled? Gael, he ever tell you? I feel like like it HAS to be someone we’d know.”

“I heard it was his cousin,” Joe shrugged as he took first hit on the new bowl.

Kyle meanwhile put his hand up and demanded the pipe be passed to him. We had skipped his turn when I showed up. He kept his eyes on the road, but did cast a single disappointed glance at his potheaded lug. Joe, for his part, cut his hit off early and passed the pipe up to Kyle while lunglessly throat-squinching an earnest apology.

“All good,” Kyle chuckled. “You fucking goof.” And he took his hit one-handed while the bowl was still rolling. See how quick I picked up the lingo? I had my uses.

“But so for real, are you guys friends for real? Because for real? That’s kinda fucked up,” Mark said.

“He’s harmless,” Kyle exhaled. His voice was velvety with paint-thick smoke. Mark wowed and coughed and wafted the air. The cabin turned a full shade yellower. Kyle handed him the pipe next.

“Shit,” Mark wheezed, “I’m already blazed. But okay.” And he took his hit quick and hard. It threw him into spasms. He tried to pass the pipe to me. I declined. He scowled purply at me. I shrugged and pointed to Joe.

“Me again already?” Joe chuckled. He reached to grab the pipe. Mark, still glaring at me and smiling - sneering, if you will - flinched at Joe’s sudden touch and dropped it. The pipe clonked onto the blue carpeted bump on the floor between Joe’s giant feet and mine. Its still glowing, mostly green bowl spilled out. I stomped the embers reflexively.

“Dude, no don’t - !” Mark spat. “Guy, you moron! Look at what you did to Kyle’s car!”

“Awww,” Joe frowned at the skidmark I’d made of his dearly departed bowl.

“Guy,” Kyle said seriously, almost at hazard to his chill. His eyes found mine in the rearview. “Can you tell me the truth? Did these two,” he smirked, but only gestured to Mark, “motherfuckers? Just botch ANOTHER hand-off?”

“Ha!” I guffawed. I inhaled a sudden lungful of second hand smoke, too. Bleary yellow swirls puffed in and out of me. Wet rain splattered my window as I turned my hacking, purple, teary face away.

“Fuck off,” said Mark, shrinking into a fold-armed huff and kicking one of his feet up onto the dash.

“Dude, that’s not safe,” Joe said, sounding almost panicky. There was genuine fear in his eyes he leaned forward and punched Mark’s shoulder.

“The FUCK, man?!” Mark whined, turning to scowl at his big nosy buddy.

“If we got in a car accident and the airbag blew, your leg would be FUCKED off man,” Joe spluttered. He got a kind of lisp when he got worked up.

“What are you trying to say?” Kyle chortled amicably. “That I’m not the safest driver you know?”

“N-no, man,” Joe shot Kyle a pleading look. “It’s not even about that! Like what if someone hit us outta nowhere?”

“Dude, Joe, we’re literally - ” Kyle started to explain.

“Hooooly SHIT, JOE! LOOK OUT!” Mark barked and pointed frantically at the oncoming collision about to smash into Joe’s side of the SUV.

Joe screamed like a baby and spun around to look.

“Dude,” Kyle sighed.

Mark cackled.

Joe wheezed.

Distant thunder rumbled. Rain dappled the roof. A stormy gust pushed grass and rain sideways across the dark, leafy yard outside Joe's window.

“FUCK,” Joe gasped, clutching his chest, and he punched Mark’s seatback, jostling him hard.

“Shit,” Mark giggled. “Sorry Joe. Could have SWORN I saw something.”

“Guy, man? Can you hand me that?” Joe winced at the pipe on the ground, and then at me. He looked pale. I felt bad for Joe. I picked up his pipe.

“Oh hey,” I tried, “there’s still some in it.”

“Nice,” he chuckled weakly. “Gimme here. Please.”

He fumbled anxiously with his lighter, his colossal brow knitting practically into a fist, then finally caught a flame and took his hit. He puffed eyes closed, brow relaxed, lips chugging. Color grayly returned to his cheeks. He exhaled a cloud so thick we lost sight of him for a second.

“Hey Mark,” Joe said quietly, sounding like his lungs hurt, but sounding stoic, too.

The haze was lifting slowly.

“What,” said Mark.

“You’re a fucking asshole,” he said. Or, well, it was more like ‘ath-hole.’

“I’m an ath-hole?” Mark snickered.

“Yethhhpbthlpbthhl!” Joe sprayed, lisping so loudly and angrily he both blared like a tuba and sprayed like a sprinkler at Mark.

“Fuck, man!" Mark cackled and put up his hands, trying to protect himself from the spit, but in his thrashing he kicked Kyle's dash so hard his glove compartment popped open. He flinched, as did Joe. They both stopped entirely to gasp at the open glove compartment. No airbag exploded out.

"Jeethuth that thcared me," Joe panted.

"If you just broke my fucking glove box, Mark, that's your ass when we get to my place," Kyle said.

Mark was trying to get the little compartment door to latch shut again, but it kept falling back open.

"Fuck, come on, ya piece of fuckin' shit," Mark snarled at it, and started clapping it shut harder and harder.

"ENOUGH," Kyle said, and grabbed Mark by the wrist. He threw Mark's own arm at him. He jabbed his finger in his face. He stopped the vehicle in the middle of the road. "Enough. It's broken. I'm kicking your ass when we get out. Okay? There's nothing you can do. You already fucked it up."

"Fucking hell," Mark laughed impishly, "I'll pay for it man. Don't even worry. We don't have to fight, man. Don-don't make me have to k-kick your ass."

Kyle put the SUV back in drive, and we continued on to his house. It was a few more windy blocks through an extremely nice neighborhood to get to the O'Dowd mansion. Two humongous flowering trees limned the blue-green yard with pinkish petals. It was so beautiful. I think I was high. The three amigos stayed pretty much quiet until we'd parked in the driveway, where it was clear from a broad rectangular thinness in the pink carpet that this spot was where Kyle always parked. We all three got out. The rain had let up. Instead, we just got dripped on by the giant pink trees overhead.

Mark walked trepidatiously around the front of the vehicle toward his good friend, Kyle. He held his arms up and out sort of diagonally as if for a chill, broey, back-slapping hug. His face said, 'We're still good, right?'

Kyle smacked him across that same face. Mark didn't even make a sound. He just took it.

"We even?" he said, looking back up at Kyle again with involuntary, slap-induced tears in his eyes, and put his hands up in surrender.

"Say sorry," Kyle said.

Mark glared at us non-threateningly, pathetically, as we watched his shaming continue.

"Sorry," he whispered. He glowed red. You could tell he hated having to bend the knee in front of me. To be honest, it worried me some. Mark might mistreat me when the others weren't around, I suddenly realized. He was the vindictive sort. He was a Vegeta-type, for sure.

"Not to me. To your friend," Kyle clarified as he glared unrelentingly at Mark. Damn man. Kyle could sort of kick ass.

Mark's eyes widened for a second. The shock of guilt hit him, pushed him even closer to the salty precipice of tears. He glanced warily at Joe. Then meekly back at Kyle. Kyle scoffed at him.

"You owe it to him," Kyle said quietly.

"It'th fine," Joe shrugged.

Joe just stood there looking on dispassionately. Pure gorilla-mode. Hard to know what was going on inside that vast head when he got like this.

"You know it isn't," Kyle challenged him.

Joe snuffled numbly, but I thought I saw his chin quiver.

"Hey J-Joe," Mark winced, "you know I just like to fuck around with you, right?"

Joe didn't even look at him. He looked at Kyle instead.

"I mean, you fuck with me too, right?" Mark laughed, his hands out pleadingly. "We're all just fuckers, man. It's what we do!"

"That your apology?" Joe raised an eyebrow at him.

"N-no," Mark grimaced. "This is." He slumped pathetically, and sighed. Then he walked up to Joe. He threw his arms around him. Joe did not reciprocate. He simply let little Mark wrap his scrawny arms around him. "I am sorry, bud. Really. That was fucked up. I crossed a line."

Joe reached up one hand and put it on Mark's back. His eyes watered a little. He looked like he might be holding his breath, or trying not to shit, or about to lose a staring contest.

"I love you, man. I'm sorry I'm such a fucking piece of shit all the time," Mark whinged pitifully.

"Love you, too, bro," Joe mumbled. I saw it. The tear that started to drip down the side of his nose. He wiped it away quick, though, and I'm not sure he saw me wipe it. He snortled a giant skullful of snot and swallowed. He pushed Mark gently away. Then shrugged the whole situation right off, shook like a shaggy dog, and nodded at Kyle that we should move on, now, if it pleased him.

"Alright," Kyle smiled proudly at his idiot friends. He waved his arm up the driveway toward his home. "Let's go smoke another bowl, shall we?"

"I got this one," Mark said, yanking a baggie of weed out of a side-pocket of his athletic bag.

"Dude," Joe snorted, "did you seriously bring that with you to the meet?"

"What?" Mark frowned, confused. "You did too," he pointed at the pipe in Joe's hand.

"Yeah, but I keep it in my car, stupid. If they catch you with that on school grounds, they can - "

"Excuse me, guys," I said. I strode between Joe and Mark, and caught up with Kyle. "Yo," I said as I joined him on the little porch off the side of his garage. Which I guess was actually also a guest house, now that I could see inside.

"Heyo," he said to me as he fished his key into the wet doorknob. "What's up?"

"You got a bathroom in here I might call dibs on? I'm about to explode."

"Explode?" he cocked an eyebrow at me. "What does 'explode' mean?" He looked down at my abdomen, faintly worried.

"Oh I just mean pee," I said. "I need to piss."

"Ah," he snorted, and patted me on the shoulder. He threw open the door to his guest house. "Straight down that hallway there, take a right, boom. Need me to show you?"

"Nah, I can hold my own dick," I tried, as I stepped across the threshold. It was crystal clear at a glance that this entire space belonged entirely to Kyle. It was no wonder he could carry on a tryst with a secret twelve-year-old girlfriend. Or thirteen or however old, sorry. Kyle could afford the princely privacy of a sultan when he was at home.

That's also how Kyle and his beastly friends could smoke bowl after bowl indoors, rankled by neither parent nor law enforcement. I took one or two more courtesy hits, coughing each time like I had just dunked my sweet little baby lungs in hot tar, but being careful to cough away from the pipe, rather than directly into it. The boys were proud of me for trying.

"I remember my first time," Kyle said fondly. "I don't think I even got high? But I coughed so hard I threw up in my Grandpa's umbrella stand."

"His umbrella stand?" Joe chortled. "What the fuck is that? Like a store that sells umbrellas?"

"No you fucking high-ass baby," Mark snickered, "it's like a can you put your umbrellas in."

"Oh," Joe blushed and shrugged, and hit yet another freshly loaded bowl on his pipe.

He proffered it to Kyle. Kyle passed politely. Mark passed, too. I looked at the pipe. I sighed. My lungs felt singed. I gave it one more shot.

This hit went way, way better than the ones before it. My lungs, perhaps numb to the discomfort at this point, simply accepted the in-pouring of hot, thick smoke. I breathed in, held, and slowly released.

"Slow and steady," Mark grinned.

"Very smooth," Kyle nodded.

"My baby's growing up!" Joe clapped.

"Heh," I chuckled. And alas, that's what finally did me in. I shattered into a heap of jagged coughs.

Joe clapped my back hard, beating me like a drum as I horfed and hacked.

"Here, if you need it," Kyle handed me a small waste bin. It smelled like the ashes of all the spent bowls we'd dumped into it. I gagged amid my hacking. But I didn't throw up. I just sort of dry-heaved in addition to coughing myself blue. Strangled belching sounds came out of me. I laughed at my own misery. So did Mark. Kyle and Joe chit-chatted about something soccer-related.

I reeled from the psychoactivities - nae, the psycho-festivities - twirling to life inside my brain. I was way, way high, all of a sudden. My head spun. My balance faltered. I was sitting in an armchair, entirely comfy, but still I jolted like I'd just tripped on a stair. I gasped. Then giggled.

The guys all looked at me.

"He's stoned," Mark said.

"On his first try," Kyle raised his eyebrows. "And he didn't even throw up."

"So is this an umbrella stand?" Joe asked innocently, lifting up the trash can to inspect it.

"Yes," Mark said, and then glanced giddily from Kyle to me like, 'Don't tell him!'

"Huh," Joe nodded thoughtfully. And he set it back down at my feet. "Sorry, man, there you go."

"All good," I said strangely. Or maybe normally. But my voice sounded strange to me.

"Soooo, you guys want to look at some naked hotties?" Kyle asked out of nowhere.

I blinked technicolor crazy blinks. What on earth had he just said? Something about ... ?

"Aww, FUCK yeah," Mark nodded repeatedly, rhythmically, and emphatically, like Kyle had just put on a sick record.

"Who we got this time?" Joe grinned like a good boy about to receive a cookie.

"An oldie but a goodie," Kyle shrugged smugly. "Hey Guy. You're into girls, yeah?"

"I - uh, aherm," I squinted at the sound of my own voice again, wondering if I was the only one hearing that strong, feathery, fluttering noise inside my skull every time I breathed in and out. It made my shoulder muscles cringe. It tickled my brain stem somehow. "I p-prefer women. Yeah."

"Good," Mark snickered.

"And do you happen to find girls OUR age attractive?"

"Of course?" I chuckled, but I think I might have looked like I was freaking out. Was I freaking out?

"Would you like to see what Libby Greenwald looks like giving head?"

"Libby G-Greenwald?" I stammered, suddenly anchored to something I could comprehend. "She's the Junior. With the butt. Right?"

"Heh-heh," Joe grunted.

"She does indeed have a butt," Kyle laughed and lifted his remote to turn the TV to a strange new channel. He also got out a gigantic, fancy-looking laptop from under the coffee table we'd all kicked up our feet onto. He moved some weedstuffs out of the way and laid it down. He fished a cable up from off the plush, crumb-strewn rug. I saw now that it ran the length of the floor up to a special black box underneath the giant TV in his entertainment center. I saw some yellow icons light up on that box now. And then a green one. And then his TV filled up with the image of an open folder on his laptop computer screen. He wiggled his fingertip around on the laptop touch pad. The cursor trailed about on the TV as we watched, lagging only a few moments behind his gesture. This felt miraculous to me.

"Trippy," I said. "Wait, does that thing have internet, too?"

"If I plug it in," he chuckled, delighted by my admiration. "But we don't need it here. I ripped these beauties right off the camera."

"Camera?" I echoed, so fucking high right now.

"Camera," he nodded to his fabulously ornate desk that looked like it had to have been handed down to him by a former president or something. There hooked up to a thin cable of its own was a silvery camera. It didn't look all that special, at first glance.

"How?" I asked. I think. Or I looked at him and made a face that did as much.

"It's a digital camera," he explained. "Go grab it, dude. I'll show you."

"Aww, come ON," Mark said, punching the arm of his end of the sofa. "At least get Libby on screen before you two have your little-father son moment."

I noticed Mark had his hand inside his track shorts, and was making zero effort to be discreet regarding his intentions.

"Here," Kyle shrugged and slid the laptop toward Mark's feet on the coffee table. "Pick your poison."

"Oh HELL yeah," Mark licked his lips and sat forward with gusto to receive the generous privilege. "Does it have to be Libby?"

"Yes," Joe thumped his heel on the coffee table decisively.

"Fine," Mark rolled his eyes. "I guess she'll do."

I stood up at Kyle's insistence and went and fetched the silvery camera from his heavy oaken desk.

"You can unplug it," he called to me. "It should be charged."

"Charged," I said with wonderment as I turned the camera over in my hands. "Holy shit," I breathed. "It has a screen?"

"Yeah, man," Kyle said proudly. He stood, finally, and came to meet me by the desk. "Here. You can look through what's on here. Let me just, um, get rid of some of the duplicates..."

He took the camera and hid the screen from me for a moment while he deleted the photos in question.

"Just a sec," he said, sort of chewing his tongue thoughtfully as he quickly clicked the little buttons to the side of the screen, navigating some series of photo-deleting decision trees, I supposed. "There. Check it."

He handed it back to me.

The photo on-screen blew my goddamn stoned-ass mind. It wasn't Libby Greenwald. It also wasn't, to my nauseous relief, Chelsea. It was Kyle. It was him and his cock. He had soccer jock tan lines. His cock was paler than the tan fist casually holding it. He was standing at the foot of some girl's bed. That same some girl's knees were neatly folded in the foreground. But the rest of the image was all Kyle. All naked man-flesh. He looked frankly good. Because of course he did. I wasn't gay, but I could look at a healthy, lucky, fully naked man without blinking. Even if it was the same man who'd just handed me the image I was seeing.

"Th-this is -- ?" I sputtered.

"Oh, shit, sorry," he snorted, and grabbed my hand holding the camera so he could click the button to advance to the next image. "It's this button. To uh. See the next one. Just keep clicking that to see the whole show."

"Wow, man," I shook my head, still sort of dizzy at what I'd just seen, at what he'd just 'accidentally' shown me, and looked on with relative indifference at the lengthy sequence shots now merrily celebrating the various lovely ins and outs of a girl I did indeed recognize from my pre-calc class last term. God, how I'd stared at her side-boob the day she'd gotten away with wearing a tank-top to class under the pretense of needing to cool off while her sweater dangled over her chair back. The teacher, a born cretin like me, had eagerly allowed it. And now here she was displaying both halves of both boobs, as well as the entire rest of herself, for Kyle, his camera, and whoever might one day look at these photographs.

"You know Julie, then," Kyle observed from my slack jawed stupor.

"She's ... she was. I had pre-calc with her."

"Did you? I had her with me in physics. We got partnered up together. She's a real whiz, man. Saved my ass in that class."

"Y-yeah," I nodded, looking now at the way Julie's lips opened wide to accept Kyle's thick veiny cock jutting toward her out of the bottom of the frame. "Shit dude. She sucked your cock?"

"She tried. I gave her some pointers, though, and she - well, keep going. I don't want to spoil it for you." He clapped me on the shoulder and invited me to sit in what my drug-addled mind unconsciously assumed to be Abraham Lincoln's chair. I sat down in it, feeling somehow emancipated as I clutched this magical piece of future tech in my grubby caveman hands. "Can I get you something to drink man?" Kyle offered. "There's enough on there to keep you busy for a while, I assure you."

"What, um," I shook my head, coming to for just long enough to answer the nice man's question. "What do you have?"

"Beer. Water. Coke. Uh..." He chewed his big red tongue for a second, thinking. "Oh, we might have some Diet Cherry Sprite in the house, too. I could go look."

"Beer?" I said, puzzled. He was seventeen, right? That's what Chelsea had said. Was he truly THAT spoiled that his parents just let him stock his own guest house with BEER?

"Beer it is," he grinned, and strode away to grab me a beer, I supposed.

"Didn't know you drank, nerd," Mark sneered at me. I could have sworn he was trying to be friendly.

"Don't judge a book by its cover," Joe tutted. His face was pink, his eyes narrowed to a squint, and yet he looked completely at peace.

"I hope Coors Light is okay?" Kyle sighed as he slapped the frosty gray and blue can down on the desk in front of me. No coaster or anything.

"You just ... HAVE beer?" I said, unable to mask my childlike wonderment in my current state of, well, complete and utter childlike wonderment.

"Yes?" he chuckled. He pointed to the can he'd just set down. "Unless you're not a Coors man, in which case believe me, I totally understand. It's just what my Dad likes."

"Dude, it's a good beer," Mark said. "WAY better than Natty. That shit tastes like WATER."

"Says you," Kyle scoffed. "But I LIKE that Natty goes down easy."

"So does Coors!" Mark snarled. "PLUS it tastes good!"

"I like Budweiser," Joe said quietly to himself.

I looked at him. I sort of loved Joe. I nodded at him. He nodded back.

"It's the gold standard of beers," he said. "Any beer worse than it sucks. Any beer better than it rocks. But only it. Is Budweiser."

"King of beers," Kyle acquiesced, humbly. "I know, Bud's good, man. It is. I just can't chug it like you can."

"You don't happen to have any ... ?"

"Nah. I'm afraid we're stuck riding the silver bullet today, man."

"Ah, well. Beer me," Joe said. And held up his hand as if Kyle was just going to throw a beer at him from out of nowhere.

Kyle did.

"Wh-haaaat?" I said. My eyes popped out of my head. I almost dropped the beer in my hand. But then I caught it. Still, I splashed a little. Some Coors Light spritzed onto the camera screen, creating little beads of kaleidoscopic light. I wiped these off with my shirt, hastily, and prayed Kyle hadn't seen. He hadn't, had he? He was bent over inside the fridge, getting himself a beer too.

When had I even opened my beer? Had I taken a sip and forgotten? Had I damaged this expensive-feeling camera in my lap? I wanted to smell it, to see if I'd gotten the beer smell off. But that would have given me away. I waited for a moment when none of the idiots were looking at me. I stole a quick whiff. It smelled like I was super high and couldn't tell what the hell I was smelling.

"How is that treating you?" Kyle asked me as he came back over, cracking and sipping his own beer as he took an ottoman by the corner and dragged it up beside me. He sat down on it. He held up his can to me. "Cheers."

I clunked my can against his.

"Cheers," I murmured.

"If you need to cum, I get it," he said nonchalantly. "You're among friends here, bro. We don't care."

"You guys ... just like," I gaped at him, "in front of each other?"

"Look at Mark," he shrugged, not even looking himself. He just already knew Mark would be going at it. And sure enough, Mark's fist was busily pumping inside his track shorts.

When he caught me looking, Mark jeered toothily at me, and tugged down the front of his shorts so I could see exactly what he was working with. He'd beaten his cock into an angry shade of red. The head shone slimy and purple, fit to burst. He stared wildly at me, then laughed at my visible shock, and let the front of his shorts back up. He laid back even further into his corner of the sofa and let his gaze droop again as he stared at the image both in his lap and up on screen.

"Don't you blow on my fucking laptop," Kyle warned.

"Ugggh, come ON," Mark writhed, and awkwardly, one-handed, still jerking himself, bent forward to drop the heavy laptop back onto the coffee table. It clunked unhappily onto his own pipe, and sent it tiddlywinking across the tabletop, over the edge, and into Joe's giant, soft pink hands.

"Close one," Joe chortled, and put Mark's pipe back on the table out of reach of its owner's angry, animal movements.

"Shit, thank you," Mark whined at Joe, and gave him a friendly salute even as he continued to jerk himself toward climax.

"Is he actually going to - ?" I started to ask, bewildered, incredulous, wondering what sort of bizarro dimension I'd stepped into by agreeing to hang out with these guys.

"HHNNNGGGHHH!" Mark groaned, and his hips thrashed up off the couch. His fist continued busily, furiously jerking inside his shorts. He stomped the edge of Kyle's (parents'?) coffee table with his one socked foot. He had that soccer jock leg-strength. It jostled everything on the table. His pipe scooched almost to the edge again. Joe once again lunged to catch it, exasperation clear on his stoned face.

"Come on, dude, really?" he sighed. He took the pipe altogether and set it on a fancy side table next to his end of the sofa.

"FuuuUUUCK," Mark sang, and finally began to fizzle back into his seat. He lowered his shirt back down, used it to sop up the cum on his belly. His toes crackled inside his socks. His hands splayed, cracked, then curled back into fists. He rubbed a knot in his jaw. Then he stretched, yawned, and sighed contentedly.

"What were you about to ask?" Kyle said to me, nudging my beer can with his. He was smirking.

"Wild," I muttered. It was all I could mutter. My only dialog option.

"You get used to it," Kyle snorted. "Come on. Keep clicking. You haven't gotten to the best one yet."

I looked back down at the camera I was holding. Fuck me in half. Here was Kyle balls-deep inside of Julie's mouth. She was red-faced, snot-nosed, and tear-streaked. Spittle bubbled at the corner of her lips. His tan soccer jock fist held a tight, painful-looking hank of her hair.

"Next one," he whispered. He was leaning onto the arm of my historic leather throne, watching my face as much as the screen. "Get ready."

"Oh," I gasped.

Julie's mouth, wide open, her tongue cupped and full - overflowing really - of Kyle's salty, bubbly, yellow-tinged cum. Additional cum drizzled down her chin. She also had cum on her nose. In her nose. And in her eyelashes. Her eyes looked burnt and angry. Her makeup was fucked to hell. She had all too clearly been mishandled.

"Right?" Kyle chuckled, and held up his can for me to cheers him again.

I blinked at him. I gulped drily. Had I taken a single sip of beer yet? I cheersed him. I sipped my beer when he sipped his. He chugged his to the bottom. He crinkled the can in his grip. He burped loudly. And then he stood up to get himself another.

"You want another one, too?" he asked as he sauntered off. "There's still like six more girls on there."

"We GOTTA show him Laura Carmichael, dude," Joe pleaded.

"Dude, no way. He isn't ready for Laura Carmichael," Mark snickered, waving a woozy, dismissive hand. "It'll blow his fragile little mind."

"You want to see Laura Carmichael take it up the ass?" Joe grinned at me.

"Up the ... ?" I blinked at him. "Who is Laura Carmichael again?"

"You know what. I think we could all use a little Laura right now," Kyle chortled as he returned once more from the fridge. This time, however, he set my beer down beside the armchair I'd vacated earlier, subtly inviting me back to the seating area. "After today's meet, I think we earned it."

He looked at me and saluted me with his own fresh beer.

The one in my hand was still full. Had I even taken a single sip? I had, right? Shit. Fuck. Where was I? What was happening, right now? Did I have to do this, whatever 'this' was about to be? Was it too late to wave at Tim for backup?

"You coming, Guy?" Mark asked.

"Dude, come back over here," Joe reached sideways and thumped the empty seat of my arm chair. "I wanna watch the look on your face the first time you see this."

“Dude, I’m already hard again,” Mark snorted, and showed us his red, revivified boner. He was actually not all that well-endowed. And he shaved, apparently, which made him look sort of weirdly boyish down there, except for his saggy, purple, poorly-groomed scrotum.

Kyle had commandeered his laptop again and was already navigating back through the file folders. He clicked an older one titled June, followed by a surprising four-digit number. An unconscious calculator inside my otherwise-inoperably high brain did the math automatically. Six years ago. Back when our host, aspiring pornographer, and possible rapist would have been ten or eleven.

"Who ... is Laura Carmichael?" I asked again, and burped anxiously. It tasted like beer and pot. A little smoke even came wisping up out of me. 

“Joe, lights,” Kyle said, relishing my suspense.

“G-guys?” I said again. 

Joe scarcely had to stand to reach the light switch with his elephantine arms.

I stood and stumbled toward my armchair, and managed not to spill my beer in the process. Alas, I forgot the camera was in my lap. Did that count? It clattered expensively to my feet. I blinked around, horrified, at the other guys in the room. No one was paying attention. I picked it up and put it back on the desk. I grabbed my - wait, where was my beer? Oh there it was. I picked it back up. I went to sit. 

I stepped over Mark’s legs. He was slowly stroking himself. He sneered at me and gave me a little salute. Joe chuckled excitedly at me, and rubbed his bare, hairy tummy while he milked his enormous chode right out in the open. Kyle sat with the laptop covering his lap, and fondled himself underneath it. Hard to tell if his cock was in- or outside his shorts.

I sighed down into my seat. I set my beer next to my other beer. And before I finally let myself look where they were all looking, I peered into my lap, lifted the elastic of my track shorts, and frowned apologetically into the dark inside. Somewhere in there was my flaccid, confused, drug-addled penis. ‘Time to meet Laura Carmichael,’ I muttered inwardly. I reached in and jostled my soft, cool-feeling cock into waking. Before it could even begin to unfurl, I flattened it in my grip. A runny little squib of precum or something splootched out into my hand. It, at least, was warm. I tried to work the soft, shriveled meat with this droplet of self-made lube. It was rough-going.

I glanced around. Nobody was watching me touch myself. There was a code, I inferred. And now I understood I was probably breaking it by continuing to look around so unabashedly at my comrades. Well, fuck. 

I steeled myself. I took a deep breath. I opened my eyes and looked at the screen.

My lizard brain responded before I could even register what I was seeing. Full frontal female nudity. Maybe twelve to fourteen years old, going off the breast-size to nipple-puffiness ratio. A certain little boy’s head, pink-cheeked, with familiar floppy hair, stuck its red tongue out between a pair of pink thighs. The tiny tongue dissolved into shadow beneath either lip of Laura Carmichael’s bald, spread-wide cleft. 

My cock no longer needed help getting hard. And now all of a sudden it was trying to shove the baton of enthusiasm into my brain’s open, waiting palm. My brain fumbled the hand-off. I was somewhere else. I was going to need a minute. I was processing these three wealthy, spoiled-ass dudes' willingness to jerk off to homemade child pornography in front of me.

This was illegal, right? I was pretty sure it was. I wished Tim were here to back me up. He'd know for sure.

***

Chapter Text

Early morning on the first day of Spring Break, before Gael left with Mom to go visit some college in Oklahoma, I snuck into his room and got his wiener out - it was always huge and hard around this time - and sighed fondly at it. He didn’t wake up. I tickled the underbelly of it. It jumped a little, almost like it was giggling. But still, dumbrain was snoring. I took the tip in my lips and started suckling. Still asleep. I kept noisily slurping on his soft marshmallowy glans while I brought back the tickling I'd been doing to his undershaft. I felt him stir. His hand seemed to wake up before his brain did, and it came feeling at his cock to see if this was worth waking up over. He sort of scraped my eyelid by accident, but I was having too much naughty fun to really care by this point.

"Wake up already!" I whispered.

Guy snortled awake, and he sort of bounced up out of himself at the sight of his hot kid sister in her t-shirt and underwear already suckle-dee-slurping his cock.

“Yum!” I grinned at him.

“R-rape,” he mumbled. And then he yawned, “Raaaaaape,” and gently laid his hand on my head for a lovely, drowsy pat-pat and a snuggly head-hold. I wore his hand like a hat now. I continued to suck a little more lovingly now that I knew he was watching and appreciating me.

Big Bro’s cock had a flavor different from the rest of him. It was salty but bland, and if we’re being completely honest, kind of smelly. But that was also somehow what made it so crazy fricking addicting. Guy was yummy in a very wrong way, and I craved how tasting him made my brain and heart feel. Miss Susan, too, was a fan. Big, big fan.

My brother started jerking himself off as he held my head down, sort of plonking me in the lips repeatedly with his thumb and forefinger as he did so, and I took the pummeling like a baby. I whimpered and cried and clutched the base of his shaft to try and help still him some, so he wouldn’t risk me chipping into his poor little glans with my teeth. When it did finally happen, he flinched all over, and I couldn’t help but giggle.

“Here, just LEMME,” I insisted and pried his hand off of his cock. I spat on him. Kind of gross, I know, since I hadn’t remembered to brush my teeth first, but it made things slipperier. Plus Guy-Guy liked it a lot. My saliva sparkled with weird, sexy enthusiasm for him.

I repositioned onto my knees, so I could get some much-needed leverage. This meant I couldn’t suck him until we got him to the finish line. At which point I would just pounce back down and catch his cum in my mouth. We’d toyed with him cumming elsewhere on me, but even inside Susie only he got to really feel his cum leave his dick, and everywhere else was cute the first time but then kind of just messy and inconvenient after that. We both won if I just swallowed his cum all the time.

Yes, obviously, it did not taste good. That was the POINT, reader. Shut up and let me like it.

“Tell me when,” I dutifully reminded him.

“‘C-course,” he whispered.

“Hey, Guy?” I said.

“Hm?”

“I like having you as a brother.”

“Sh-shit,” he chuckled. “L-like you. T-too?”

“You better. How many other little sisters swallow every time, no questions asked?”

“I-isn’t that a question?” he smirked.

“Ha,” I rolled my eyes at him. “Whatever, so maybe I like asking questions.”

“That’s h-how we got into th-this-ss mess in the f-f-first pl-oh-okay-OKAY-c-cumming, cumming Sis, S-Sis?”

“Yay,” I nodded, and then dived face-first into a jet of cum - got the left eye, dang it - as I sank his red-hot, erupting cock into my mouth all the way to the back of my tongue until it pressed the now-indifferent gag-reflex button at the entrance to my throat. From here I could sometimes slow down and try to cram him in further, but that was when he wasn’t already actively shooting spunk at my uvula.

Ugh. My poor eye. Cum sucked to get in your eyes. It burned both salty and sour. And the stupid little cut in my eyelid from him scraping me when I woke up him up wasn't helping things either. Gosh, the things I did for this man.

I swallowed. I also swirled my tongue all over his glans. A Cosmo I pilfered from Melanie taught me the tongue-swirling trick. I’d practiced on ten bucks worth of Blow Pops from the drugstore on the corner, and any number of real life Blow Jobs, and now I was great at it, if Gael’s wheezy, whimpery, “yeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeahyeah” reactions were anything to go by.

His cum tasted extra salty this morning. Like he was dehydrated. And the residue of it sort of stung my throat. Ack. Fricking cum. I climbed up his sweaty, panting landscape and kissed him while I still tasted like his seed. “Ith thalty today,” I informed him as we made out.

“Y-yeah,” he agreed, blushing a little. Cutie pie. I pulled my cummy tongue out of his mouth and smooched him on the cheek.

“I’ll miss you,” I told him softly. I was sitting on his sternum, feeling him raise and lower me as we smiled at each other. I had yesterday’s panties on, which while yes objectively gross nevertheless made my crotch smell like his favorite food in apparently the whole world. I let out a tiny fart that warmed my butt against his chest.

“Fuck,” he groaned, and threw a limp, sweat-damp arm over his muzzle. I grabbed his arm in both hands and wrenched it away.

“Smell it! SMELL it!” I cackled.

“Kids?” Mom cracked the door and poked her head in.

“M-Mom?” we said in slight dis-unison, half gasping for breath as our hearts restarted in our chests.

I stayed seated on his chest. It was too late to move. And a sudden dismount with her watching would only incriminate us further. No, I chose to stay firmly planted. Even when Guy tried to sneakily, wormily unseat me.

‘No!’ I shot him a look.

“S-sup?” Guy stammered.

“Cam, kindly get off your brother. He needs to get up.”

We blinked at each other, then at Mom. We were cool? This was whatever?

“C’mon!” she laughed. “Up! We said we’d be on the road by seven, and it’s six forty.”

“Booo,” he groaned. But he was grinning with relief. And maybe also still from the orgasm I’d just given him as a parting gift.

“Oh just get up. I’ll drive the first half and you can sleep in the car.”

There was a funny silence.

“Guy. I’m not going to ask again.”

“Up. I’m up,” he grunted, and shot her a thumbs up. “Sis, move.”

“No,” I declared, and crossed my arms.

“Cami, you’re hilarious. Now move. Your brother has an appointment today two states over. We can’t be late.”

“I just, one sec…”

I clenched. A solid little toot came out. It thumped hilariously into my brother’s chest. He chortled and fully threw me to the floor. I whooped and landed on both hands, twisted mid-tumble, and absorbed my own landing into a forward somersault. I exited into a stand, rising directly to address Mom with a curtsy, before sidling past her and off back to my room.

I pretended to sleep just in case Mom or Guy poked their head in before they left, while I masturbated furiously under the covers. I hadn’t even cum yet when I heard the side door open, luggage being rolled out into the garage, and then the side door shut. They’d left without saying bye? This made me feel a little splash of sadness. I lost my momentum. I peeled off my disgusting panties and threw them away onto my disgusting floor. I enjoyed a brief, refreshing cry. Then I got up and went out naked to steal Guy’s Playstation. He wouldn’t miss it while he was gone.

I also stole one of his old memory cards and deleted a couple things to make room for a new save in EYL. I wanted to try something I’d been thinking about ever since Tim told me about it. I booted up the game, started a new story all my own (squee), and proceeded to machine-gun bash the Skip Dialog button through the next three real-life minutes of skippable dialog comprising my main character’s first few in-game weeks. I was nice to everybody, but I wasn’t here for any of them. Not this time. I wasn’t after the small fries. I was after the secret mystery woman.

You see, after you’ve gotten a couple weeks in, there’s this creepy lady you can bump into at the pond if you happen to decide to go there. She’s nervous and tight-lipped, and no matter what you say or do at the pond she politely excuses herself. You never learn her name and you never see her again. Unless you try one strange thing.

Tim didn’t tell me what, though. He just told me to figure it out. Fricking Tim.

So I tried giving the lady a flower. She gently refused it, and then departed. I reloaded my save. I tried pressuring the lady to explain why she would not share her name. She got nervous, and then ran off. I tried getting angry at the lady, and then she got angry too. She started acting strange. I tried throwing a rock at her. It hit her on the head, and she fell to the ground, dazed.

I giggled and pumped my fist victoriously. It was something new, at least.

“I’m s-sorry…” the mystery woman muttered as she touched the gash on her forehead. Then she fainted on the spot. I moved in to check her for a pulse. The game said her skin was cool to the touch, clammy, but that there was a pulse.

Suddenly a shadow appeared over both of us. A giant, furious man was had appeared behind me. I didn’t recognize his silhouette. But he picked my character up like we weighed nothing and threw us into the pond.

When we got back to shore, spitting pondwater and wearing a lily pad on our head, the woman and the man were both gone. On the ground where we’d scuffled was the stupid rock I’d thrown, a few droplets of the mystery woman’s blood, and … nothing else that I could find.

I told Tim about it later over the phone. He was at home, playing a game on on his computer, and acting miffed that I had developed this habit of interrupting his day-to-day whenever I felt like it. I just giggled at him and kept talking.

“You hit her with a rock, right?” I said.

I was meanwhile idly picking at this patch of tough, horn-like skin on my left foot. Bad habit. Tended to frick up my fingernails, in addition to only making the problem down there worse. Thicker. Stranger. Yellower. Alas, it was just in my nature to pick curiously at ugliness, removing tiny little dead pieces of it from my person. It felt good and right. Even if in my brain I knew otherwise.

“You hit her with a ROCK?” Tim repeated, sounding amused. “WHY?”

There was a sharp plastic snap. I could hear him curse from far away, and then rustling sounds as he clumsily recovered his phone from the floor. He apologized too loudly into the receiver as he maneuvered it back into its sweaty little spot between his ear and shoulder.

“Yes I threw a rock. Was that not it? But a guy showed up and like chucked me in the lake. I thought that was it!”

“A guy? What guy? Who was he?”

I shrugged, audibly frustrated.

Dad made a face at me as he handed me a red plastic plate of lunch. Chips, baked beans, and a heap of pulled pork fresh and steamy from the microwave. I ignored Dad’s look and thanked him for the grub, then waved him off like the man servant he was. He snorted indignantly.

“I couldn’t tell.”

“You couldn’t tell?”

“I mean,” I munched a chip. “It sorta looked older? But he was huge.”

“Huh. You get any other clues?”

“No? So wait you never did this in your game? All there was to click on was the rock so I threw it. I chucked it back in the lake.”

“Pond.”

“Right. Um. Oh, right, the blood from where I hit her, but I couldn’t do anything with that. It was just there like to make you feel bad, I think.”

“You sure?” Tim said.

“And that was it. What? Am I sure? Yeah.”

“Blood,” Tim said. “Hm.”

“Yeah? I clicked on it. You couldn’t do anything with it. It was just some little drops of blood on the sidewalk. Wait. Are you giving me a hint? Tim? Could I have done something with the blood?”

“I don’t know,” Tim chuckled at my expense.

“Tim,” I said sternly.

“Hey! Quit givin’ her a hard time!” Dad barked from over the sink. He couldn’t see me but he could hear me getting frustrated at Tim.

He did this sometimes, where he eavesdropped through the window thing between the kitchen and the family room. It was right over the sink where he could stand there and act like he was doing dishes or watching TV or whatever, but really I think he just liked spying on his family.

“I’ll tell you this much,” Tim sighed. “I think you may just need to go home and sleep on it.”

“What? What's that MEAN? Should I not have hit her with the rock? Does he throw me in the water no matter what? Who was that guy? He creeped me out. TIM just tell me what to DO.”

“No,” he said.

“PLEASE.”

“No way.”

“Tim. If you don’t tell me RIGHT now, I’m coming over there, and I’m beating the FREAKING snot out of you.”

“Or,” Tim said. “Do you want to come over and hang instead? Take a break from EYL? Maybe try having an actual life?”

I blinked at the audacity. Had he mistaken me for himself? This hypocritical super dork deluxe must have known I had multiple friends at school. I was hot! So what if I played games like EYL on my Spring Break? This was the ‘actual life’ I actually wanted!

But what got to me even more was the invitation itself. It freaked me out. It made me feel small and silly and unsure about stuff like how okay it was or was not to hang out with my older brother’s friend while he was out of town. I knew Dad wouldn’t love it. I’d have to tell him I was going to Chelsea’s or Melanie’s or something. I’d have to ride my bike even though Tim only lived four doors down. I’d have to hide my bike, too. UGH. This was thrilling.

“You mean it?” I said.

“Sure, dude. But do me a favor and snag me a couple Dewskies from your bro’s fridge before you sneak over here.”

“Sneak?” I snorted, pretending I’d need not go to such lengths to see him.

“Yeah missy. I take it Guy’s gone by now?”

“Ya.”

“Off eloping with Mommy?”

“Ew! No!” I yukked. I made a face at Dad, who had looked at me concerned through his stupid spy window, gave him a look like right back like, ‘it’s nothing, Dad, chill.’ “What does ‘eloping’ mean?”

“Come on over, and I’ll show you,” he said, and smooched his receiver. “Bay-bayyy.”

“Gross,” I said again. I sat up and sort of - whoops - lost a sec, I guess?, staring at this insanely beautiful bubblegum pink tree with slender gray branches shivering in the crisp March air that had apparently blossomed overnight in our neighbor’s yard. I forgot it did that. It made me want to cry, it was so lovely to look at.

“Do you really want to hang out with me?” I asked him.

“No,” he chortled. “But I could use like two or three cans of soda pop. If you don’t mind. The price of my company is no less than twenty-four ounces of ice cold, lime green, tooth-pickling sugar-water. If those terms are acceptable, then you may bring me my Dews forthwith.”

“Or hang out instead.”

“Or hang out,” he said, “though I must warn you. I am butt naked.”

“No, you’re not,” I rolled my eyes at the phone in my hand.

“I could be.”

“Is your side door unlocked?”

“Oh, actually. Good point. Just come around back.”

“Kay,” I grinned. “I’m hanging up. Be right over.”

“Actually?” Tim interrupted just as I was about to press the End button on our family room handset. “Make it four Dews. That way you can have one. If you want.”

“Sure. Do you have snacks?”

“Negative. But I have cash.”

“Ugh. Stay where you are. I’ll come over. We can go get snacks together.”

“Okay. Hey, Mimi?” he said.

“What?” I said.

“You know what I like about you?”

It was always something stupid.

“What?” I snorted.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said,

"You’re the only person alive who isn’t disgusted at the thought of me.”

He sounded … serious?

"Aw. Saaad," I teased, grinning uncertainly. I giggled a little test-giggle for Tim’s sake. But I wasn’t one hundred percent sure he was being funny.

“Sad, yes. But happy, too.” He cleared his throat phlegmatically. “Now woman, I thirst! Mountain Dew! Back door! Chop chop!”

“Timmm,” I sang.

He hung up.

***

I knocked on the backdoor, and it popped open, not actually fully latched. I scoffed reflexively. It had startled me a little. I leaned into the dim, silent interior. I smelled Tim’s house’s smell. Warm, dog-like, slightly acrid.

Tim must have been home alone. Even the dogs were gone. That meant Tim’s family were at their cousins’ lake-house. Tim’s family didn’t really bring Tim around to visit family anymore since what happened with him and me all those years ago. The last time he’d been welcome was when he was the age I was now.

I always remembered it was his last trip to the lake-house because I remember he was acting off, and when I told him, he told me something had happened to him. I had to just about pull his teeth out to make him tell me what was wrong. But then he started crying and apologizing and just telling me all this crazy nasty stuff that had happened to him, things his cousins had made him do. Things he'd done even though he didn't want to. He had been especially ashamed of the things he’d asked to do, himself. They'd made him ask to do things. Forced him to come up with ideas. He could barely talk as he told me how he’d done things to his little cousins while their older siblings watched and laughed and told him how gross he was.

Anywho!

Tim was home alone, I could tell. This gave me some relief. I hated Tim’s family. Just as much as he did. More even, I think, because Tim couldn’t help feeling that last little bit of love for them that we all feel for our immediate families, that tacky gluey bit that sticks like a residue in your heart’s throat. And kind of stings.

Wait, was love actually just cum?

“Hey you,” Tim pointed at me from the single stair leading up into the carpeted back rooms of his house. “Shoes off. Come on. You know better.”

“Oops,” I snorted and kicked my shoes off. Then I pranced over to him.

“Wait. Where’s my Dew? Mimi please do not tell me you forgot.”

“Well! I figured. Like! We’re going snack shopping anyway, aren’t we?” I almost screamed. I flushed scarlet. I had totally forgotten. Whoops. To be clear, my flaming embarrassment came not from spacing on the favor I’d said I’d do for Tim - no, Tim and his soda pop could go sit on a stick for all I cared - but from the silly, eager-beavery obviousness of what my spacing implied. I had been too excited to spend time with him.

“Mimi. You had ONE job.”

“Whatever,” I pouted.

Tim knew I loved him, of course, but still I didn’t like it getting to his head. I liked to choose when and how the people in my life received proof of my affection for them. I didn’t like it being this obvious thing I just freely displayed.

“Hey, hey,” he soothed, seeing me starting to produce actual emotions. “It’s okay. You can make it up to me.”

“Huh?” I frowned at him. I crossed my arms defiantly. I tried to read his stupid mind.

Crickets. Creepy feelings. Smug self-satisfaction.

“… How?” I asked, begrudgingly.

“Lemme get my jacket. We can walk and talk,” he said, already disappearing back into his house.

I heard floorboards creak. I heard a closet door slide open, then shut. I heard him pause to go pee. It took him a really long time to finish peeing. Then he washed his hands. Good Tim. And he came back out ready to go.

We both put our shoes on by the back door. Then we stepped outside into the cool Spring sunshine. Tim led the way. We walked the old familiar walk to the drugstore.

“By my calculations, you owe me three Dewskies’ worth of favors,” Tim announced. We walked not-quite-side-by -ide down the sidewalk. I had to take a little more than a single step for every one of his gangly-legged strides, but not quite fully two. It was annoying. So I lagged a little on principle. He and Guy were always like this whenever we walked somewhere. It was some sort of fake, showy, masculine hurry they liked to be in when they were out in public.

“THREE favors?! I’m not your stupid genie,” I retorted.

“For my first wish…” he smirked, gleefully ignoring my disavowal as he teed up.

“UGH.”

“… I would ask only that you agree to help me figure something out. Something that's been bugging me.”

“About what?” I cocked my head.

He peeked over his shoulder at me. “Come walk next to me,” he muttered, and made space on the sidewalk.

I skipped a step or two to match his canter. I walked elbow to elbow with him now. I nudged him as we walked, like, ‘okay, talk.’

“Something’s not right with Guy. You noticed?”

“Um,” I crinkled my nose at this. “How do you mean?”

“I mean since he started hanging out with those jerk-ass potheads.”

“Oh,” I said. That.

“You’ve noticed,” Tim confirmed. “It’s not the envy. And hey, I freely I admit I’m envious as heck. Like, right? Right when I think he and I are patching things up, he goes and gets sucked into these cretins' secret, shitty machinations, and now every time I see him it’s like I’m looking at a ghost.”

“So he's avoiding you or something?” I asked gingerly. He’d done it before, after all. For years, in fact. It was a little awkward, actually, that so little had ever been said about this by either of them.

“Actually, no,” Tim conceded, and made a face at me like I was missing his point. “He’s been cool to me. It’s nothing he’s doing to ME, per se, that has me worried, Sis. It’s what he’s doing to himself.”

“You mean … the drugs and stuff?” I winced.

To be honest, I felt complexly about my brother’s sudden love affair with pot. Anti-drug commercials had tattooed into my brain that drugs were stupid and only idiots did them. But while my big dumb brother was many things, he was not an idiot. So lately I’d been kind of picking at the issue like it was another hard, smelly dance callus.

“Nah, the drugs are fine,” Tim chortled. “Marijuana’s harmless. Though his drinking when he’s with those guys is … a little intense. But no. What I mean is,” Tim winced and shrugged and struggled to find the words to articulate what he meant.

“Is this what you wanted me to help you figure out?” I scoffed, teasing him with an elbow to the ribs.

“Kinda, yeah,” Tim chuckled, and elbowed me back. “You already said you noticed something off. He’s not our Guy, lately. It’s like he’s missing from his own story.”

“I … don’t know,” I said uncomfortably, watching my feet as we navigated a particularly chunky segment of root-wrecked sidewalk.

“Me neither,” Tim said. “But you agreed to help me figure out, right?”

“Um, did I?” I scoffed half-heartedly. Tim was making me anxious. My palms were getting hot, even though my hands were freezing cold. (I’d forgotten gloves, too. Probably, I’d have remembered to put them on if I had thought to grab Tim’s ice cold ‘Dewskies’ before I left.

“Just keep an eye on him for me. Okay?”

“I mean, okay? Whatever,” I shrugged. “That was your first wish. You only have two left.”

“Thank you,” Tim said as he held the jangling door open into the drugstore and waved me in before him.

“You don’t have to hold the door,” I groaned and rolled my eyes at him.

“After … uh-you, uh-my lady,” he spluttered deferentially, and then bowed with maximum flourish until I caved and went inside. Anything to make him stop.

“Timothy,” said Angie.

“Andge,” he said, and doffed his trucker hat politely. The hat was tractor green and said, simply, ‘DONALD’ in white block letters. It was his Grandpa Don’s, who Tim had adored, and who’d thankfully died back when Tim was still little, before his family and everyone had disowned him. It was an amazing hat.

“Go get whatever you want. Aim for ten bucks. Sound fair?”

“Go easy,” Andge chuckled. “I don’t get a fresh shipment of Blow Pops until next week.” She slid the plastic fishbowl of brightly wrappered suckers my direction. I kindly withdrew a Watermelon. I had, I admit, developed a fondness for this flavor. It had been the first one I ever put all the way into my throat without gagging. It made me a little horny just smelling its punky perfume.

“That’s it?” Angie looked impressed at my restraint.

“Ugh,” I scoffed cutely and took a random handful of additional Blow Pops. Practice made perfect, you know? And honestly, the gum was garbage but the candy part was yummy.

“There she is,” Angie sighed smugly. She gazed with theatrical melancholy at the ‘depleted’ fishbowl. Whatever. She still had like fifty more suckers in there. I’d taken six.

So I still had some leftover Tim-money to spend on my own bottle of cranberry-apple juice and a bag of cheesy Ruffles.

“Ready?” he asked, giving my haul a studious once-over. He had a twelve pack of Mello Yellow, some gross-looking jerky, and a large bag of Twizzler nibs. The little bite-sized guys. I loved those fricking things.

“To SHARE,” he said sternly when he caught me eying them. “Come on, Sis. Let’s pay and get out of Angie’s hair.”

“Yeah,” Angie sneered. She winked at us. She was actually pretty lonely, I think, Angie.

***

Tim shared his nibs on the walk home. They were delicious. Not important for the story, I know, sorry. But I loved nibs.

I loved Tim.

I had really, really missed him.

Back at Tim’s we removed our shoes in the quiet, slightly smelly darkness he called home. You got used to the smell after a minute. Then you came home smelling like it later, and it was strangely nice, sniffing it and remembering before tossing it in the hamper. Because ew.

“What’s your second wish already?” I nagged.

“Patience, youngling,” he said, and patted my head like a child.

I tried to chomp his hand off.

“Hey!” he startled.

I giggled viciously and made a follow-up attempt while his guard was still down,

“Shoo! Bad human! No!” he guffawed as I gnashed at him and slapped him silly and generally gave him the business.

“Second wish. Now. Or no more wishes.”

“Why are you in such a hurry to please me, you little wolverine?”

“Because I’m sick of OWING you already. I just wanna hang out and talk about EYL.”

“Ah, well,” he said with sudden grandeur, “that’s funny, because my second wish is for us to do precisely that!”

“Good. Great. Let’s go already,” I huffed, but Tim saw me blush. I couldn’t help it when the big dweeb got me like that. He loved me, just like he loved rubbing my face in his armpits whenever I least expected it.

“TIM! NO! STAWPFFGHTGFM!”

He roared victoriously at having once again caught me unawares, and for no discernible reason other than make my face stink scrubbed his pit-hair with my eyebrows. It was horrifically gross, and he well-knew a hundred percent not-okay. But alas. I was a little sister. It was my lot.

I punched him hard in the ribs. He yeowched convincingly. We went to his room, which was practically half computer. I sat on a cushy fold-out chair he kept for company. He also set up a folding tray table next to me, for my snacks and juice. I thanked him kindly as I stretched my legs, put my cold sweaty feet in his lap, and crossed my bony ankles. When he cocked a displeased eye my way, I gave him the shrug of universal whateverness. He could deal with it, or he could deal with it. Those were his choices.

“So, obviously we can’t exactly play EYL,” he sighed, distractedly waking his computer from sleep. It beeped and chugged and whined to life. Now that I knew how bad for your computer downloaded porn files were, I imagined his poor computer was in dire straits. It sure sounded like it.

“What?” he said.

“It’s so noisy.”

“Yeah? It’s the fans. I installed a bunch extra this winter after my dang GPU up and melted on me.”

“MELTED?”

“I was running Unreal on max settings. You … wouldn’t care. Why are you even asking me about things you are not dorky enough to appreciate?”

“I wasn’t?”

“Okay,” he chortled. “But so. As I was saying. We can talk about EYL all you want, but I want to show you something while we talk. Cool?”

“Show me what?” I asked, suddenly not all that interested in bugging him about EYL. Anyway, he’d already told me enough to go on during our phone call earlier. I just needed to start a new game and look closer this time. I’d figure it out. Now what was this about showing me something on his big creepy computer?

***

Chapter Text

At the grocery store, Dad hemmed and hawed over what kind of meat to buy. Nothing looked good. He had thought of making a roast, but now that seemed like a worse idea than just buying a frozen pizza and going the easy route. Mom was out of town for the next couple days anyhow.

When he got home, he called up to me to come down and help with groceries. But I wasn’t home. I was at Melanie’s house, according to a note I left on the white board on the fridge. Dad sighed at the note. He brought the rest of the groceries in by himself. He put them away. He got out a small glass tumbler. He got out a dusty bottle of middle tier whisky. He poured himself a finger. He downed it. The gaseous, sweetly oaky burning in his sinuses cleared his head. Then he poured himself another finger, tucked the bottle away again, and sipped this pour contemplatively as he headed downstairs to the basement.

Three of the basement stairs squeaked terribly. Goddamn. It was how many years now he’d been saying he’d fix them when he had a sec? Well. He certainly had a sec today. He sighed and stepped again on one of the bad stairs. It honked.

“Sumbitch,” he swore at it. But he smiled the smile of a Dad about to fix something that’d been needing fixing. And he went back upstairs to grab his tools.

***

“What. The. Frick.”

I could not process what I was seeing on Tim’s computer screen. I knew that girl. But she usually had clothes on.

“Tim. W-why do you have this? How did you GET this?”

Tim was not smug or proud of what he was showing me.

“Kyle O’Dowd once brought his laptop to a track meet. Left it in the locker room after showing it around to a couple guys, something he was being shifty about that, well,” Tim coughed uncomfortably, “let’s just say clearly had an ‘up-lifting effect’ on their morale? And me, knowing Kyle to be as evil as he is stupid, I got curious. So I copied his hard drive.”

“You what?”

“I snuck back in while everybody was at the meet, busted into his locker, and cracked into his fancy, overpriced, piece of junk Apple. And then when I found what I was looking for, I - well, first I wept, tore my hair out, and talked myself down from just going and murdering Kyle myself - but then next, I decided to copy his hard drive. Onto my old girl here." And now Tim leaned over and patted a thick, wonky-looking laptop of his own, charging off to the side on a corner of his desk. "She may not look it, but she’s a tough old gal.”

“You … like, copied his pictures onto your computer?” I repeated, trying yet barely following his story. It was impossible to think straight with these images on the screen. That girl was in the grade above me. She was maybe thirteen? And she looked so fricking hot. Erm. I meant underaged. She looked like she was enjoying herself. But this was not okay.

“I copied his computer,” Tim corrected smugly, “onto my computer. I took the whole shebang. He barely had anything on there, anyway, except for a little bit of homework and then alllllll this. Only took me like an hour to image the whole thing. I was in and out of there in time for the triple jump.”

“Wh-why are you showing me these? Shouldn't you be showing HER!” I jabbed a finger at the slim, sweaty, pretty-faced creature learning how to fellate a high schooler on Tim’s monitor. Was that Kyle’s cock? Gosh. “Y-you should be showing the POLICE!”

“I should. I will. But first,” Tim backed out of the folder he’d opened. In the folder outside that one were a handful more just like it. All of them had dates as folder names. Then he backed out of that folder, too. which I saw now bore the seventh grader’s first name. It was one of dozens of other girl-named folders.

“Ch-Chelsea,” I stammered. There was her folder, right between someone named Brianna and someone named Claire. This was worse than I thought. This was … Gosh, I really needed not to want Tim to click on my best friend’s folder, but I was struggling. Gross, me. Stop it already!

Tim scrolled down. “There’s a lot,” he pointed out the obvious. I shook my head and stared. Tim eyed me curiously, concerned but trusting me to keep it together, as I gaped at the sheer volume of Kyle’s Stash. It put my Guy-Guy’s to shame. “And he took them all himself. Kyle O’fuckin’Dowd. Our own resident child pornographer and soccer captain.”

“He … shows these to people? You said he showed them off?” I asked.

“He does. He did. But now look. It’s easy enough to find all these highly illegal images, right?” Tim clicked out of the file explorer altogether, back to what I guessed was a duplicate of Kyle’s laptop’s desktop. It was tidy, featuring nothing but a recycling bin, a safe, and a media player shortcut. The background was pure Kyle, too, a skinny blonde in soccer shorts and a sports bra luxuriating on her back and clutching a soccer ball to her groin. Whereas I was pretty sure Tim’s desktop background was some dorky Anime girl, plus his was cluttered with like a million different files and programs and shortcuts and things. “But then there’s … this.”

Tim clicked on that safe I mentioned. It didn’t open. Instead, a little text entry window popped up, asking for a password.

“Can you hack it?” I asked. I considered Tim a hacker. But okay, I admit I wasn’t sure what hacking was.

“I tried. It’s idiot-proof,” Tim sighed. “And every third wrong guess locks me out for 24 hours.”

“How many guesses have you tried?”

“I only just copied this last week. I try every day. Here,” Tim zipped out of Kyle’s desktop and back into his own, and out of the mayhem of random files on the screen he clicked one called Attempts.txt. “I’m up to fifteen.”

“Have you already tried today?” I asked.

“Negatory,” Tim said, squinting at the list of failed guesses as if it were taunting him.

“What do you think’s in there?”

“The bad stuff,” Tim said. He turned all the way around in his desk chair now and gazed bleakly at me. “The stuff he DOESN’T show people.”

“B-but,” I quivered with bone-deep discomfort at the notion of something somehow worse than hundreds if not thousands of illicit images of underage local girls, “what the frick could that even be?”

“This is why I saved my third wish for last. It’s … a bit of an ask.”

I cocked my head at Tim. I frowned at him. “In no way, shape, or form are you getting ME involved in THAT,” I warned him.

“I’m not asking you to go anywhere near that animal,” Tim said. “But you shouldn’t have to. You know his girlfriend, right?”

“Ch-Chelsea, yeah, but - ”

“She might be able to help us out.”

“WHY?” I pleaded. “Can’t we just turn this over to the feds or something? We don’t NEED to know what’s in Kyle O’Dowd’s evil little safe if we know already that he’s got enough kiddy porn to put him in jail for eternity!”

“Eternity?” Tim scoffed. “Doubtful. We'd be lucky to see him get juvie. The dude’s rich. And not just money-rich. His parents are local big-wigs. I just about guarantee they would be willing to do whatever it took to protect their golden boy’s shot at a soccer scholarship and a long, healthy future as a trust fund fuck-puppet.”

“They can’t do that,” I said. "There's laws. Like what happened to you."

“Realistically, on just this stuff alone, without the secret password, I wager Kyle gets expelled, has to finish out senior year under house arrest, and then all anyone ever learns about what happened comes via rumors so wild and unsavory that they can’t possibly be true.”

“So then frick that!” I spat. “Let’s plaster these images all over the high school. Put them where he can’t hide from them.”

“Camila!” Tim looked aghast at my suggestion. “Would YOU want your cooter tacked up all over town for everyone to see?”

“If it meant catching the jerk who did THIS!” I spat, and pointed angrily at the computer. “Why not!”

“Wow. Well that’s your take. But I doubt all forty-two of these other victims would agree with you.”

“So then what? You want me to ask Chelsea for Kyle’s super secret password? Like he’s really going to share that with her?”

“He might,” Tim shrugged.

“Bull,” I said.

“If we know one thing about Kyle,” Tim leaned toward me in his seat, now, as if he was conspiring with me. I had not agreed to any such conspiracy. “It’s that the dude thinks he’s a god. He thinks he’s invincible.”

“R-right…” I frowned. I was pretty sure I knew what ‘invincible’ meant. It was a kind of cheat code I’d seen Gael use before.

“And if we know two things? It’s that he loves pussy.”

“Ew,” I grimaced reflexively. “I hate that word.”

“Oh?” Tim chortled. “Apologies. How about ‘vaginas?’ He loves vaginas.”

“Just tell me your third wish so I can say no to it.”

“Fair enough!” Tim relaxed back into his chair. He brought Kyle’s desktop back up. He clicked the safe again, bringing up that password entry window.

“He’s never gonna just GIVE us his password!”

“I know,” Tim sighed fondly at me. Which sort of threw me for a loop. Fricking Tim.

“So then what’s your stupid WISH already?”

“My thirrrrd wish,” Tim bellowed dramatically, holding three fingers up, and pausing for emphasis, “is for you to trust me.”

I blinked at him.

“Excuse me?” I scowled. I stood. I pointed my finger at Tim’s big ugly nose. “NO.”

“Please,” Tim said quietly. “This isn’t about you and me.”

“You’re fricking right it isn’t!” I scoffed, and turned to leave. I needed out of this stinking room.

“Mimi,” Tim called.

“Don’t call me that.” I stormed out into the dark hallway. I followed it out to the front part of Tim’s home, where high gabled ceilings and ample sunlight in through various windows made it easier to breathe. “I’m leaving,” I announced to the shadowy quiet behind me. “You need to call the cops. This is gross. This is stupid.”

“Camila,” Tim said. He appeared at the mouth of the dark hallway. “We could be heroes.”

I gritted my teeth. I turned on my heels. I glared at him.

He smirked at me.

And I buckled. I couldn’t even speak before I started blubbering like an idiot. My knees gave out and everything. I fell to the floor of his living room in a crumpled little heap of sad, sexy bones and wept like a twelve-year-old baby.

Tim rode it out with me. I think he choked up a little, too. Sorry if feelings are weird for you or whatever, but this was seriously heavy juju, and him and me were just kids.

Did Guy ever get around to explaining to you that Tim and I had a … history? I’d LOVE not to have to get into it. Anyway, without either of us saying so, it was front and center on our minds as we scooped ourselves off the ground, carried ourselves back into his bedroom, and dumped ourselves onto his bed. We didn’t cuddle, exactly. But it felt right to kind of physically stay in contact with each other. It wasn't sexual. But if he got a boner at one point, well, whatever. Our friendship was its own kind of giant mega-boner, and it absolutely dwarfed his.

We lay down flat on our backs, side by side, and stared up at his slowly turning overhead fan. We talked about how we’d screw over Kyle O’Dowd once and for all. We hatched a plan. And then we scrapped that plan in favor of a better, safer one. And then we realized that plan had problems, too. And then we grew quiet. And the vibe in Tim's room became grim.

***

The carpet runner was stapled to the basement stairs themselves. Dad sliced across the base of the bottom riser, where it had somehow been installed as a contiguous extension of the basement floor carpet. He smirked at it. There would be no unfun way to do this. He was ripping something apart that needed ripping apart. He holstered his carpet knife, unholstered a pair of big, no-nonsense pliers, and wedged one mechanical jaw of them under and behind the slit he’d just made, pinching up a big hungry mouthful of pile in the process, and then with a single snorting breath yanked the whole thing off-ward and upward.

The staples ripped free of the wood in rapid, staccato succession up the first four and a half stairs. Dad chuckled mirthfully. He sliced off the freshly up-rent portion of carpet, tossed it to the basement floor behind him, and wedged his plier under the next stapled-down section to be up-rent. He clamped hold of another meaty pliersful, centered himself upon the steps, and took a short, focused, steadying breath.

A phone call jangled right as Dad was about to pull. It about made him lose his grip on the pliers and tumble over backwards. Maybe he shouldn’t be drinking and renovating? He wiped a little sheen of sweat off his bald forehead and climbed up the for-now still carpeted stairs to grab the phone.

“M’yello?”

“Oh, um. Hi ... Dan? This is Melanie? Is Cami there?”

“Hi Mel. Don’t call me by my first name. That's just too weird. Even Cami's mother calls me Dad.”

“Oh, um. Right. Sorry ... Cami’s Dad?”

“Better. Yes?"

… 

“What’d ya need, Melly?” Dad rolled his eyes.

“Oh, um. Wait. Uh, I'm sorry. I thought you were getting Cami. Isn't she home?”

“Hm? No, she's still out a friend's. She was with, um. Let me see, I believe it was -.” Dad’s face fell as soon as his gaze touched the note I'd left him on the fridge. He glared at it like it was lying directly to his fricking face. “Melanie,” Dad growled. “Her note says she's at YOUR house.”

“Oh. I-it does?"

“Yeah,” Dad fumed. He could feel his face turning red. He dug his tongue hard into his cheek. He once told me this was because it helped him 'taste' his own temper. No idea. It looked weird. And I told him as much.

“So you don’t know where she is either?” he said.

“S-sorry, Dan. I mean Cami’s Dad. I don’t. Um. But I didn’t, like, MEAN to get her in trouble? Okay? So can you pleeease not tell her that it was me who accidentally, like -”

“That'll be all, Mel,” Dad said, and hung up on her.

He slammed the cordless phone back onto its holster. He turned back to the sink and stood there glaring at the sofa through the window in the family room, where I’d been laying earlier with my feet dangling over the arm, the rest of me hidden as I munched the lunch he'd brought me. He glared and he glared. But the sofa didn’t magically reproduce my feet.

***

“What time do you need to, uh, get home?” Tim asked. His voice was dry and sticky. It was the first time either of us had said anything in like a half an hour.

We were still on his bed. I’d sort of rolled over and almost begun to doze off. But Tim was still wide awake on his back. Probably too jazzed to have a girl in his bed to relax.

“Oh,” I shrugged. “I don’t know. By dinner, I guess.”

“It’s five-thirty now,” Tim pointed out.

I sighed. I rolled back over, facing Tim. He turned his head and looked at me.

We looked at each other.

“Should go,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said.

I put my hand out, palm up.

Tim put his hand in mine.

We held hands and looked at each other.

“I’ll be alright,” I told him.

“You will,” he agreed.

I sniffled. I smiled at him. I sat up, leaned over, and kissed him on the cheek. But he turned his head and caught me by surprise. We kissed each other on the lips. His was stubbly. Mine was salty and damp.

“Ew!” I gasped and recoiled.

“S-sorry,” he muttered.

“I was going for your cheek!”

“I-I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

“You know I’m with Guy!” I slapped him hard on the shoulder. I was fricking pissed. This fricking idiot knew I was feeling like trash!

“R-right. Yeah. I’m so stupid. I’m sorry. You c-can go. I didn’t mean to. I didn’t mean to, like. God, I’m so stupid!” He sat up now, turned, and dropped his feet off the edge of the bed. He sat there with his elbows on his knees, clutching at and punching his head, and castigating himself.

“Tim,” I said.

“Go. Get outta here,” he shooed me. “I’m a wreck, kid. Please. Get outta my damn blast radius.”

“T-Tim,” I choked. I was scarcely in better shape than he was. “Come on. It was j-just a kiss.”

“You know it wasn’t,” he snorted, and I could see his shoulders do a strange little hop, like was suppressing a sob. “Go, Camila, I’m serious.”

“Okay, but,” I bit my lip. I rode out a stupid little surge of self-pity. “I’m coming back tomorrow. We’re still friends.”

“You - ” Tim peered over his shoulder at me. “You’re a good lass. To say that.”

“I mean it! You need to chill out. It wasn’t even a serious kiss,” I giggled, trying to lighten the mood. “Honestly? That was like how I kiss my Dad.”

Tim gave me a funny look.

I laughed.

“Stop it,” I said.

He let me go, but then came out while I was putting my shoes on and made me hug him before I left. I slipped out the back door, hopped back on my bike, and started home. It took all of twelve seconds to get there. I parked my bike against the wall in the garage. Dad surprised me by cracking the door into the house just as I was about to open it.

“There she is,” he scowled at my unsuspecting smile. His tongue was bulging in his cheek. So weird. So terrifying. “Get in here. You’re grounded.”

***

Chapter Text

Dad sat me down at the kitchen table.

He got a tumbler. He poured himself a whisky. Then he sat across from me.

He put his hands flat on the table.

“Talk,” he said.

He didn’t touch his whisky. It just sat there. Sort of ominously.

“About what?” I tried.

“About what you learned in school this week,” he said in a syrupy sweet voice, mocking my attempt at innocence. Then his face went flat again. “Or how about where in God’s name you were hiding today.”

“I w-went to Tim’s,” I blurted.

Dad’s eyebrows went up, hovered there a second, and then fell back down hard. The anger in his cheeks deepened from red to purple. He was furious before. He was murderous now.

What had I done?? Now Tim was a dead man!

“Tell me,” he said through clenched teeth. “What you two did.”

“W-we walked to the-to the store. And An-Angie! Angie was there, she saw us! She talked to us! You can even ask her!”

“You were gone all afternoon,” Dad smirked coldly. “If I ask Andge, is she gonna tell me you were in her store for four straight hours?”

“N-no?” I gulped.

“So, TALK,” Dad barked, and thumped the kitchen table in frustration. I yelped. He’d startled me in my very bones. I think a little pee came out. “Listen, Missy. If you don’t quit jerking my leg and tell me what you were doing all day with that friggin’ CREEP,” he hooked a thumb the wrong way over his shoulder if he meant to point at Tim’s house, “you are going to start seeing your Spring Break disappearing REAL fast.”

“Daddy,” I pleaded. “Stop. I’ll tell you.”

“And if you think being grounded means playing games and talking on the phone, think again!” Dad went on. “I’ve got a list as long as my arm of chores I can think for you to do - ”

“DADDY!” I sobbed. “I said I’ll TELL.”

And I did tell him. I told him everything. I told him I’d gone over to hang out with Tim because his family left him home alone without even his dogs for company. I told him we talked about light things like EYL, and heavy things like how I’m like his only real friend in the world. I told him we ate Nibs in silence and watched his ceiling fan slowly spin around and around. Then he asked when I needed to be home, and I realized it was almost suppertime, so I came home.

And Dad bought it! OR at least he seemed to chill way, way out. Except for one little thing that seemed to bother him even after I’d finished explaining what a sweet and caring friend I was.

“You lied,” Dad frowned, pointing to my note on the refrigerator. “Exhibit A.”

“Y-yeah? Well!” I gulped. Here, at last, was the fight we actually needed to have. “Y-you wouldn’t have LET me if I’d told you where I was really going!”

“Pshh!” Dad snorted, genuinely disgusted. “That is NOT your call to make, babe. If I don’t want you hangin’ around some freakshow who’d probably make a move on you as soon as look at you if he knew he could get away with it - ” I admit I lost the thread of what Dad was saying for a second, as suddenly I was overcome with the memory of that vividly awkward, nonconsensual kiss from earlier. “You got that?” Dad asked, glaring at me conclusively.

“Y-yeah,” I nodded uncertainly. “Yes, Dad,” I thought to rephrase. “Sorry I lied.”

“I bet you are. You’re grounded until your Mom and brother get home.”

“Okay,” I murmured, and slumped in my seat to convey humility and defeat.

“Now,” Dad smirked. He suddenly slammed his whisky. The burp he burped after was painful-sounding, like it was hot on his esophagus. “I need to get - urrp - back to fixing the stairs. You make dinner? I got us a frozen pizza.”

“Oo,” I perked up a little. “You did?” I thought he’d said he was doing roast tonight.

You see, Dad and I shared a secret weakness for junk food that we otherwise had to hide from Mom. It was something we could only ever indulge in specific contexts, like at the movies or on road trips or even for holidays. My Dad liked getting weird flavors of Pringles as a present. I liked getting Pop Tarts. So frozen pizza for dinner was practically code for ‘Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch Is Dead!’ I mean, we loved Mom. But we also loved frozen pizza.

“What kind?!” I asked as Dad chortled and left the room. I heard the basement stairs squeak and squawk under his weight.

Huh. All of a sudden I was sad. These might be some of the last times I ever heard those stupid stairs’ terrible whining. Annoyingly loud as they were, I had grown up with those stairs. They were the only basement stairs I knew. I rose and went to the landing. I looked sadly down at Dad.

He looked up at me, looking sadly at him.

“What?” he said.

I didn’t know how to explain it. So I just shrugged at him.

“You need a hug or somethin’?”

I nodded.

“Fine,” Dad sighed, and came trudging up the dying, moaning stairs to hug me. “Here’s your hug.” He hugged me wonderfully.

To his surprise but I’m sure not yours, I started to cry in his arms.

“Aw, Cam,” he said. “You’re alright.”

“I’m - I’m sorry,” I hiccuped.

“Now that’s enough of that,” he said, still holding me tight. “I already got your apology. One’s enough.”

I didn’t quite have words for him at this point. I was a wreck. Dad was in my blast radius.

“Honey?” Dad said, with a gentle warble of worry, and maybe whisky. “Everything alright?”

I didn’t have time to answer. The phone was ringing. It made me jump. (Note to self: I really needed to change out of these underwear, stat.)

Dad looked at me like the phone ringing was my fault. Like I should go get it. But heck no. I didn't answer that phone. It was the kitchen phone. My phone was up in my room. I never answered the kitchen phone.

“Fine,” he caved and went to go grab it.

“Yeah, hello?” he said.

Mrmfmrfrmr.

“Oh. Uh-huh. Sorry, Melanie. Yes, she’s home now. Thank you. But she is grounded until Monday. I said - yes. Uh-huh. You may call her then. Okay?”

Mrfrm.

“Uh-huh. Monday. Thanks. Good night now.”

He hung up. He turned to go put his whisky tumbler in the sink. He looked a little surprised to see I had relocated.

I was standing in the family room, staring out the bay window at that beautiful bubblegum pink tree in our neighbors’ yard. The sun was starting to set. I wondered if I’d be able to remember to look out the window again in like an hour to see how this tree looked backlit by an also-pink sky.

“Cam?” Dad said.

“Yeah?” I sighed.

“Dinner?”

“Oh. Right,” I did an about face and gave Dad a quick, girly salute. All hail frozen pizza. “On it!”

***

That night I was horny and lonely and the only guy around was not my Guy. Still, I think maybe that’s why I felt a little extra snuggly with Dad as we watched a movie together on the family room sofa. We both clearly agreed it was nice just being able to hang out. For him, it meant he knew exactly where I was, and for me it meant he wasn’t spying on me from his stupid window over the sink. He was staring at the TV screen.

He also sometimes peeked at my butt. I noticed him looking every time he saw me fidget or scratch an itch or reach for a drink of water. I was wearing kind of a sexy pair of panties. I’d gone to change out of the ones I’d peed in, and they were just sitting there in the drawer, daring me to put them on.

Pleeeease don’t get me wrong. I wasn’t trying to seduce Dad. Have you MET Dad?

But then there we were.

“You keep looking at my butt,” I informed him.

He blushed and hesitated before responding, “What’s it to you?”

“Um, nothing I guess?” I blushed too. “Just seemed weird that you were, like, trying to be sneaky about it?”

“These underwear you’ve got on. Where’d you get them?” He sort of grimaced as he gestured at them with his beer can. “We didn’t get you those.”

“Melanie bought them for me. From the mall? We go shopping together sometimes.”

“You buy each other underwear?” he snorted. He took another sip of beer. “Lift up your shirt. Let me see.”

“Okay? Weird?” I cringed, but did as he asked. I didn’t, like, show him my tits or anything, but I raised the hem of my lucky alien shirt enough that he could see the whole humiliating garment. Why the heck had I chosen these to hang out with him in?

“Yowza,” Dad sighed. I cocked my head at him. I couldn’t quite tell how he’d meant that. Yowza?

“Can I …?” I gestured with my shirt’s hem to ask if I could lower it back down. We were seated at opposite ends of the sofa at the moment, but my toes were under his thighs, so the view I was affording him of my crotch wasn’t exactly PG.

“S-sure,” he spluttered mid-sip. “Excuse me.”

“You don’t like them,” I told him.

“They’re fine,” he winced. He’d definitely gotten sone beer doen the wrong pipe. “I just … didn’t realize you were … already out there … shopping for lingerie?”

“Daddy, I feel like there’s a lot you don’t realize I do on a regular basis.”

“Don’t. Say that,” he thumped his chest, coughed wetly, and swallowed. “I’m a good Dad.”

“You’re a GREAT Dad,” I assured him. “But that’s also why, like, I can’t tell you everything.”

“Aw,” he frowned sadly. He turned down the movie volume. He looked right at me. “Now hang on a second.”

“What…?” I cringed, sensing Dad might be just tipsy enough to get emotional.

Oh, I know, I know, I make you read about MY emotions all the time. Boo-hoo! It’s MY story! MY fricking name in the title! If you get to read about me accidentally peeing myself all the dang time, you get to put up with me having feelings too.

Dad on the other hand was my rock, my hard place, my archetypal father figure and all that that entailed, and in a seriously real way I needed him to be a bastion of unyielding masculinity. Which he most always was. The number of times he’d ever shown a single shred of vulnerability around me, I could count on one clammy, uncomfortable hand.

Unless he was tipsy. Then out poured whatever. It could get yucky.

“Listen here. I may be your Dad. And I may be old. Aaand I may even be wrong how girls are supposed to live their lives, as you and your Mom are always so keen to point out.

“But if there’s one thing I do know for damn certain? It’s that nothing, and I mean nothing, is not okay for you to talk to me about.”

He squinted at me. I squinted back. He didn’t know what he was talking about.

“No,” he disagreed. “I mean it. Whatever you’re thinking I can’t handle? Girl. Listen to me.” He pointed at me. “You’re my KID. I love you and your brother m-more than anything I ever loved in my whole LIFE. Okay?”

He was choking up. Getting himself worked up over how much he loved me and Guy, as if we weren’t a couple of regular-ass adolescents, noncontributing videogame-addicted wastoids, if anything mostly just kind of a pain in his butt most the time.

Aaand now he was looking at my crotch again.

Frick, I should have just worn my fricking period panties.

“Daddy,” I sighed. “Do you want me to go change or something?”

He blushed bright pink.

“Oh, shoot!” I gasped.

“W-what?” he sputtered.

“I forgot to look out the dang window!”

“Huh?”

“I was gonna look at … the tree,” I sighed, disappointed, and but maybe also relieved to have waylaid Dad’s drunken profession of love. “At sunset. To see how it looked when the sky … m-matched?”

Dad was sort of staring now. At my crotch.

I slid my feet out from under his legs and hugged them to my person, containing myself to a single sofa cushion. Now there was nothing for him to see down there but my hideous dancer feet, blocking his view. Ugh.

“Hey,” he frowned. “I d-didn’t - I wasn’t - … I was just lost in thought, for a sec. Okay? That was just -. You didn’t have to - I mean, …”

“Daddy. I’m tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed.”

“Oh. Now?” he asked. He glanced at his watch. “It’s not even eight.”

“Yeah,” I yawned. I carefully pivoted and stood without letting him see my underwear. I stretched a little, but not all the way, or it’d have lifted my shirt.

“Well,” he hesitated. He looked at the movie neither of us was watching. “Okay then. You’re not upset with me, are ya?”

“No, Daddy,” I smiled as sweetly as I had in me.

“Promise?”

“Night, Daddy,” I waved buh-bye.

“What if I unground you? Do you forgive me?”

I paused at the doorway into the kitchen. I looked at him. “Forgive you for what?”

Dad chewed his lip. He looked hard at me. Like he was looking at himself in the mirror.

“For looking at you like a piece of meat, sweetheart,” he choked. “I am sorry. I think I just miss your Mom. Ya know?”

“It’s whatever,” I lied. “But thanks.” I nodded at him. I acknowledged that he had in fact fessed up to ogling his own daughter. Like I said, he was a solid Dad. And I knew he wasn’t lying to me. He really missed Mom.

Problem was, I was pretty sure he missed her all the time, even when she was home. Even when they were right there at the dinner table together, every night. Even when she was fricking him so loud you could hear it from any room in the house. It was like a squeaky stair he couldn’t fix. Or could but didn’t want to. Or wanted to but needed a little whisky, first, to get his fire going.

I didn’t miss Mom. But I sure missed Gael. And like I already admitted, missing him was why I think I’d done something a little inappropriate, too. I caved to that icky need I have to feel sexy in a naughty way. Judge Dad all you want, but I think we were both kind of set up for failure that night.

Also, in his defense, I looked like a fricking goddess in these panties.

I went to take a shower. Not a metaphorical one, you nerds, just a regular, soap and water shower. In which I also masturbated. Because, obviously, we all understand that’s just who I was at this point in my life.

And who did I think about while I held the detachable shower head spray to my crotch, practically drowning poor Miss Susan in steamy, high-pressure pleasure? Who did I imagine testing the knob and finding I’d left the bathroom door unlocked? Who snuck in, in this fantasy, softly closed the door behind themself, and then quietly undressed right there outside the steamed-up shower door? Whose hulking, blurry figure slowly got itself completely naked on the other side of the foggy glass? Whose blurry hand rose to grab the door handle, hesitated and thought better than to simply invite themself in, and then knocked instead?

‘Tap tappa tap tap?’ asked the knock.

‘Tap-tap,’ I knocked back.

And I did actually knock on the wall of the shower. It was silly. But it was enough to send me over the edge.

It was an intense orgasm. Like, holy frick. What had gotten into me? I was sure Dad must have heard. And contrary to how I know it must sound, that had absolutely not been my intent. Much of what I got up to during orgasms was, in point of fact, sort of just up to fate. Sometimes I squirted. Sometimes I peed. Tonight I sort of whimper-wailed like a fricking Anime girl.

When I got out of the shower, I dried off, and wrapped myself in my big fluffy towel. I looked at my skinny, pale-eyed, self-deprecating face. I hated my shimmery green eyes. They struck me as hard and fake-looking. I opened up my towel. I sighed at the androgynous stick figure sighing within. Her pathetic little tits were … sort of getting bigger? Maybe? If I squeezed them together, they sort of looked, like, pudgier? Almost booblike.

‘Shh, wait,’ my reflection put up a hand to pause what I was doing, and gave me an alarming look. We’d both just glimpsed something … off. To the side and behind each other’s bony hip. I turned and looked behind me. My reflection turned and looked behind her. Something was indeed up with our bathroom doors.

Somehow, at some point during our long, noisy, fantasy-filled showers, the bathroom doors had gone and locked themselves. We hadn't locked them in real life, just like we hadn't in the fantasy. We never locked them unless company was over. It was suspicious. It was suspicious as frick.

I cast a suspicious look at the stick girl in the mirror. She shot one back. We eyed each other with a growing sense of … frick, I’m not sure what. I could stare right into those hard mint green eyes and not understand a single thing I was seeing.

We tried the door. It was really locked. There was nothing for it. I was trapped. I was stuck.

I unlocked the door and slipped noiselessly out into the upstairs hallway. I stood perfectly still and listened. Dad was hammering away in the basement. I supposed I didn’t need to be sneaky. But I was sneaky anyway. I tip-toed into my room. I softly shut the door. I cast off my towel. I crawled into bed naked. I shut off the light. I closed my eyes. I closed my brain. I tried to close my heart, too, but I wound up getting lost trying to find the latch in the dark, and by the time the sun came up the next morning I couldn’t even have told you what I was looking for anymore.

The first thing I noticed on waking was the smell. It smelled like vomit in my room. I checked my covers in a cold sweat, worrying that I had somehow puked in my sleep. Then I got up and opened my door, and the real stink hit me,

I shut the door again, gagged (which yes, I could still do in certain very disgusting circumstances), and regathered my thoughts. Then I slipped on a cami and some pajama bottoms, took a deep breath, and went out to go peek into Mom and Dad’s room. He had the trash bin by his side of the bed, and the whole room stank like he’d painted the walks in puke overnight.

So, I figured he’d be sleeping in today. I slumped downstairs. It stank less down here. I ate cold pizza and watched reruns on TV, too distracted or tired or something to feel like changing the channel. I went upstairs into the stink again. I glared sleepily at my reflection as we brushed our teeth. And then, reader, I decided to do something I could never, ever have explained to that judgmental, green-eyed twit, and that I resolved never to have to.

***

Dad was deep asleep. I could poke him, call his name, flick the lights on and off. And nothing. He was comatose. I cracked the window. Then I went into his and Mom’s bathroom and cracked those windows too. I also flushed a surprise mess he’d left in their big fancy bidet toilet and neglected to flush himself.

Next, I took out his beer- and whisky- and pizza- and puke-smelling garbage. And yeah, yikes. Never again. The contents literally sloshed as I carried the bag out to the bin. And all I could keep thinking of were those fricking ziploc commercials where they show non-ziploc bags rupturing and spilling all over. I washed my hands like sixty-seven times when I got back in from doing that.

Next, I used one of Dad’s shaving towels and a bottle of spot cleaner from the laundry room to scrub off the stray stuck-to-the-carpet bits that hadn’t made it into the trash bin. Afterwards, I threw that towel in the laundry while I was putting back the spot cleaner.

A book Mom had for household remedies told me to boil cinnamon sticks in water to help clear out bad odors (or simply to make our home smell extra warm and inviting for company, as guests were sure to say ‘Mmm!’ the moment they stepped in). We didn’t have cinnamon sticks. I didn’t know if they even still made cinnamon in stick form. So I just used a couple tablespoons of regular cinnamon, got that boiling, and yeah. It smelled pretty nice if you didn’t stick your face right in it.

When I got back up to Dad, he hadn’t moved a single body hair. I put a fresh bag in his bin. Then I crawled under the covers on Mom’s side. Under here, the vomit smell was replaced with a still funky but much cozier odor of Dad-butt.

Why was I sniffing around under my parents’ covers, you ask?

Quit asking questions and just watch. I don’t need to explain myself to you. I was twelve.

And I was horny. And I was curious to see something. I wanted to know if Dad was like Guy in the morning. I kind of needed to know, is how it felt. I needed to feel how it felt to know.

I put my hand on his side. He was warm and hairy and if I held there I could feel him slowly inflate, deflate. Inflate, deflate.

If Dad started to wake up, I could slip away immediately. No hesitation. The bedroom door was wide open. He’d be hung over anyway, and in no state to compute what I might have been up to. Heck I was sober and the one literally DOING what I was up to, and I couldn’t have computed either. This was pure stupidity. I gave zero fricks about the men in my family’s boundaries. They were my men. Mine.

So I lifted the covers a bit, made a little tent with myself as the post, and peered through the dim at my father’s slumbering form. We were a handsome family. He said it more than anybody. And he was right. Even forty-something and half-bald, Dad had a body. He wasn’t toned or cut or anything. He was just solid. Good to look at. A man, pure and simple.

The man wore whitey-tighties. Normally, I averted my gaze. This morning, while he snored and slowly inflated and deflated, I inspected them like they were a project for school. This was the waistband. Elastic, with three blue pinstripes wrapping (presumably) all the way around. A little fruit-shaped logo in the center. Below that, Dad’s rock-hard bulge. On either side of that, two cotton seams running from waistline to crotch that apparently helped to create a flap of some sort. The left seam had an additional mini-seam zigging away from it about halfway down, so that the whole left seam kind of looked like an upside-down, backwards lowercase ‘y.’ No clue what that little seam was about. But it was a clue.

It gave me a hint of how to get in there. If these undies had a flap, and I’d definitely heard that whitey tighties had flaps for your dick to poke through for whatever ungodly reason, then I could slip my dainty little digits in there and fish his dick out without having to actually pull down his underwear. Shoot, for all I knew, this WAS the reason for the flap. I almost giggled at myself. But I kept silent as I infiltrated Dad’s bulge.

And whoa. Just like that here he was. Hard. Piping hot. Thicker than Guy.

I didn’t grab or grope or do anything. I just touched, and felt, and waited to make sure he was still deep asleep.

For a full minute I sat there sweating and smelling Dad’s butt smell as I held my fingers inside the flap of his undies. I could see them through the white cotton. Their weirdly small shapes perpendicular to Dad’s one weird huge shape. He didn’t stir in the slightest.

I curled my fingers. Without using my thumb yet, I grabbed Dad’s shaft, sort of cupped it. And again, I simply waited. Soaked this in. I was holding my dad’s cock. His boner. This was SO wrong.

I started to smell my own smells under the covers, too. Not just my sweat. My other smells.

I used my free hand to gently lift and hold open the flap of Dad’s undies. Just feeling him, holding him, was not enough. I needed to see it. I needed to know how seeing it like this felt. Not just when he was being careless with his privacy after a shower and didn’t care if I glimpsed his jiggly Dad-wiener. But here, without his permission, while he was huge and hard and completely unresponsive.

I let him go.

And then I used my fingers to pull his underwear open. It was easy. There was a hole in the seam where the little extra seam was, and the fabric just gave way, pulled open. The whole huge cock came flopping right out. I let go of the seams. I grabbed hold of the raging erection.

And whoa, whoa-whoa-whoa. My head spun. It was maybe TOO hot under these covers. I clenched Dad’s hairy, sweaty cock in both my bare hands. And I mean. I probably should have known I wasn’t going to be able to stop here.

Here? With the big pink head of him RIGHT there? God, his cock even had a smell. It was Dad’s smell, but it was also a cock’s smell. Everything to me in this weird, gross, disgusting moment was doing exactly the opposite to my poor susie than it ought to have been. I was broken. This was proof. I needed help. I needed somebody to take my family away from me before I did something to hurt them.

I needed to suck Dad’s cock. I needed to know how that felt to do. It wouldn't be for him to feel, just me. I knew I shouldn't, but I couldn't think of a single reason why. Not with the cock just looking right at me like that. I mean. It was a good-looking cock, reader. If you're not into cock, you wouldn't get it. But I was into cock.

We were a handsome family.

He was asleep. It wouldn’t count. It would just be for me.

I could do this. It wouldn't damage me. It wouldn't traumatize me. It was just my Dad's erect male sex organ.

I dared myself to hesitate. I tried. For as long as I possibly could, I tried not to be present in my own horny, hidden, cock-holding body. But I was fighting fire with fire. And all that was happening was I was burning up.

Dad farted. It was huge. It almost sounded like his butthole was made of big, stretchy rubber. And immediately I gagged. I more than gagged. I puked a little. Most of it, I managed to sort of gulp back down. But some of it got out. It landed on Dad.

"Ohmygosh," I spluttered before I even realized I had anything to say at all. In fact, I didn't. I was mortified. This was death. I had died. And while dying, I had spat up partly-digested cold pizza onto my father's naked, hairy erection.

But there was one thing I could do to reclaim my hold on life. On reality as I knew it. On any hope I had of getting away with this.

I won't jerk you around, reader. This next bit was gross. You might want to skip it. I mean, I'm only putting it here because it happened. Not because I'm trying to turn you on. Not every single scene involving genitals has to be erotica.

But also, like, being honest? I would sort of think back to this moment a lot. And it did somehow kind of grow on me. So you do you. Okay? Here goes.

I ate it. I picked it off of him and ate it. I licked, too. Cleaning licks, not sexy licks. I told myself it was like when you're eating on the couch, and you accidentally sneeze or cough or something like that, and you spit some food up onto your shirt or your arm or the cushion or whatever, so then before anybody sees and before you can even think about it you just scrape it back up and eat it. I did that with the two or three little pieces and globules of my puke that had gotten tangled in his pubes. I sucked my dad's smelly pubes. I had to fish one of his thick wiry fricking pubic hairs out of my teeth. It literally was like floss. But it tasted acrid, bitter, salty, like old bad sweat in the worst way. I gagged again and the thing you need to remember most from this awful scene is that I somehow did not puke a second time. And I went this whole paragraph without even so much as complaining about the terrible, rotten, deathly odor my dad's butt had just flooded my miniature, million-degree, makeshift tent with. So remember me well, okay? Remember me as strong and brave. Because I died there under those covers, doing this crazy, ridiculous thing I never ever should have even dreamed of much less actually fricking done.

But then I came back to life. Mess fully removed - if there was a lingering puke smell, well, he probably wasn't about to notice in this frigging gas chamber he called a bed - I now vacated the premises. I slid backwards out of the blanket and down to the floor like a boneless worm-person, and then crawled to the door before getting up and going to the bathroom to throw up, curse at myself in the mirror, and take another shower.

Except now there was the matter of the bathroom door to contend with. Was I supposed to lock it now? In my own house? How was that fair? Why couldn't I trust my own Dad not to be a fricking creepy-ass molester?

"Look who's talking," said my reflection.

"Frick off," I told her.

"Whoa there," she scoffed, putting her hands up like Gael. "Easy, Sis."

"You're not Guy. Don't act like him."

"How about YOU don't act like ME. You just licked our dad's PENIS."

"I did NOT."

"You did! When you were getting the PUKE out of his PUBES."

"Geez, like you weren't right there doing it too."

"Because you were MAKING me!"

"I was not! You liked it!"

"Liked WHAT? The PUKE? The big nasty HAIR that got stuck in my teeth?"

"The fart," I reminded her.

"Oh gosh, the FAAART," she groaned, remembering.

"I'm sorry," I told her.

"No, I'm sorry," she said.

"Can we just both be sorry?"

"I ... don't know. Can we?"

"We're talking to ourself in the mirror."

"We should stop."

"Stopping."

I flicked the lights off and when I went back out in the hall, firmly wrapped in a very thick towel, all I could smell was cinnamon. Dad's bedroom door was shut. I could hear him lumbering around in there, flushing the toilet, and then starting up his own shower. I had a sickly impulse to want to wait for him to be in there for a minute, for everything to get nice and steamy first, and then very carefully sneak -

Dang it. No. What was happening to me? Why was I thinking so much about this? I had other things to think about.

Like that mystery woman in EYL. I shut the door to my room, changed into some cute Spring weather clothes, and then folded myself into as normal and relaxed a shape as I could on my beanbag chair as I played my game on very, very low volume and waited at maximum low-level anxiety for Dad to get out of the damn shower already.

I breathed. I glanced painfully frequently at my clock. I tried to find it calming, centering, if I held the controller just so in my lap. How it rumbled if I pet the family cat. But even as the happy kitty purred and purred and purred for me, my head acted like its own separate jealous cat that wanted me to pet it instead. Pet me. Pet my thoughts. Look at them. Think about them. That's what my head was like on this particular morning. Think about that. Purrrrr. PURRRRR.

Being honest, reader? If you hadn't been there, I'm not sure I could have held out like I did. And I mean, gosh, listen to me. 'Held out?' What was that even about? What kind of girl 'holds out' on sneaking in on their dad in the shower? That wasn't me. Even if it was, technically, I refused to let it be. Because you were there, reader. You're nicer than my reflection. She's a twat. You're cool. And you think I'm hot. Which is neat.

God, it would suck if you thought I was ugly. I don't mean to sound vane? It would just suck. Agree with me.

But I mean, you could still tell pretty much this exact same story, couldn't you? I'm an ugly person in a lot of ways. Even if we look at me naked, I could show you things Gael just wasn't mentioning. Like pimples. I have pimples too, not just him. And like. I have these tiny moles here and there all over me. Some of them are cute? But some of them are unfortunate. And what else? Oh, my feet. We've addressed my feet. And even then I've definitely withheld the brunt of it. Of what I live with. Of what it's like to be this scrawny, mole-covered, flat-chested, out-of-control freakshow who still wets her bed sometimes.

What kind of twelve-year-old girl can't control her bladder?

What kind of girl can't control even a single one of her own stupid bodily impulses?

What kind of girl eats her own puke off the -

OKAY, THEY GET IT. YOU CAN STOP.

How'd we even get back in the bathroom? We were playing EYL! Oh, you just needed to pee? Right. Funny, then why aren't we in bed right now if I'm supposed to be Miss Pee-Pee Pants, Still-Wets-The-Bed, Can't-Control-Her-Bladder over here? Don't lie to me. We know why you got up. We're only in here because I saved our necks at the last second and dragged us into the bathroom. You were going to peek. You wanted more. You liked your Dad's cock. It was big but not ugly-big. It was a good, strong cock to hold. You even tasted it, and you liked how it tasted. Your own Dad's cock. You're a monster. You're a broken, unusable girl. I hate you. You don't deserve anything you have. You don't deserve Guy, or Dad, or Tim, or even Kyle fricking O'Dowd. You don't deserve to be the one on the outside of this fricking mirror. You should be the one stuck in here, alone forever, watching yourself get older and uglier and sadder a visit at a time and never actually getting to live any of the life that's doing this to me except what's lived right here, hating myself.

Please. Please stop.

We'll stop when you stop being like this. When you can come in here and look me in the eye and tell me one nice thing you see. I don't care what. It doesn't even have to be nice. That you feel ANYTHING but disgust when you look at me would be a start.

Right. Well, I'm going back to the game. You have fun in here.

At least leave the light on?

No.

Chapter Text

“M’yello?” I mumbled as I brought my cordless phone back to the beanbag chair.

“Hi cunt.”

“Ah, hi Pammy.”

[giggling] “Screw you.”

“And you. What is this? You know I’m grounded, right?”

“I know, I just wanted to call and make fun of you. Way to use me for your lie but then totally forget to let me know.”

I hadn’t forgotten. I kept encounters with Melanie to a crisp, happy minimum.

“Ya, I’m super proud of it. Thanks for calling. Bye?”

“Alsooo,” Melanie sighed, trying to come down from her own self-inflicted giggles, “I need to tell you to come to my birthday party? It’s on Tuesday. Bring a sleeping bag. And some alcohol if you have any.”

“You know I don’t have any.”

“Your dad drinks, doesn’t he?”

“Melly, please just …” I pinched the bridge of my nose. I could not get through a single interaction without hating her a little bit. “What time is your stupid sleepover?”

“Like six? I don’t care. Just come whenever you want and plan to stay the night.”

“Who all is gonna be there?” I asked. I sat up in my beanbag chair. I rubbed an itch in my eye. “Is Chelsea coming, or will she be hiding in your brother’s house the whole time?”

“It’s not his house. It’s a guest house. He just sleeps and smokes and jerks off out there with his friends.”

“Right,” I rolled my eyes, “but so who IS coming?”

“Chelsea said yes. So. Oh and she thinks she can sneak us a bottle of peach Schnapps.”

“Okay. And who else? Just her?”

“Um, so far. But like, we’ll see?”

“And your brother and his goons promise to leave us alone?”

“If they fuck with us I promise to call my Daddy. He scares them.”

“Call … ? He won’t be home?”

“Nnnnope!” Melanie snickered. “Hence the drinking, dummy!”

“Ugh. Okay, whatever. I guess I’ll be there. If I don’t have a choice. But I’m not drinking.”

“You’ll drink if I say you drink. Because it’s my birthday. And because you love me. Right?”

“Right. Yes. Love.”

“Mwah! Bye bitch. Enjoy your groun - ”

I hung up on her. I belched, farted, and stretched out. I stretched out big-time. I writhed on my beanbag chair like I was in agony. It felt good. I liked hanging up on Melanie.

I slipped back downstairs. I was being sneaky still. I wanted to be able to encounter Dad on my terms, not his, grounding or no.

“Hey Squirt,” he chuckled, catching me tip-toeing past the door to the basement. I flinched. “Guess you didn’t hear me, huh?”

He tapped his foot on the fresh new wooden stair that he’d just installed at the foot of the naked, ugly stairway. There were still dark scary gaps in the stairs between me and him. The man himself also looked like crud, pale and sweaty, despite clearly being content doing this gross, boring task he’d given himself. I sighed and waved down to him.

“Hey, can I bother you for a glass of water? I’m dyin’ down here.”

“Sure,” I shrugged, and turned on my bare squeaky heels to go.

“And darlin’?”

“Huh?” I stuck my head back into the doorway.

“After that, can you vacuum the whole house for me?”

Ah, there it was.

“Yes, Dad,” I groaned as politely as I could.

I guess he’d forgotten he’d ungrounded me. I handed him his water across the top-most void in the basement stairs. He then climbed gingerly, his head clearly throbbing, back down the gap toothed steps carrying the clinking ice water.

I sighed morosely as I wheeled the vacuum out of the hallway closet. I hated the noise its wheels made as it clacked over the hallway tiles. I hated how clunky and heavy it was as I lugged it upstairs. I hated how tangly and stupid the cord was as I plugged it in, starting in Gael’s room.

Gael’s room was a place of power for me. Sanctuarial. Before I turned on the vacuum I snooped around in a kind of covert, roving ritual special to us little siblings. Here was his closet full of porn. Here was the disposable camera we’d vowed neither to develop nor destroy; we still had one remaining photo in the film chamber. Here was my daydream about what we might one day use that photo for. Then I went to his nightstand to see what, if any, panties Mom had loaned him.

Jackpot. This pair was sexy, silky, and for whatever reason crusty with Mom’s crotch stains. I guess that was where Guy was now with this panty fetish of his. Gosh, our family was so fricking weird. But a critical part of our cover story as partners in incest were these regular panty loans from Mom that supposedly kept Gael from succumbing to his feelings for me. I picked them out of the drawer and gave them a scientific little sniff.

“Ohmygosh,” I yelped. Dang-blasted stink almost knocked me out. It was like Mom’s undies had been laced with susie-flavored chloroform. My head spun. I looked in dizzy disbelief at the dry yellow-white stains smeared and scritched into her cottony gusset liner. Sure the fabric was stiff with them, but they did not look like they should smell THAT strongly. Had Mom CUM in these or something? Gosh. I took another more careful whiff.

Yep. Wow. Nope. Back in the drawer.

I shoved the drawer shut and commenced to vacuum Gael’s room. I was terrible at it. Mom could do it and leave these neat, orderly stripes in the carpet? Mine looked like the vacuum had gone berserk. But hey, the floor still got clean.

Next was my room. I shoved all my crud up against one wall. I vacuumed where the crud was. I returned the crud to its original location, and then shoved the crud from the other side of the room up against the other wall. Then I vacuumed where that crud was. Returned all crud to its original location. It did actually feel a little cleaner when I was done. I opened the blinds to let some sunlight in. My freshly turned crud now basked in a big dust-motey parallelogram of happy sunshine.

Mom and Dad's room was immaculately tidy, and it felt like it didn't even need to be vacuumed. But I vacuumed it a little anyway. Then I snooped around, looking through Dad's things, trying to find the fatherly equivalent of a secret vibrator. I'd never yet struck gold. What was this man's deal? Didn't everyone have a secret sexy side? Was my Dad actually just the farting, burping simpleton he seemed to be? I gave up looking for Dad’s apparently nonexistent secrets. I found Mom's new hiding spot for her vibrator. I regarded it nostalgically. This brave little doohickey and I had been on some wild rides together.

I picked up the vibrator and sniffed it. There was no hint of Mom to speak of other than maybe a delicate whiff of musk that I could also have been hallucinating. The lingering psychoactive effects of accidentally huffing her crusty panties earlier, maybe. I put it back and patted it like it was naptime for vibey.

Then I wheeled the vacuum back out of their room and started in on the upstairs hallway. Quick and easy. I even made stripes this time.

The bathroom didn't need vacuuming, but I needed to pee. So I sat to pee. I didn't shut the bathroom door, as I hadn't thought I'd need to. But so of course, here comes Dad.

"Hey you - oh!" he gulped as soon as his head peeked over the top stair.

"Dad!?" I barked.

"Sorry!" I saw his hands plead surrender. Even his hands seemed to blush. "Don't you usually close the door when you do that?"

"How come I can vacuum the entire upstairs for like an hour, but then the second I decide to sit down on the potty you decide to show up?!"

"Just wanted to see how it was coming along," he said. "Can you hurry up and finish, please? I'd like to take a shower. I’m covered in sawdust."

"You’re taking another shower?" He'd already had one when he woke up. You’ll recall how I very impressively did not sneak in and peek at him naked.

"Yeah? That okay with you?" he asked sardonically.

"I mean. Sure?" I wiped, flushed, and pulled my undies back up. Then I stood to wash my hands. "You can look now."

"You're decent?" he said.

"Dad."

"I'm comin'," he chuckled, and up he came. "Hey you," he said outside the bathroom door. He looked rejuvenated compared to earlier. Apparently, fixing stairs had medicinal properties for him.

The big hunky dork was already shirtless, holding his smelly t-shirt. He looked hot. Okay? I could recognize hotness in whoever I pleased. He wasn’t ripped, like I’ve said, but he had the frigging V pointing to his groin and, well, gosh if that wasn’t kind of enough.

NO, gross. Stop. Geez, I really needed Guy to come home. I was going to suck that poor kid dry.

"Hi," I said to Dad through the mirror. I caught him looking at my butt. He didn't seem to notice I'd caught him, though. I guess I kept a pretty straight face most the time.

"You want to go catch a ball game with me after I get out of the shower?" he asked me out of the blue.

"Like ... a baseball game?"

"Yeah. The Spring opener’s today. I thought while you were grounded, we might as well enjoy a little father-daughter fun in the sun. Sound like torture or what?"

"Yes,” I mugged, “but. To be clear. Baseball is ... not usually what 'grounded' means."

"Of course it is. It is an excruciating punishment to have to go to the ballpark with me to drink beers and eat hotdogs.”

"W-well," I snorted, a little caught off-guard by his jokey invitation to drink alcohol. Was that the theme of the day or something? All of a sudden, everyone wanted to get me drunk? "I mean, if you're buying…?”

"First round's on me, Sport!” he grinned.

"Daddy,” I snorted, hands on hips, “you're not actually gonna let me - ?"

"HECK no, dummy!" he chortled, slapped the door frame like it was his own big knee, and then lumbered off to go wash that sexy, masculine, woody stink off of him. He'd been sawing and hammering all morning. His big hairy muscles were red and sawdusty from the workout. He looked frankly frickable. “But go put some actual shorts on,” he ordered from inside his bedroom. “I don’t need to be starin’ at your scrawny little butt all day.”

“R-right,” I gulped.

My reflection in the bathroom mirror blushed. She was wearing black spandex shorts. They looked hot on my bubbly little butt. But I could see why a perv like Dad might struggle.

I guessed I didn't have to vacuum the whole house? Just the upstairs, which I'd already done, and then as many of the stairs themselves as I was able to struggle to finish in the brief time it took Dad to finish showering and get dressed. Which, like, fricking thank you? Because vacuuming the stairs was the worst. I was twelve and barely eighty pounds. Maneuvering our gargantuan vacuum across each stupid step felt like trying to get a drunk robot to learn the rumba. I fretted continuously about tumbling down the stairs.

And then out bounced Dad, and just like that he helped me lug the vacuum back downstairs. I put it away in the closet and flipped it the bird before shutting the door. I went and put on a slightly less sensual pair of shorts - still cute and Springtimey, but these ones weren’t spandex, at least - and then after another quick pee (tactical, non-urgent, as to maximize my odds of a public restroom-free visit to the ballpark) we were out the door.

***

“Beer here!” Dad whistled through his fingers at the pimply man-boy hawking golden, sun-warmed pints in plastic cups. He handed the doofy kid his cash. “Thanks. Know what? Can I make it two?”

“Uhh-hm…?” the doof grimaced at me, Dad’s sexy underaged companion. Doofs always grimaced if I looked at them while they looked at me. The grimace: almost like a smile, but with scared eyes.

“Oh and a water for her,” Dad said, squinting at him.

“Oh, r-right,” the doof’s eyes twitched back toward Dad. “Two beers for you. One water for the, uh, young lady.”

Dad rolled his eyes at me over his beer, once the doof had moved on.

“I think he likes you,” he muttered.

Now it was my turn to grimace. The doof was below us now, selling beers to an old big-boned couple who didn’t have their cash ready. I could almost see his acne from here. He unnerved me.

Oh, shoot! He looked at me again! Eek!

I shivered despite the warm weather. I dug into my purse and got my sunglasses out. I preferred not to make unsolicited eye contact with random creeps, thank you very much.

“Here,” Dad said and gestured that he wished to to set his beer in my cupholder. “Move your water.”

I relocated my water to the empty cupholder by my other knee. Now Dad had two beers in two cupholders. He must have felt like quite a man.

“That one’s yours,” he whispered.

“What?”

“No one here cares,” he added. “They see me watching ya. Drink up.”

“But … it’s beer?” Was this a test?

“That a problem?”

“It’s … gross?” Or at least I thought that’s what was I was supposed to say.

“Ha,” he hugged me one-armed, and smooched my sheeny tan forehead. “True, it ain’t great, kid, I won’t jerk you around. But you’re almost a teenager, and I know you’re probably thinking about it, so. Here we are. I promise you, there’s no better place than at the old ball game,” he swept his meaty arm across the view of the stadium before us, “with your Pops. To try your first beer.”

“I’ve never called you ‘Pops’ in my whole life.”

“Drink your beer,” he frowned at me. Then he chuckled. “It’ll help ya lighten up.”

“Ohmygosh,” I whispered. I looked all around us. Were there not police in a big public place like this? My little hand was shaking as I reached to take the beer from the cupholder. I sloshed a little beer over the lip onto my flip-flopped foot’s bare skin. It wasn’t even very cold. I brought it quickly, blindly, in a panic to my lips. I sipped the warm, weird, not great beverage. It was not refreshing. It was strange, bordering on bad. People liked this?

I put back the beer and gave Dad a wistful look.

“Not great, is it?” he smiled.

“It’s just weird,” I shrugged, licking my lips and sort of tasting as I breathed in and out of my nose. It smelled and tasted bitter, bready, bland. It coated the throat dryly and left me feeling thirstier if anything.

But I also smelled: sunscreen, popcorn, hot dogs, both kinds of Pepsi, and bright sunshine on sticky, grody pavement. The gigantic, supremely inviting bouquet of ballpark smells wore the beer-smell in my nostrils like one of those wrapping paper cones they wrap flowers in. It was bland and ugly, but somehow helped the smells come together nicely. Anywhere else, ick. Here, weirdly okay.

I looked at Dad again. I couldn’t tell if he could see my eyes through the sunglasses.

“What?” he smirked.

“I’m gonna chug it,” I warned him.

“But it’s a beautiful day. Don’t you want to sip it, like me?”

“It’s warm. It’s gross. I just wanna chug it and be done.”

“Alright,” he sighed. “It’s your beer.” I could tell he’d fantasized about this going differently.

“It is,” I grinned more bravely than I felt. I turned to regard, once again, the lukewarm, off-smelling, pee-colored stomachful I was about to imbibe. If Guy were here, I’d have made such a good pee-drinking joke. Alas. UGH, I missed my Guy-Guy. I hoped he was doing alright without me, stuck for two whole days alone with Mom. Blech.

I chugged it. Before I could stop to hesitate. I chugged the icky warm drink. I chugged and glugged and only stopped like twice to belch these hideous, wet-dry, sour-bitter burps before I kept right on going. Then I picked Dad’s beer up out of his cupholder.

“Whoa, now!” he spluttered.

But I was just lifting his cup out of the way so I could slip my empty one underneath, then I plopped his inside mine. Tah-dah. Now I could move my water back to its original cupholder.

“Uh-oh,” I winced as soon as I felt the cold dewy surface of my water bottle. I had to pee. My knees started bouncing. It was the third inning. No way I could hold it until we got home. “Oh geez.”

“What?” Dad chuckled smugly. “You gotta break the seal already?”

“No,” I shot him a confused look, “I need to pee.”

“Want me to come with?” he asked.

“No!” I cringed. God, it was an emergency already. Ack! “Just tell me where it is!”

“The bathroom?” he asked, lackadaisically sipping his double-cupped beer.

“Daddy!” I slugged him in the thigh. He had shorts on, so I slugged his bare, rocky quadriceps. He snortled.

“Back the way we came in. Down the steps. Go in, turn left, and find the hotdog stand. Follow the smell of hotdogs. Bathroom’s are right across from there.”

“Gross,” I noted. And I scurried away.

Whoa, there. I wasn’t quite prepared for how strange it would feel to ‘scurry’ after chugging my first-ever beer. But it was … fun?

It was FUN!

I scurried with relish, bobbing and weaving through elbows and excuse-you’s toward the salty, greasy smell of the hotdog stand. As I approached, a new odor began to louden, an odor that told me the bathrooms were growing nearer, too. An odor which made my bladder throb. I couldn’t yet see a bathroom sign through the crowd, though.

And then somebody bumped me. I lost my sunglasses. Nachos hit the floor. Hot cheese splattered my bare toes. This stung a surprising amount once it started stinging. The kid I’d jostled didn’t even apologize. In fact, they got angry and poked me in the stomach and demanded I pay for their chips. I spat an apology, let them know I didn’t have money, and then realized I was peeing.

And I was still peeing as they pointed and stared in alarm at the floor and the yellow, vaguely beer-smelling puddle now fanning out from my tan, cheesy toes into the scattered chips. They screamed, ‘You’re pissing in my chips!’ Which was true, but a wretched thing to holler for everyone to hear. Now like forty random strangers were looking at me, and watching my white shorts darken, not to yellow but to grass green, revealing the underwear I was actively soaking underneath.

“Frick,” I whimpered. And yeah, I started to cry. I COULDN’T NOT. I tore off in the direction I hoped the bathrooms were in. The chip kid yelled after me. The crowd parted but murmured raucously at and all around me about chips and piss and are you alright sweeties. I ran and ran, flip-flops slapping and splattering, pee sliding hot and tangy down my thighs. I elbowed and excuse you’d my way through a wobbly forest of surprised whoops and what-the’s. Worst of all were the occasional sad looks. These soft frowny faces made the crying part of me want to scream.

I fled them all. I found the beating stinky heart of the odor I was chasing; and its odor and mine greeted each other oddly, like it was surprised to bump into mine out here. Usually that was an already-in-there smell.

I cut the line of girls and women waiting antsily to go in. I rushed in just as a lady was vacating a stall and stole it from the mommy and her toddler who had been waiting nicely for their turn. The mommy scowled at me in aggrieved disbelief as I slammed the stall door shut and locked it. The toilet hadn’t even finished flushing before I sat down on it.

Here I really was. Drenched in my own pee. Also, nacho cheese. And I was drunk for the first time in my life. It smelled like fresh lady-poop in here, mingled with the pee stink I’d brought in with me. I peeled down my shorts and underwear and finished peeing what little I had left. I wiped, and wiped and wiped, then stepped out of my flip-flops and wiped those too. I stepped out of my shorts and underwear for the moment, and left them sitting wetly on the gross tile floor. I couldn’t just pull them back on. They were soaked in pee. I kept my emotions clenched tight as I focused on my options. If this were EYL, what might I try?

Ugh. I hated my choices. But here went nothing.

“Um!” I cleared my achy throat. “Does anybody in here have a spare set of shorts I could borrow?!”

Crickets. Even the usual bathroom chatter stopped. I felt loathsome. I felt A/C on my bottomless, pee-smelling tushy. I felt alone.

And that’s what did it to me. The loneliness. I slipped, inwardly, and accidentally unclenched my emotions. I felt them burst out of me all at once. And it almost even felt good. I let every last drop of my terror and panic and outrage come spraying out of me in a rushing gale. Why had Dad let me chug the WHOLE beer?

“Seriously?!” I cried at the injustice of my predicament.

“I - um,” a woman’s voice spoke up. Gosh, I was pretty sure it was the mommy’s whose stall I’d taken. Go fricking figure. “I have wet wipes?”

“Um,” I faltered. I cracked open the stall door a little. Everybody looked at me. I had never seen so many women in a single restroom before. I hid my naked bottom half. Sorry, but this was in no way a turn-on for me. It felt like Miss Susan had retreated to somewhere way, way up inside me, like behind my appendix or something. “Thanks,” I murmured, and reached out my hand.

She set her kid down so she could open up her diaper bag and find the package of wipes. Then she cracked open the little lid and offered me one.

“Um. Could I um. Please have like… a couple more?”

The mommy gave me a sorry look and handed me the whole package.

“Just save me one or two,” she frowned gently.

I nodded and shut the stall door again. I wiped myself properly clean with the wet, sweet-smelling squares. “Can I flush these?” I asked the room. I got a whole choir of responses.

“Sure!”

“No, actually.”

“It says disposable right on the label!”

“It’s a lie. Please don’t clog - !”

I shrugged and tossed the wipes into the toilet. In the end I had used four. Plenty left for mommy. And then I flushed.

“Here,” the mommy said when I reached out my arm and gave her back the wipes. “If you give me your wet clothes I can wash them in the sink for you.”

“What?” I blinked my one visible eye at her.

“It’s okay,” she insisted, her palm outstretched. She wanted me to hand her my pee-soaked shorts and panties. In front of all these people.

“I think I might have a pair of shorts in the back of my car,” another younger lady spoke up. She was some blonde random hottie. She didn’t look much older than my brother. Is that why she looked sort of familiar? “What size are you, darlin?”

“Little,” I cringed, eying her fantastically muscular teenage butt. Shoot. Wow. Not remotely my same size.

“Uh-huh,” she rolled her eyes. “Hold my spot?” she said to the lady behind her. Then she came right up to me. “Here, lemme look at you a sec?”

“Ohmygosh,” I groaned and opened the stall door just far enough that she could look at my fricking nude bottom half. Great. Super. “I’ll honestly wear anything,” I whimpered.

“You’re a stick,” she sighed at my slim little girl-like shapes, “but I think if we cinch’ em tight they’ll work. Okay. You sit tight. Here, gimme your wet stuff.”

I knelt down and collected my horrible, sopping wet shorts and underwear. I handed them to her. She scrunched her face like one does when accepting something literally dripping with someone else’s pee, but bravely took them barehanded. She handed them out to the mommy for me, who also scrunched her face as she received them. Then my muscly butted hero went to wash her hands as I closed my stall door again.

The mommy went to a different sink at the same time and began to explain to her confused toddler that they were helping wash ‘pee-pee’ out of the ‘poor young lady’s clothes’ in the sink. The kid went from weepy and frustrated to giddy and ecstatic at this news. For some demented reason, I guessed toddlers got a kick out of washing pee out of strangers’ clothing.

“You just wait in there,” my hero called to me as she dried her hands on a paper towel. “I parked kinda far, but I’ll go quick.” I could have wept. I visualized her winking at me before flying off into the sky to go fetch me a pair of shorts that would probably be way too bootylicious to fit me.

As the mommy washed my stuff, she spoke in sing-song to her kid, asking them endless braindead questions like ‘Oo, what color are these?’ ‘Greeeeen, that’s right!’ ‘And where do we find the soap?’ ‘Over heeeere, that’s right!’

And the bathroom chatter slowly picked back up. Toilets flushed again. Paper towel dispensers ker-chunk’d. Hand dryers punched on, screamed awhile, then barely caught their breath. Zippers of all lengths and utilities zipped and unzipped. Compacts clicked and unclicked. Bladders and bowels emptied polyphonically on seemingly every side of me. Smells of all kinds - well, two kinds, really - sloshed and swirled about in a sea of noise and mental imagery. It was a busy public restroom on game day. My absolute nightmare.

“Psst,” came a knock at my stall door.

I recognized her tennis shoes.

“Here,” she said, and I saw a pair of bright blue soccer shorts flop over the door. She dangled them in her fingers. “Try these on. They’re the smallest I could find. Sorry if they’re still a little big on you.”

I took them. They were warm, like they’d been plucked fresh from a hot car. I sniffed them. They smelled like car air freshener, teenage girl, and cigarettes.

“They fit?”

“Um. One sec.”

I slipped them up over my extra-small-feeling, panty-less butt. I cinched the drawstrings as tight as they could go, then tied a super-serious double knot. And …hey! Would you look at that! They stayed up!

“They fit,” I murmured in the affirmative.

“H’yeah?” she giggled. “Good. Keep em. They’re yours.”

I opened the stall door. I recognized her. I knew her from somewhere. Who was this mystery woman? I had half an inkling to throw a rock at her.

Instead, I broke down crying. And she said something like ‘Aw, babe, c’mere,’ and took me into a hug. This strange, weirdly hot girl who smelled frankly incredible, hugged me to her perfect teenaged tits. Her skin smelled like sweat and sunscreen and lime zest. I sniffled wetly on her dry skin. I pressed my salty cheek against the hot, squishy skin of her cleavage. I thanked her a lot.

“Just looking out,” she sniffled back at me. “When you grow up, you keep a spare change of clothes in your car, too, alright? That way you can pay it forward.”

“Okay,” I promised her. I looked up in her stupidly familiar blonde face and tried one last time to remember why I knew this person. Then all of a sudden I was being handed my peed-in shorts and panties back. The mommy cleared her throat to get my attention, and to signal an end to my hug. Much to my shock and confusion my soiled shorts anf underwear were not only clean but dry.

“I used the, um,” the mommy gestured at the hand dryers, which were both currently in use and making it hard to hear her.

“Dwy-oh!!” hooted her toddler emphatically.

“The dryerrrr, that’s right!” cooed the mommy.

“Welp, I think you’re good to go, babe,” said my hot, sweaty hero. She patted my butt. She could have done more. We could have snuck back into a stall and I could have shown her just how much I liked having my butt touched.

“Who are you?” I asked her point blank. I wrenched my shorts and panties in my hands like a nervous suitor. I felt stupid.

She gave me a funny look.

“I’m too old for you, is who I am,” she snickered, and saluted me one last time before going. “Go back to your seat. I’m sure your Mommy and Daddy are wondering where their baby girl went.”

“What?” I blinked at her butt as she slipped into the next available stall and shut the door behind her. Oh right, she had needed to use the restroom. Finally, she could pee her hard-earned pee.

“Please don’t stand there and wait for me,” she sighed. I saw her slip her shorts down to her sneakers. Her panties were white with multicolored polka dots. The crotch was barely even messy, because of course. This was one of those girls whose body probably only produced honeyed milk and the occasional Spring breeze.

I stepped out of the way. I went and stood in front of the sink where the mommy was now washing her hands.

I looked at the mommy.

“You know,” she sighed at me, “you could say thank you.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Daint. Tyoo,” said her little goober.

“You’re welcome,” she cocked an eyebrow at me. She turned and picked up her stinky kid. “Here we go. If you don’t mind, I’ve got a stinky diaper I’ve been ignoring for the past fifteen minutes.”

“Diapoo!”

“Sure, sorry,” I winced as I took the hint.

“Here, wait, do you want this?” She offered me an empty, slightly disheveled sandwich baggie. It had clearly been used to store some sort of toddler snack. “For your things?”

I took the baggie. I crammed my shorts and undies into it.

The mommy and her kid finally got into their own vacated stall. I heard her lower the changing table. I heard the kid squeal in protest.

Now it was just me, my reflection, and a crowd of onlookers. Feeling kind of embarrassed all over again, I exited the bathroom.

“Took you long enough! You fall in?” Dad yukked when I got back.

I sat down beside him without a word. I couldn’t even look at him. I stared straight ahead, pretending to be absorbed in the game. If only baseball were a sport things actually happened in, it might’ve been less obvious that I was absolutely reeling from some emotional shellacking or another.

“Hey. What’s that you got there?” he asked, and gestured curiously at the laundry-stuffed baggie in my lap.

***

Dad begrudgingly allowed us to leave early once I’d quit sobbing long enough to tell him my horrific story. On our way back to the car, I felt all manner of eyes watching me. I was The Girl Who Peed. Today was not the first time, but I could pray it might finally be the last. Like, eventually I’d outgrow this, right?

We walked in clumsy, father-daughter silence through the sloshing, ugly crowd. I felt the beer in my bloodstream. I smelled a passing bathroom, and my vision started whorling. I think I kind of almost fainted? But I stayed upright and moving. As long as we kept moving, I found the spinning feeling could swim freely out of my head, down around my middle, and even chug down into my legs and feet before splashing back up through my guts - and then we were outside, crossing the blinding, desolate parking lot, where my swimmy, tipsy feeling cooked right off. Cars forever, but no people. We were the only ones leaving so early. I felt sick but sober.

***

Halfway home, I puked in Dad’s truck. It came fast, without warning. I struggled to contain the mess. Regrettably, I caught the first blast in my cupped hands. But then I had nowhere to put it. So I let it spill onto my shirt. It seeped down onto my new blue soccer shorts, too. I sobbed with disgust. Dad rolled down the windows so I could puke onto the highway if I needed to. It also helped with the smell. Gosh, beer puke had such a beery odor. And now my hands were marinating in it, ceviche style. I wished Dad had wet wipes. Or a noose to hang myself.

“Ugggh,” I moaned.

“We’ll getcha cleaned up, sweetheart,” Dad assured me. “Nothing we can do about it right now.”

“My haaands,” I cried.

“Yeah,” Dad chuckled gently, “that was pretty gross.”

“Daddy,” I whined. “Why’d you let me drink the WHOLE beer?”

“Oh shush,” he snorted. “That was ALL you.”

“But you’re my fricking Dad! You’re supposed to protect me from making bad life decisions!”

“I do!” Dad said. “I grounded you yesterday, didn’t I? But today, well. I figured some lessons are better learned the hard way, Sport. There’s being told drinking can be hazardous to your health, and then there’s living it.”

“I’m twelllve,” I burped awfully.

“You liked it,” Dad said. “Up until you didn’t.”

“Oghh, I think I need to puke again.”

“Out the window, please.”

“Ugggh why don’t you even have any WET wipes?!” I railed nonsensically as I shoved my head out into the ripping highway wind. I started trying to wretch. It was hard to focus on emptying my poor stomach with the blustery winds pummeling my brain.

“Wet wipes?” Dad muttered to himself, quietly puzzled. I couldn’t hear him. But I knew he was confused.

I puked my guts out into the wind and all over the passenger side of his truck. I watched my little splatter land a dozen yards behind us, then recede into the distance. I sat back down inside my seat.

“Buckle.”

I rebuckled my seat belt.

“Feel better?”

“Die.”

“Hm. You got some on your face,” he snorted.

I wiped my cheek and felt how much of my own sick had been whipped up onto my face and into my hair on that side. Neat. Awesome.

***

Even after a vigorous shower, I could still smell the puke smell on the skin of my palms. That sour, buttery odor. I tried to forget it. But I could not masturbate. I had never realized how important it was to me to sort of sniff my fingers every time I alternated susie hands, but tonight there was no ignoring just how sickeningly bad they smelled. Even coated with my funky, watermelon candy-flavored (to me, anyway) susie juice, the odor kept floating up through. I kept visualizing that something rancid or rotting had gotten stuck up inside my vagina. I couldn’t deal.

So I couldn’t cum. And that was hard for me. Because I kind of desperately needed to, or else I might seriously make another mistake with Dad.

Anyway, I pulled my leggings back on and left my darkened room to go find Dad someplace better lit. Maybe he could help me keep my head on straight until bedtime, at least. Also, if I could stop him from getting blackout drunk, then maybe he wouldn’t be a complete sitting duck come morning. A big, hunky, hard-cocked duck, just sitting there with his hard cock and his hunky muscles and no Mom around to stop me from -

Frick. I was losing my grip. Dad needed not to get too drunk and pass out around his devious, out-of-control, mirror-monster of a daughter. I found him in the kitchen, standing at the sink, watching the TV in the family room.

“Hey,” I said.

“Hey you,” he nodded at me. “Feel any better after that shower?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I huffed.

“Hn,” he snorted. “Still upset with me?”

“Still not sorry you let your underage daughter get drunk in public?” I joined him at the sink. I saw now he was holding a tumbler of whisky. He smelled like whisky, too. It … wasn’t the worst way he could have smelled. Oaky notes suited him. But this was going to be his last drink if I had anything to say about it.

“You weren’t drunk.”

“I peed in some kid’s nachos. And then puked in my hands.”

“Doesn’t mean you were drunk,” Dad chortled.

“Says the guy who suddenly drinks like ten whiskies a day now that Mom’s out of the house. How many is that?” I asked sharply, pointing to his tumbler.

“This? Five or six.”

“Counting the beer at the park?”

“Beers,” Dad corrected somewhat uncomfortably. “That’d make this … seven or eight.” He frowned at me. “Point taken.” Then he poured his whisky into the sink. “There. Better?”

“No!” I scoffed. “You could have given that to ME!” I growled and dug my spear-fingers into his big tender ribs. He hooted and giggled as I tickled him. I loooved tickling him. I always had. Gael’s biggest failing as a lover was his utter lack of ticklishness.

“Stop it!” he woofed, but scarcely lifted a finger to stop my assault. “Or you’ll make me wet myself!”

I stopped abruptly. I glared at him.

“Too soon?” he beamed, red-cheeked with mirth (and alcohol).

“Today never happened,” I informed him.

“Aw, hey,” he frowned. “But I had fun with you.”

“No you didn’t. You plied me with beer, drove me home early, and then scrubbed my puke off your truck.”

“That I did,” he chuckled. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

“Dad. You’d know if you had fun with me. Because I’m FUN. And baseball is NOT. Baseball is - ”

“Watch it now,” Dad lifted a sudden finger to my lips. “Careful. We don’t badmouth The Game. Not in my hou-OW!”

I bit the stupid dork. Sucked his fat finger down into my gullet and bit the very root of it, practically breaking skin on his big hairy knuckle. The look on his face as he jerked and realized I was literally eating him was priceless to me. He had to tug his fingertip all the way up my tongue, the full taste-budded length of me, from my esophagus to my teeth, where I bit down harder and held him trapped with my incisors. I chewed the thin skin behind his fingernail. I flicked his fingertip with my tongue. I growled at him, laughing and taunting him.

“C-Cam, c’mon, let g-GO,” he stammered, pink-cheeked and grimacing (yep), and scraped his own stupid knuckle-skin off, yanking it free. “What the hell’s gotten into you?” he hissed, frowning at me wide-eyed and betrayed, like I was a family pet that had just nipped at him unprovoked.

Maybe I shouldn’t have used so much tongue?

“Whatever,” I breezed. “What’re you gonna do, ground me?”

“I could send you to your room.”

“Oh no. Not my room.”

“And put you straight to bed.”

“Anywhere but my big comfy bed!”

“Without supper!”

“Ugh,” I burped again, suddenly feigning severe sickness again. “Not hungry. I’m still hungover from when you got me DRUNK.”

“Alright, that does it!” Dad said, and dropped his empty tumbler in the sink. It broke. But only I seemed bothered by this. Dad rounded on me while I was distracted. He grabbed me under my arms. Then he threw me over his shoulder like a sack of dangerously horny underage potatoes. Gosh, he was strong.

“D-Daddy?!” I guffawed.

“Too late!” he barked, and spanked my butt hard, like maybe he was a little drunk and forgot I wasn’t his kinky wife. Did he do this kind of thing with her?

No. Because this wasn’t sexual. He was just spanking me over his shoulder like a regular Dad spanking his regular, very horny, incest-curious daughter.

He schlepped me out of the kitchen as I thumped at his back, my feet kicking helplessly each time he spanked me again. He kept spanking me, reader. Hard! It like, stung.

But it also felt incredibly fricking naughty.

I started moaning. I liked his thick meaty hand-paddle. How it slapped against my butt fat, reverberated my glutes, and rocked my whole pelvic system.

He spanked me again. I felt it in more than just my butt. I whimpered. I moaned. Shoot. Yes. No. Please stop. Please don’t stop.

He spanked me again, and this time it really hurt. And I felt something like a miniature orgasm ripple up my lower back, over his shoulder, and down into my heart.

I squealed and shuddered, to no avail.

He carried me upstairs, down the freshly vacuumed hallway, and into my bedroom. He strode haphazardly across the debris lining my carpet. He flopped me down onto my back on my bed. I bounced noisily on the mattress.

“Bedtime!” he jeered, and started pulling my covers up over me.

“Daddyyy,” I cried. I couldn’t have told you what cloud I was on by this point. My clothes were still on, so it wasn’t Nine, but it was definitely one of the upper ones.

“What? You need a [hiccup] lullaby?” Dad burped.

“I don’t sleep in my clothes!” I giggled.

“Oh, duh!” He conked himself on the head. “Let’s get you into your jammies, then, huh?”

“Yay,” I squeed.

Dad threw my covers back again, revealing the giddy, shivering whole of me. I had clothes on. He smirked at me. Like my outfit was a noisy staircase’s worth of carpet, and he had a sec.

Feeling depleted and cold fresh out of my long hot shower, I’d layered up. I even put socks on. Dad now grabbed my ankles - both of them - in one hand and hoisted them high into the air. Half my body left the bed. He spanked me again, like this. The look on his face was … well. He didn’t look quite like a Dad should, maybe. Then he pulled off my socks, one at a time. I wriggled my hideous toes for him, trying to distract him I supposed. He ignored them entirely. While my keister was still suspended, he grabbed my leggings by the waistband and stretched them off past my butt and down (up?) my thighs. He released my ankles, dropping me onto the mattress, but he didn’t let go of the spandex now acting as a binding around my knees. Without a second’s thought, he ripped them off of me the rest of the way. I was now bare-legged. Barefoot. And deliriously beautiful-feeling. Was Dad raping me? Was I THAT hot?

I had pale yellow cotton panties on. They kind of glowed against my tan hips. Except for the glaringly dark, conspicuous wet spot. From how fricking hot I was for Daddy. More spanking please. I liked the spanking.

He hoisted me up by my shoulders like a paralyzed person and commanded me to lift my arms so he could take off my pull-over. Pull it over he did. Pop! Here was Cami in her cami. My scrawny arms and shoulders were now bare.

And now, sadly, we were done. Barefoot in panties and a cami had been my “jammies” ever since I was seven or eight. Coincidentally, since around the age I discovered masturbatiom. No relation.

Whoa wait. Wait a sec.

“D-Daddy?!” I yelped, breathless, as Dad took hold of my cami’s stringy little shoulder straps and yanked upward, tugging my cami off too. “I n-need that!”

“Off!” Dad snorted, and pointed to my wet yellow panties. And to my complete incomprehension, he began to reach in as if to pull my fricking panties off. To be clear, I was not wearing an extra pair of panties underneath this. These pale little things were the only piece of clothing left on my juicy naked body.

I could have let him. But I should not have. And the kicking part of me understood this. It knew this better, even, than the fricking part of me. Dads were for depending on. Not for fricking. This Dad was drunk. I had failed my mission to keep him from getting plastered. But I could still succeed at keeping him from making a nuclear-grade mistake.

“I do NOT!” I kicked him in the groin. “Sleep!” I kicked him in the arm. “Naked!” I kicked him in the - hand? Uh-oh. He caught my foot and yanked it high into the air. Up went my keister again. But my other foot was still dangling loose, so I kicked again. I got him.

Thank you, dance lessons. (There. I said it.)

“Mff?!” he grunted, and let go of me so he could clutch his face. I hadn’t broken his nose, had I?

Nah. There would have been more blood.

Still, I’d stunned him. I took this opportunity to flee the scene.

“Cam!” he yelped like a dog with its ear caught in a fence.

“It’s not! My! B-bedtime!” I sobbed as I tripped on some laundry and slammed my shoulder into the bedroom doorjamb. “FRICK,” I spat. That was going to be a gnarly bruise.

I hobbled out into the hallway. I slammed my door shut. I left Dad clutching empty darkness trying to navigate the clutter underfoot.

He couldn’t be mad at me, right? It was self-defense! I was a good daughter! He was a good Dad! We were okay! Everything was fine!

I scrabbled downstairs and into the laundry room, of all places. I hid in the warmth and the noise and the smell as my clothes from the ballpark tumbled around in the dryer. I stood perfectly still, hugging myself, my hard green eyes peeled, and breathed in rapid shallow breaths. My mind was not inside my body. It was up someplace behind my appendix, trying to shove my susan out of the way and cursing about a bruised shoulder.

***

The dryer buzzer sounded, jolting me from my post-traumatic stupor.

I popped the dryer open. I reached in and found my favorite new pair of slightly-too-big blue soccer shorts. I hugged them to my bare child-sized tits like a security blanket. I sighed raggedly. I peered down into the shorts and imagined the butt that had once inhabited them.

“Huh.” On the tag inside the waistband, written in permanent pink ink, were the initials LC.

A clue! I exclaimed quietly. I felt color return to my face. I felt beer return to my veins. I felt love for another human girl return to my loins. My appendix could breathe again, no longer crowded by my displaced viscera.

Her initials were LC. I could no longer say I had no clue who she was. I now had one clue. I clutched the shorts to my face and sniffed: fresh clean fabric. No more teenage car smell.

Boo. For real. Major boo.

I put the shorts on. I cinched them and double-knotted them. I put my tanktop on too. Weirdly enough, I was now once again wearing the outfit I had worn to the ballpark. Unlike my disgusting clammy palms, these clothes no longer reeked of gastro-chemistry. I felt better about going back out into the house.

I cracked the laundry room door. I listened carefully. The main floor was quiet but for the TV Dad had left on in the family room. I peeked my head around the corner. Hallway, empty. Upstairs, dark.

I made a break for it.

At the top of the stairs I paused again to look and listen. All three bedrooms were dark, as was the bathroom. Dad wasn’t up here. He was very much a lights on kind of housemate. I slipped across the clean, stripy hallway carpet, past my room where Dad’s footprints ended, and into Gael’s. I shut his door soundlessly.

Ah, sanctuary. Gosh, I missed my brother. I needed him so badly now. I needed to cry about today. I needed to feel the naked warmth of somebody I could trust. Someone who wasn’t Dad.

Actually, I … had no idea if I would ever be able to tell my brother about what had just happened. What was seemingly growing, or metastasizing, between me and Dad. The spanking, the stripping, the … kicking. Wait a second.

Of course I could tell Guy. He was Guy. My big dumb Guy-Guy!

But also he’d kind of changed this semester. Tim was right. I hated that Tim was right, but Guy had grown … I don’t know. There was probably a metaphor for it. But I don’t know.

No, because Guy would be furious with Dad, and it would be impossible to explain how what had happened was actually sort of both our faults. I had egged Dad on. Enticed him on sort-of purpose. I had licked and sucked his whole salty manfinger. I had moaned and whimpered and kind of almost cum a little as he had spanked and spanked and spanked me up the stairs and into my bedroom.

I’d gotten crazy wet. Dad had seen with his own drunken eyes. How wet his kid was for him. Little susie junior, wide awake and ready for him. He was right there, up in her business. Even now, with fresh clean clothes on, I could smell her down there, drooling at the scary memory. At the not-okay near miss. At the promise of another day of being grounded home alone with Dad.

Maybe Dad and I could figure something out. Some way to l, like, scratch the itch without actually, like, committing crazy illegal adultery. I mean, I didn’t want to cheat on Guy. And I was sure Dad would never want to betray Mom like that.

But as I touched myself in the dark of Guy’s empty room and replayed the events in my head, I convinced myself of something or other. I was certain Dad must have smelled my susie, steaming hot right there on his shoulder, as each spank had slapped another blast of girly odor out my bell end. He must surely taken that - and the finger-sucking, and the jammies thing, and all the giggling and blushing and moaning and whimpering - to mean that I would be okay with him going fully -

Knock-knock.

“Cam, you in there, sweetie?”

I heard him knock at the wrong bedroom door.

I froze. I was standing in the middle of Guy’s room with my hand in my shorts. He wouldn’t look in here, right? Why would he?

He might though!

I tip-toed speedy-style to Guy’s closet. Thankfully he’d left it ajar after he’d got his suitcase out of it. I very, very carefully shut the closet door. I stood in the pitch black

And waited. I reengaged prey mode: unblinking vigilance, rapid breathing, disassociated mentation.

I felt at my own butt in LC’s shorts. I liked how my shapes felt in her clothes. I wished so badly that they still smelled like her. I had taken for granted how good they smelled. That hot car smell. That faint animal odor of teenage girl. That ugly sexiness of cigarette smoke. I craved her. In this alarmingly scary moment, I became horrendously horny. I wanted to cum in this closet, in LC’s shorts. Then I wanted to smell them and pretend my stink was hers. I was rabid all of a sudden.

Ugh. But for real. Was I gay for this mystery girl? Was that what this was? But that would mean Guy was right about me maybe being ‘bisexual.’ Eww. I hated when Guy was right about things I couldn’t tell about myself. I also really did not love the mouthfeel of that word: bi-sex-ual. Baggy. Ill-fitting. Like a slightly too-big pair of soccer shorts with someone else’s initials written in the waistband.

Hey, look. I guess I can metaphor after all! Or simile or whatever. How are thise different again?

But so now I had another one of my brilliant ideas. I would go back out into Guy’s room. It was quiet out there, now. Dad had probably slunk back down to the basement. So I was clear to sneak Mom’s smelly panties back to my room for the night. Sure, it wouldn’t even be a near-match for LC. But at least it would be naughty!

Ooo, how I dreaded flooding my sinuses with Mom’s susie stink while I fingered myself to oblivion. OOO, and if Dad really was downstairs, I could go steal her vibrator too. Playtime for vibey!

I slipped back out of Gael’s pitch black bedroom closet, and found I could see in Guy’s dim, blackout-curtained room quite well now. Warm yellow light under the door from the hallway fanned out across his carpet. But I couldn’t make out what THAT was over there. Until it moved.

“F-Frick! DAD?!”

“CAMILA?!” I saw him drop something. It fell to the lighted floor, splashed into the yellow puddle of light. It was Mom’s fricking panties. Thief!

“You were HIDING?!” he shouted, his nerves audibly rattled. “In his CLOSET?!”

“You were snooping through his STUFF?!” I blurted right back.

“N-no! Not HIS - erm, I mean. What I do in my own house is none of your - ”

“I can see them,” I scoffed. I pointed at the panties on the carpet.

“Sh-shit,” Dad said. I could see his frame glancing around at his feet. “How can you see a thing in here?”

“You dropped Mom’s undies.” I suppressed a snicker. I mean, dude. I’d caught the dope red-handed. “Those aren’t for you, you know.”

“Excuse me?” he tensed. I saw him go rigid in the dark. “First off, they absolutely ARE for me. Second, how - how do you know … who they’re for?”

“Dad,” I smirked hard enough that he could hear it. “I’m the whole reason they had to start doing this stupid panty exchange in the first place, remember?”

“Y-yeah, but. Cam. This isn’t. You’re too young to be. These are issues you aren’t prepared to understand, yet,” he lectured distractedly as he hunkered down and felt around the carpet for the panties.

I almost wanted to tell him it’d be easier if he used his nose.

Instead I stepped over and collected the panties with my foot. I plucked them up in my toes, then handed them (footed them?) up to myself. LC’s soccer shorts had surprisingly spacious pockets. Finders, keepers.

“Daddy,” I sighed smugly. “You can stand up. I have them.”

“Give ‘em here,” he grunted, still kneeling and facing slightly the wrong direction as he held his hand out.

“No way,” I snickered, and took his hand so I could help him stand back up. He stayed kneeling, stubbornly displeased. “These are for my gross, creepy brother. Not my gross, creepy Dad.”

“Hey now,” he threatened. But just as he said it, I felt him deflate. The way he held my hand changed. He let me help him up. He sighed down at roughly where he thought I was standing, hands on hips, smirking at him and judging him for the drunken pervert that he was.

“Cam, listen. I’m sorry,” he sighed. “I was way outta line earlier.”

“What, you mean when you picked me up and spanked me like thirty times?”

“W-well,” he gulped. “That, yeah. Yes. That was not okay. Neither was the … undressing. Or even, y’know, this.” I saw him gesture vaguely at where we were now. “I shouldn’t be in here. I know it. You know it.”

“Yeah,” I chuckled. “I scared you pretty good, huh?”

“Honestly kid?” he snorted. “You can’t be sneaking up on me like that. I have reflexes. Deadly reflexes. I coulda’ hurt you.”

“Suuure,” I rolled my eyes. “Speaking of which, my butt sure does sting. Can you look at it for me? I think I have a boo-boo down there.”

“Cami. Give me the panties. And go to your room.”

“No. You go to YOUR room.” I dodged out of the way of his arm as it swiped blindly in the dark.

“Cami. I know where the lights are in here. Give me your mother’s underwear.”

“No! They’re for Guy!” I cackled, easily outmaneuvering him again as he groped in the direction of my voice. “He needs these or else he’ll come after MY smelly underwear!”

“Camila,” he stopped dead. “Stop. This isn’t a joke.”

“You’re telling. Me!” I panted, not from exhaustion, but from adrenaline. “Did you smell how dirty these are?”

And just like that he flicked the lights on. We both squinted at each other from across Guy’s room. His son’s room. My boyfriend’s room.

“Alright. You want them? Fine. I’ll leave them in your care,” he said stonily, not moving a muscle. “But you’re grounded the rest of Spring Break. I’m done with this.”

“Daddy!” I gasped.

The stupid panties hit him square in the back of the head.

“Take them! Fine! They stink like Mom’s rotten butt anyway!”

Dad turned slowly, bent down, and picked up the underwear. He frowned at them. And then he looked sternly at me.

He sniffed them as he held my gaze in a vice grip. His eyebrow twitched. His nostrils flared. He almost sort of scowled. But then he lowered them again to reveal a smile.

“They reek,” he said fondly. “God, I miss her.”

“Ew,” I whispered, feeling my cheeks redden for this man who was not afraid to show me how much he loved how susies smelled. “Tell you what. Let me borrow them for ten minutes? And then you can have them right back. You can hide them someplace only your brother would know about.”

“Daddy…? Are you seriously going to, like …?”

He simply looked at me. ‘I am,’ said the look.

“Like. Right now?”

“Well, not this instant. I need a bit of privacy. And I feel like I’ve scarred you enough for one night.”

I just blinked at him, agape. He was telling me he was going to go jerk off. Like, imminently. With Guy’s / Mom’s panties.

“But… if I put those back after you … ”

“Honey,” Dad chuckled, tossing and catching the panties like a baseball, “you think this is the first pair if these I’ve borrowed?”

“Ohmygosh,” is what I would have spat if I’d had a drop of spit to my name at that moment. What a crazy, crazy thing to say to his own fricking daughter. What a crazy, CRAZY pair we were.

“Heck,” he sighed, turning at last and finishing the trip back to his and Mom’s room. “S’not even the first time I’ve borrowed this pair!” And he chuckled at himself as he sauntered through the door, twirled them on his finger as if to say ‘Tah-tah!’, and shut it again behind him.

Of course I tip-toed up to the fricking door. I carefully put my ear as near to the hollow paneling as I dared without touching it.

“I can see your shadow,” Dad grunted from inside.

“Cannot! I was - j-just - uggh, forget it!”

I stomped away. I went to my room. I slammed my door shut. The mirror fell off the back of it. I swore and bent to pick it up. I caught my own reflection glaring back up at me.

Well, hm. She looked kinda good from this angle. The blue shorts were a funny fit, though. I untied them, then let them fall right down my legs. Tah-dah.

I straightened. I stood tall. I stared down my own face. I ogled my own tan butt. My juicy little cheeks smiled up at me. My puffy yellow camel toe glowed. I slid a couple fingers into my thigh gap from behind. I waved at myself. I liked how this version of me looked. She was a hottie. She was a weirdo. And she had a date with herself.

I locked my bedroom door. I cleared away a patch of crud from in front of the fallen mirror. I laid the mirror down flat on the ground, facing the ceiling, and then stood with a foot on either side of it. Whoa. I ogled my own dark, lovely shapes. Sure, my tits were taking their sweet time, but the goods everywhere else were alrwady looking good enough to eat. I loved my legs. I loved the butt that sat atop them. And much like my poor big Bro, I too wished I could go down on my own juiciest, most appetizing parts.

I pulled the gusset of my panties aside for a sec. I blew a horny, apologetic kiss to my own succulent brown vulva. Sorry, Susie. Your lips and mine were never meant to know the sweetness of each other’s kisses.

I took my tanktop off. My bare kiddy tits looked good. They had a charm to them, you know? I liked my dark perky nipples now that I knew how much Guy craved them. I could even sort of lick them if I pinched my tit up toward my mouth, and pretend it was him doing it. Mm. Hm. Salty? And a little soapy. These were Guy’s to feast on, not me.

I stepped to one side of the mirror and peeled off my yellow panties. I put the crotch against my nose and sniffed. Then I stepped back over the mirror, huffing my own fumes, and let myself get a long, hard look at myself.

“Ffffrick,” I panted.

I could see why Guy was so horny for this. For me. The girl in the mirror looked like a girl a guy would be crazy for. I loved her. I would do anything for her. I would lick her out. I would drink her squirty cum. Heck, I would try her pee.

“Frick. Frick. So horny ugggh,” I whimpered down to her. I squatted over the mirror to get a closer view. My labia parted like dark smooshy curtains. I swooned at the slick secret wetness of my glistening innards. Oh gosh. I was so cute and puffy and pink inside. I let lips close again. I had a perfect little cleft in the middle. Only my dark, thickish clitoral hood poked out the top.

I touched her. The reflection girl. The real girl. It was me. But I felt glass.

My fingers parted my folds and found my clitty. I stroked her gently. At fricking LAST. Relief, catgarsys, erupted from deep inside me like a magic beanstalk. My mouth fell open. I moaned. I soared up into the sky, to where the giants lived, to where harps with golden boobs wept and kept secrets and waited for the right mischievous little boys to come along and ask the right kinds of questions. Like …

Do you want to come hang out in my room?

Do you want to tickle my back?

Do you want to look at porn with me?

Do you want to take a shower with me?

Do you want to get into my bed naked and hump my face until you cum down my throat, even though you’re my twelve-year-old sister?

Especially because you’re my twelve-year-old sister?

I had a cup in my hand. Plastic. Jurassic Park themed. Empty. I set it on the mirror underneath my crotch. I kept diddling my clit as I squared up over the big Large-sized mouth of it. And I came. I squirted into the cup. It made a plasticky sound. I came again. I stayed so quiet. I needed to hear this funny sound it made when I ejaculated into the cup.

And then I drank it. I could taste splatters of me on the plastic rim before I even tilted the resoundingly loud-smelling fluids toward my gasping, cumming, cursing nose and mouth. “F-frick, frick, fffff-!”

I felt the leading edge of the cum touch my upper lip and teeth, searingly tangy and vile and girly. I sucked it into my mouth. I splished it around between my tongue and the roof of my mouth. My own cum! Just like Guy said he’d done! Uggghh, Guy-Guyyy. I missed his cum. I missed his big brotherly cock. I missed his wrinkly nuts. I wanted to dip his nuts in my juices and suck them clean again.

“Fuuuck,” I whined. Uh-oh. Cup. Cup. Get back down there.

Only the first little warning sprinkler splattered the mirror. I caught the rest in the cup. I watched my reflection fill her cup almost halfway with what honestly looked to me at least as appetizing as that ballpark beer had. I licked my funky, watermelony lips. I squeezed my bladder muscles. Got the last few drops out. Then picked up the big scary dinosaur cup.

I caught my reflection looking awfully thirstily at the cup of pee in my hand. I eyed hers as well.

“Swap?” I smirked.

“Swap?” she smirked.

I set my cup down on the mirror, and picked hers up instead. I sniffed the savory steam wafting out of the cup. It was tinged with her ejaculate. And it smelled, frankly, much better than beer.

‘Are you really gonna drink it?’ my reflection asked. ‘That’s my pee, you know.’

‘Guy drank it,’ I shrugged.

I tipped the warm yellow cup into my mouth. I sipped her pee. And it was good. It was salty. It was sour. It was kind of spicy, too. And it was hers. The first sip didn't kill me, didn't trigger my gag reflex, was simply warm and her-flavored and naughty and gross, and so I chugged it. I chugged and glugged and only stopped like twice to belch these hideous, wet-dry, sour-bitter burps before I kept right on going.

Knock-knock.

I didn't even flinch. I simply paused from my chugging.

"One sec," I burped.

And I finished watching my reflection chug my piss, tilt the cup all the way up over her face, until nothing came out into her big, horny, gasping, stinking mouth. She burped an awful, overwhelmingly pee-ish, public-restroom-flavored belch.

"Cam," Dad said at the door.

"Just a sec!" I said, and quickly gathered the mirror and the cup up off the floor.

I unlocked the door. Yeah, I was naked. Welp. Shoot. But whatever. Ugh, let the poor idiot look. He'd just jacked off in his room with Mom's panties. He'd just cum. He wouldn't be horny.

But that turned out not to be the issue. As I opened the door, the first bad tummy gurgle hit me.

"H-hey Daddy," I said, suddenly feeling a little woozy. "What's up?"

"Cam," he said. He had the panties in his hands. "You didn't. [Aherm]. Y-you forgot to ... get dressed?"

"Y-yeah," I frowned, but also burped a little bit. "Sorry." I snatched Mom's panties from his hand. "Thanks," I told him.

"R-right," he stammered. "W-welcome." He looked down. And up.

"Sorry, Daddy," I frowned, but burped again. My guts were seriously upset. "I need y-you to move. I need the bathroom."

"Oh - ?" he grunted as I shouldered him out of the way - ow, frick, my shoulder was killing me all of a sudden.

I burst into the bathroom and slammed the door shut. I pounced on the toilet like it was about to try and run away from me. I flipped the lid up and gripped tight my knobby knees.

"Uh, Cami?" he called from the hallway. "Are you alright?"

"Mm-hm," I said, but it sounded more like "Urr-rrrrrp."

And then the next burp was a full-on barf.

I hurled, and Dad heard me.

"Still feeling a little woozy from the park, huh?" he said from the other side of the bathroom door.

"Frick off," I pleaded.

"I'll get you some water. You need to hydrate. Just hang in there, Squirt."

My next belch literally tasted like my own squirt.

I was sick, reader. Like, really.

Chapter Text

When Dani called on the motel phone, I knew something was wrong. He hated talking on the phone. I sat on the bed and answered as calmly and collectedly as I could.

He asked how the drive had gone. I told him it went okay. Guy and I had taken turns. We'd chatted about the future. We'd listened to a novelization of 'What Dreams May Come' on tape, narrated by Robin Williams.

"Wasn't that movie already based on a book?" Dani asked.

"Hm. I dunno. That would be funny."

"It any good?"

"Not bad."

"Huh."

"Yeah."

"So."

"So. What have you been up to?" I asked. I laid back against the headboard, and kicked my feet up. I rotated and snapped my tired driving ankles while I half-listened to Dani. I drove two-footed, one foot per pedal. My ankles always hurt after long drives.

"Oh, uh. Well. Y'know, not a whole lot going on. Work. Mostly. Mm, oh, I was thinking I might catch the ball game tomorrow.”

”The opener?” I asked.

”Y-yessir,” he stammer-chuckled.

There was an unevenness to his speech, so just as he started to ramble about the upcoming season, I interrupted and asked him point blank if he'd been drinking. He hesitated long enough for me to deduce he had. Then he outright confessed he had.

And now began the process of picking Dani up after another relapse. One lost count. It became a kind of bum ritual, an occasional tax I paid for having shacked up with a hypoemotional manchild.

I asked him what he thought had tripped him up this time. He side-stepped, lamented that he needed me home to keep him grounded. I told him I doubted it was just because I was gone. He knew better.

"I do," he conceded heftily. "I guess I can’t say. It was like all the sudden, there she was. Back in my hand. Like she’d never left.”

“All the sudden,” I echoed. I rolled my eyes. I hated when he called whisky 'her.'

Daniel never could quite manage to lie to me. Hide stuff? Maybe. Lie about it? No. He had no stomach for deception. So I told him I'd call back after I had gotten Gael out of the room. That way we could talk plainly about what was really wrong.

"Why can't you just to tell him to go wait outside?"

"Uh-huh. And if he asks why?"

"Tell him it's me on the phone.”

"Uh-huh."

"Tell him we need some privacy."

"Honey. I can think of something. Just let me get him out of here."

"Fine. You'll call me back?"

I gave Gael twenty bucks and told him to go see a movie. He'd been bugging me to take him to see some sci-fi called 'The Matrix.' He tried to persuade me to come along, too, bless his heart, but I insisted I wasn't interested. (I may also have insinuated that I had ulterior motives for asking him to leave me alone at the motel for a couple hours, but any ideas he got about why were his business and his alone.)

Then I called Daniel back. I asked him what was wrong. I prepared for an earful.

Cami had been acting out, he began. Classic start.

When I asked what 'acting out' meant this time, he reluctantly specified that our daughter had gone to Tim's house without permission. I reminded Dani that Tim was someone I regarded as trustworthy. Dani reminded me that he vehemently disagreed. I held the phone at arm's length for a moment as my Cro-Magnon husband finished grunting his distaste for Tim. I brought it back to my ear when I heard him say he'd grounded our daughter until I got back.

“Honey, it’s her Spring break.”

“Yeah? So?” he said stubbornly.

"Why until I get back?"

"So you can talk to her."

"Does she require some sort of motherly intervention?"

"Sara." I could hear him do that thing with his tongue. "Don't test me."

"Dani. I'm not 'testing' you. I'm talking to you."

"I ...” he started, but then he hesitated. I heard him muffle his receiver. I guessed it was my turn to be held at arm’s length for a second while my husband cooled his jets, collected himself, and remembered I was his wife. “Darn it, I-I'm sorry babe. I’m not on my A-game tonight. My head is pounding."

"When was your last drink?"

"Well. Nowish."

"How many have you had?"

"Hm’well, uh. I figure maybe eight?”

"Dani. How many?”

"Eight. I’ve barely started the ninth one. You caught me with it, so here, let me dump it. Th-there.” I heard nothing but presumed he was, truthfully, spilling his drink into the sink. “I dumped it.”

“There more where that came from?”

”N-no mamita,” he faltered. “Honest. This was the last little bit from the bottle.”

Bullshit. I gritted my teeth. I covered the receiver with my hand. I swore quietly into the void. Then I brought the receiver back to my chin.

"You've called Terry?”

"I was going to call him next. After I called my wife. Figured you should have first dibs taking a swing at me."

"Remind me when I get home. I will take you up on that,” I promised.

I let him have a moment's awkward chuckle. No point going hard on him right now. It'd just make things worse.

”Yep,” he chuckled. “I deserve that.”

"But for right now I think I’d rather you spare me the mea culpa. Are you finished? Any other major sins to unburden yourself of before you go call your sponsor?"

"Nope," he said a little too casually.

"Uh-huh," I squinted at the lithograph framed and mounted on the motel wall. Some local football stadium. I disliked it, in this moment.

"Oh, I’m fixing the stairs," he grunted. “To the basement.”

He was hiding something. He never hid something- not anything I minded anyway. Was I imagining things? Projecting my own recent sneaky behavior onto him? Gosh, were he simply to ask what was going on witg me. But alas. This was not his way.

I sighed my end-of-the-call sigh. "Well, I should let you go."

"Right. You two have a good drive?"

"You already asked me that."

"I did. Well. Have a good rest-up tonight, and uh, let me know in the morning, erm, tomorrow, after his interview thing, how it went."

"Uh-huh."

"Okey-doke. Well, babe." He smooched into his phone's receiver. "Good night. Miss you."

"Miss you, too," I said. I smooched him back. "Good night. Call Terry.”

I frowned at the phone for a moment after I hung up. I couldn’t have explained why I was so certain he was not about to call Terry. My gut simply told me so. And I frowned at this.

Oh well. That was there, this was here. The call had only taken minutes. I had the next couple hours free to myself. Gosh almighty, a bona fide luxury.

***

So, I took advantage of the opportunity to slip on my shoes and go for a walk. The evening was muggy. The parking lot was half full and all the rooms' doors faced outward toward the street. Ours was one of many with the curtains drawn shut. I had half a mind to open ours just to buck the trend. Let them see us. We were a happy, healthy mother and son duo on a normal trip to visit the local university.

I didn't make it far from the motel before I started to feel disinterested in walking. Norman was not the most scintillating place to visit. And anyway, I figured I owed it to myself to take fuller advantage of this alone time I'd just paid twenty bucks for. I pivoted right there on the sidewalk and headed back to our motel.

A passing pickup slowed and rolled down its window beside me while I walked. The driver called out kindly to me. Told me I looked like I could use a ride. I ignored them and kept walking. They rolled along beside me. Told me I must be the quiet type.

”Nope,” I smirked acidly, and tossed the driver one cold, calculated glance, “just a bitch.”

A shower was in order. Or better yet, a jacuzzi bath. Speaking of things I'd paid for.

The motel room had a wide, tall mirror opposite the bed. As I undressed, I folded my dirty things and piled them neatly on top of the covers. I watched my old, tired, motherly body appear naked, one article of relaxed travel-wear at a time. My breasts were a size larger than they had been when we'd gotten married. I liked them well enough, I guessed, especially now that they were the object of so much of Gael's affection. Even if that meant having to squint to blur my eyes and ignore the faint, asymmetrical sagging that was setting into them. My ass had a bit more plump to it, too, these days. And by all reports, it was still a lovely ass. But I turned and inspected it. I saw the stippling of cellulite. I saw the fine black-brown body hair that grew perilously low down my lower back, past where it started to look almost apish. I saw a pimple inside my left butt cheek. I popped it. I yelped. I went to get a bit of toilet paper to stanch the bleeding.

The light in the bathroom was a cold, cruel green. The stuff of nightmares. My waist had widened a few inches, but my legs had lost a significant amount of once-sexy, voluptuous weight. I was still fit-looking (yoga worked for me [greets the sun] [curtsies]) but in that sad, sinewy way special to women who weren’t ready to accept emancipation from a lifetime of self-imposed sexual subordination.

I looked great. I was being mean to myself, and I knew it.

But also I missed looking better.

No I didn't. I looked fine. I looked good enough to hook Gael’s interest, anyway. And that local yokel who’d hit on me from their pickup. What did one even call a person from Norman. Normanian? Normaner? Normal? 

I didn't like looking at myself in the mirror while I thought self-critical thoughts. It was unproductive. I glanced away as if I’d accidentally made eye contact with a stranger at a bar. I grimaced severely while she wasn't looking. Then I looked and smiled at myself again. I relaxed my face. I shed my mask and simply looked peacefully at the woman I’d become. I stared, neutrally, at her. Normally, almost.

‘Normanian’ was probably what you called them. 

I got the bathwater going.

***

I laid there in the silence after the noise of the jacuzzi had gotten old, with my ears beneath the surface of the still bathwater, and thought on the matter of the lock on the motel bathroom door. Should I have locked it? What if Gael got back while I was still in here?

No. He was probably only an hour into the movie. The Matrix. I had plenty of time to luxuriate. The Matrix. It had looked so strange. I couldn't even tell from the previews how what I was seeing was supposed to describe a movie, like with an actual plot and characters. It had just been a bunch of very serious people doing special effects ninja moves at each other.

I touched myself, idly, non-erotically. I didn't love masturbating in the bath, if we're being honest. Water was a terrible lubricant. And soap was a non-starter. But I did enjoy kind of gently caressing myself, tickling bits and pieces of me down there, politely appreciating my body's companionship. From an outside perspective I'm sure it looked very masturbatory. But it was just a nice-feeling thing I'd always done, since way before I'd even known what sex was.

***

Ay, mierda. Were we getting into that now?

Ahem. I mean. Perhaps a little backstory wouldn't hurt. Would that be okay?

You could say no! That would be fine! In fact, I would celebrate that choice!

... Last chance?

I was a child of the Sixties, reader. I didn't go to regular school. My sister and brother and I traveled with our Dad. As in, full-time. And I know how weird that sounds, but let me assure you it was weirder. Are you sure you're interested in reading about this stuff? You're at least 18? Don't lie to me.

Fine. Let's rip this off like a band-aid. While it felt wholesome at the time, the brutal summary truth of my upbringing is that my family ate and slept on the money we earned from being a sort of traveling sideshow of sexual open-mindedness. Outsiders looking in, present day self included, would have fairly labeled us a freakshow. But the communities we traveled in at the time regarded us kindly enough.

We regarded ourselves kindly, too. And before your mind goes prancing down the gutter, please know I don't mean that in any innuendo-y kind of way. My Dad was awesome, just awesome. And the three of us kids were thick as thieves. It was bliss.

Just, you know. The kind of bliss that can turn to shit if it ever happens to come into contact with reality. We had to live slippery, backwoods lives. Aspects sucked, I'll say so outright. But I wouldn't have had it any other way.

I sometimes missed it, in point of fact. 

It had been chaotic, and grueling, and yet also just endlessly, endlessly abundant with the stuff of life. We loved what we thought was the world. And it, in turn, regarded us like a vast lizard sunning on a great, hot rock. Lazily, with pink-eyed okayness, stoned.

What was I talking about again? Oh, right. Me.

Ick.

The long and short of it was, Dad died. We were just kids when he passed. My brother taught himself to drive Dad’s VW bus so that the communities we'd always traveled in, we could continue to travel in. But the way we were regarded changed. The things we were paid to do changed. The things we had to beg folks to stop trying to pay us to do got strange. And finally, after a certain incident none of us liked discussing, we agreed we had to get out. We left the open-minded sex community network entirely, went off the grid, and fully embraced our lostness.

***

I guess you could say you guys sort of ... unplugged from the Matrix?

***

Gael? This was supposed to be my chapter. Go away! You've had plenty.

Where did you come from, anyway? How did you do that?

Gael?

Hm. I think I needed to get out of this hot, cozy bath. I was starting to feel dehydrated.

The motel bath faucet dripped into the water. My ears were under the water. The water chirped at slightly differently pitches each time a drip dropped through its surface. They echoed, too. It was a pretty series of sounds. It wasn't lonely. It didn't make me think about the ugliness of plumbing. Each droplet's droplet-sound sounded like the word 'droplet.' This was what I thought about instead.

Alright, fine. I got out of the tub. I toweled off using a stiff, starchy motel towel. It smelled like bleach. Now I sort of smelled like bleach. And chalk yellow motel bar soap. And the sickly sweet honeysuckle shampoo that had come in the tiny complimentary bottle on the vanity. The faux granite vanity. I sort of hated the motel we were staying in.

I wrapped the towel around myself and went out into the motel room. Gael startled me. I dropped my towel. He startled me! I hastily snatched the towel back up and pressed it to the front of my nudity, then wiggled it around through my underarms so I could tuck it properly into itself. It stayed on just fine this time. Now that I was no longer startled.

"Why are you back early? Everything okay?"

He looked sheepishly at me from the armchair with the built-in ash tray by the window.

”I ... missed you.”

"Ah," I relaxed a little. I may have also accidentally blushed. I hoped my face still read as serious. "You scared me, you know."

"Sorry," he shrugged. "I just, uhm."

"You thought you might catch me doing something highly inappropriate for any parent to be doing while on a road trip with their son?"

"... Yes?"

"Well, you caught me taking a bath."

Gael smirked at me.

"Your towel fell."

"No, it didn't."

We stared at each other.

"Mom, are we not - ?"

"Gael,” I put up a hand, pleading nicely, “let's not."

"What?"

"I'm very tired from driving all day. You have a big interview tomorrow. Let's ... not be too silly tonight. Okay?" I almost hesitated to use the word 'silly,' as I was nervous it might trip the very trigger that I was trying to defuse. But I had to use that specific word to get my very specific point across.

We couldn't lose control. Not tonight. Not while I was feeling dehydrated. It wouldn't be right. I trusted my gut on this. My gut knew its way around unconventional conundrums.

"Are you ... serious?" Gael said.

"As a heart attack,” I frowned.

"There's only one bed, though."

I narrowed my gaze at him. I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. I awoke, vaguely and by accident, to an awareness of my vulva. I felt a wave of nervous heat roll down my spine. I diverted it into a vacuum at the center of my being, where it was swiftly swallowed whole, and whence it could never return. I squinted suspiciously at my son.

"I'm serious," I told him. "We can share the bed, but no funny business. Okay? We're just Mom and Guy tonight."

"Right," he scoffed. And he stood up. He was visibly erect and apparently fine with me noticing. Worse than 'apparently.'

"Gael," I took a step toward him. He flinched. He was just a boy. A big, erect, sexually frustrated boy.

"What are we supposed to do instead?" he asked.

"I," I pointed to myself, "am going to sleep. You are also going to sleep."

"But I'm not tired."

"Then stay awake. But don’t be up late. And don't be noisy. Here, flick on the lamp over there. I'm turning off the main light."

My son begrudgingly clicked on the lamp. I flipped the main light switch. Gael’s table lamp cast a warm yellow side-light on his disappointment. He looked like he still had something to say.

"What?" I sighed.

"You said we can't be 'too silly.' You didn't say we couldn't be remotely silly."

"Uh-huh.”

He looked at me, indignant.

”Alright, how about this," I offered wearily. I unlatched my suitcase. I fished out the few pairs of underwear I'd brought along. None of them were all that fancy. Which in itself I hoped would help me make my point. "You choose which pair I wear to bed."

"Huh," he said, a little disappointed, but trying to hide it. Like I'd given him a lame Christmas gift.

I repeated my offer. It was all I had for him. "Pick one. For me to wear tonight."

"These," he shrugged, and picked up the light blue pair.

"Those?" I frowned slightly, kind of before I even realized I'd done it. I concealed it immediately. "Why those?"

"Because they're the ones I pick," he whined as he trudged back over to his armchair in the lamplight.

"Guy. Don't be grumpy with me. I'm trying to be a good Mom."

"That’s," he clicked the lamp back off, as if in defiance of something or other, "why I'm grumpy."

"Gael,” I warned his darkened figure.

“What?” he huffed. “We’re alone. We could be as silly as we want. But I don't know what went and got stuck up your butt. We are in like the perfect setting to go completely wild without any consequences whatsoever. And instead, - "

“What has gotten INTO you?" I interrupted. I almost screamed. If we hadn’t been in a motel, I may have. But I didn’t want to be those people you heard shouting in the next room over.

"Shit," he snorted at me. At my capacity for emoting. "Nothing, apparently?"

I frowned severely at this response. It made no sense to me. 'Nothing, apparently?'.

"And what is that even supposed to mean?" I threw up my hands at him.

"Honestly? Just forget it, Mom,” he sneered.

I lost it right about: here.

"Mom?" he looked a little off-balance at my sudden waterworks.

Behold, the awfulness of Mom's plumbing. I took the light blue panties from him, blew my runny nose into them, and threw them back at him. They pelted him lamely in the chest and then fell almost noiselessly to his feet. Whatever. They could stay there for all I cared. I’d packed an extra pair anyway. Then I snatched up the obviously much cuter pink ones and stormed off toward the bathroom to go cry this one out. This wasn't one of those cries where we could simply carry on the conversation. I needed to go let it have its way with me.

"Mom," Gael said again, and followed me - at a safe distance - to the bathroom door.

"I'm fine, sweetheart," I scolded him, and pointed back toward the bed behind him. "Get ready for bed. We have to be up early."

He looked where I was pointing. The bathroom doorway's ghastly sterile light stretched our silhouettes across the carpet and up onto the bed. Mine was in a towel. His presently removed its t-shirt. It tossed its t-shirt. I was startled when a real-life t-shirt hit me in the face.

"Sorry," Gael snorted at me. "I didn't actually mean to do that."

I tore the fetid garment off my face. "That's it, buster." I pointed menacingly at him. "Don't test me."

"Geez, okay DAD," he groaned, and put his hands up in surrender. If there were a Gael action figure that I could buy this little shit for his seventeenth birthday, this right here would be the pose it struck whenever you pressed the button on its chest. His main, signature, trademark "Geez" pose. "Because you sound like Dad," he even added for clarity. Charming.

"S-sorry," I conceded. I never meant to act like Daniel. It was unbecoming.

"I never know what he means when says that. Don't test me? Like, in what sense am I ever 'testing' him?"

"Gael."

"As in like, GRADING him?"

"Stop."

"Stop what?"

"I'm going to bed. I'm just getting into my pajamas, first." I pointed to the nauseous fluorescent-lit bathroom behind me. "You really should think about coming to bed, too."

I saw his shoulders relax a little at being reminded of this inevitability. Sharing a bed did sound intrinsically nice. Reminiscent of old times. Of golden motel stays from way back when. Fine. He could have that, at least.

We just needed to get through tonight. And as for tomorrow? Well. Tomorrow could wait until tomorrow.

***

Oh, great. And here I'd almost forgotten what kind of story this was. You were here for all the gory details, weren't you? Well, apparently you could have them. Because here they came.

Yes, I was interested, sexually, in my son. He was not only healthy and handsome and magnetic for all the reasons anatomically ferrous to my unconventionally open-minded body, but being with him reminded me so much and so fondly of being with my oldest long-lost first-love, Dad. Make no mistake, Gael and Dad were polar opposites. Dad had been an unflappable clown. And a genius to boot. Not that my Gael wasn't brilliant. But Dad had a different kind of shine to him. An inventiveness. A weird, sexy freshness. Hard to put into words.

Hard to put into words. I seldom practiced even trying. Normally, this stuff kept itself over in 'gory details' territory, where I never saw reason to visit.

I can't say for sure how young I was when Dad first introduced me to sex. I remember my sister and brother were there, with me. I had been their baby, too. (And because unfortunately I should clarify: no, I was not literally my siblings' baby.) I was the last one to join the family bandwagon. I inherited the role of beloved little sibling. Yet, love me tightly though they did, the love my siblings had for each other was forever older than me, and taller, and tighter. I could only carry the coattails of such love, as their joint apprentice. And I was happy to do it. Sorry, am I rambling? Fond memories were fun to talk about, but could be a drag to listen to. Dad used to ramble all the time about Mom. So I understood.

Mom was gone before I got a chance to really meet her. I was only a year and change when she passed. The going story had always been that she took ill and died. Symptoms included extreme lethargy, hacking cough, and difficulty keeping down food. No one ever took her to a real doctor. And if she'd asked, I'm not sure Dad would have even known how. Sometimes, it was like he was from another planet.

Maybe that was why I'd grown to to be so dubious of sci-fi? Maybe it triggered some sort of deep, dark, sensory memory from my pre-linguistic beginnings. A vaguely worried feeling of lostness, of not being from around here, and an awareness that if we were ever to lose Dad before we'd gotten a chance to find our bearings, we'd be completely screwed.

Because, yeah. Losing him sucked. It didn't just hurt emotionally. It hurt every other which way, too. And on days it didn't hurt like I thought it should, I helped it hurt more. Better. I lost something like twenty pounds, down from eighty to sixty, between my eleventh and twelfth birthdays. Puberty came uncomfortably late for me. I looked like a child into my middle-late teens. If Dad hadn't died, I don't think I'd look the way I do today. Kind of young for my age. Perpetually. Terminally.

Us kids, we were not ready to go it alone. We were not privy to the scope of the danger we were in. Dad had not merely protected us, but insulated us, from the dangers that accompanied sexual liberation. Kept us naive to the existence of bad or scary or hurtful sex. Of course, he was only protecting us, trying to be the best dad he knew how, but his mushy paternal instincts left us easy pickings for the lurking monstrosities haunting the unconventionally open-minded community. For the predators we'd been led to think were toothless, peaceful lizards. Lizardlike, they were. Toothless they were not. In point of fact, many of them liked especially to bite.

You may wonder what-all happened. But there were gory details, and then there was what was visited upon my siblings and me during those lost years. Like a bad dream that just wouldn't end, the whole night long, no matter how we tossed and turned.

I was awake now. I could forget the dream. I preferred to, if that was okay with you?

Alright. Time to leave the bathroom. I could be done crying.

***

"You'd better have something on under there," I cautioned my son as I pulled back my side of the covers and fluffed my pillow up a little before getting in beside him.

Gael lifted up the blankets to let me see he had his boxers on. He wasn't even hard for me.

"Phew," I said, forcing a smile, and wiping a bead of cartoon sweat from my brow.

"Night," he huffed, and rolled over, putting his broad, muscly, pimply back to me. And there he stayed, pouting, as I luxuriated under the covers, yawned, and fell asleep.

Until about one minute later, when I heard him turn around. The motel mattress creaked and groaned any time one of us so much as wiggled a toe. So him turning was cacophonous. It rang my entire brain awake.

"Hey, Mom?" he whispered.

"Please go to sleep."

"Can I just tell you something?"

"It can wait until morning."

"Just listen. I, um. I sort of brought. Some like. Weed? For us to smoke."

I turned and glared at his silhouette in the dark beside me. With our curtains drawn it was almost pitch black in here. Almost. But I could see Gael's eyes.

"We don't do drugs," I growled flatly. I could have not felt older or less able to want to engage with this absurd proposal.

"Wh-what? But I-I thought. But you even said-. Y-you've always talked about how you were such a big 'flower child' growing up!" he pled. He struggled to remain at a whisper.

"Different kind of 'flower,' Guy," I sighed, and rolled onto my back. I wasn't about to face him with my whole body. Too risky. Too easy to want to close the gap. The body was foolish. The mind was sharp. I stayed on my back. I looked at the smoke alarm light. Or where it had been. Where it had blinked red for a second. Somewhere up roughly in the dark spot I was looking at. If I blinked, I saw a blinky green after-image. Then the real one blinked red again.

"So ... weed was a dumb idea?" he whispered.

"Since when do you do drugs?" I asked him.

"Um," he paused. I heard him fidgeting. Stalling. "S-since, I guess, ... pretty recently."

"Since you guess pretty recently?"

"Since recently. I tried it. I didn't hate it. And I thought it might be fun for me and you, to like ... I mean, you said you were a flower child. I could have sworn that's what that meant."

"That I did drugs? As a child?"

"I thought!"

"The Sixties were a strange time, kid, but they weren't THAT strange," I chuckled. Gael made me chuckle sometimes. "I was a 'flower child' as in I wore flowers in my hair. Literal, actual flowers that I would pick from wherever we visited. I liked wearing the local blossoms."

"Aw," Gael sighed. "That's ... actually pretty nice."

"Yes," I giggled. "It was."

"I'll bet you were so frigging cute."

"Ha," I blushed. "Maybe. We didn't keep any photos back then."

"Didn't ... keep them? What does that mean? You took them and got rid of them?"

"I mean, erm," oops. I did this sometimes. Accidentally over-reminisced. Leaked a little. "We traveled light. Dad never liked us keeping anything we didn't absolutely need to survive."

"Aw," Gael sighed. "That's ... actually pretty sad."

"Y-yes," I blinked. Deja vu. "It was."

Huh.

"Mom?"

"Son?"

"Can we at least just, like, kiss each other goodnight? Just like. A normal kiss?"

"Probably best we not."

"Shit. This sucks."

"Guy."

"What."

"Here."

I offered him my hand in the dark. He took it. We held hands. I held his lovingly. He held mine bedgrudgingly.

"Is that any better?"

"No?"

"Not even a little?"

"A teeny, tiny bit."

We let that soak in for a bit. It really was terribly sweet. I loved this kid so much. And obviously, well, it was no secret how I really felt about him. But we couldn't. Not tonight.

"Do you remember how I used to squeeze your hand?" I asked him, distracting myself.

Squeeze? I squeezed.

Squeeze-squeeze. He squeezed back.

Squeeze-squeeze-squeeze?

Squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-squeeze.

Squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-squeeze-...?

And we started squeezing each other's hands like crazy, like were locked in a frantic hand-squeezing cage match. We chuckled together in the dark. Or I did, anyway. I think Gael might have been forcing it a little.

I gave him a surprise kiss on the cheek.

"Hey, what the - ?" he complained, but I could feel his cheeks smile under my fingertips. I was touching his face now, too.

"You're a good kid."

"Of course you think that. You made me."

"Yeah," I kissed him again on the cheek. "You're my Guy."

"Mom."

"What?"

"Don't please."

"Oh, what, now I'm not allowed to act like a dorky Mom?"

"You're, like ... kissing and touching me. But then if I act like I like it, you're just going to turn it around on me and tell me to 'cool my jets' or whatever, and like, make it like it's all my fault you turned me on."

Ah, well. Hm. Guy was, like I said, painfully smart.

"... Sorry," I murmured.

"For real, though. Mom. We're not being silly, tonight, right?"

"Right." I smooched him again on the nose. Admittedly, yes, just to mess with him. I was feeling strangely unmoored.

"Don't," he begged.

"Fine," I sighed. I felt a strange sideways feeling. "It's bedtime. We're sleeping now."

We laid there staring at each other. It was difficult to hide my racing heartbeat. I had to force myself to breathe more calmly than my blood oxygen levels insisted that I needed to, effectively making me feel like I was half-suffocating myself.

I breathed slow and deep. Slow and deep.

"You're feeling it, too," Gael noticed.

"I'm sleeping," I reminded him.

"Neither of us is sleeping."

"Because one of us keeps talking."

"Mom?"

I ignored him.

"Mom."

I kept on walking down that sidewalk.

"MOM."

I rolled over, yanked a shoulder's worth of covers with me, and fell insistently to sleep. This was a skill I'd picked up in my youth. The ability to catch a bit of shut-eye at a moment's notice, whenever I couldn't be sure where I might be or who I might be with an hour from now. Or a day from now. Or a week from now. Or a month from now. Years from now. Lifetimes from now. Hm. Zzzz.

***

"Mom?"

She was out. Snoring. Everyone in our family snored differently. Mom's was proudly unattractive, which paradoxically made it super attractive. To me, anyway. Maybe I was weird.

I laid there, staring up at the motel ceiling. It was glittery for some reason. My cock tented the covers I had draped snugly across my lap. Every once in awhile, maybe once a minute, the smoke detector would wink its beady red eye at me. I painfully carefully very subtly humped the covers stretched taut across my cock. The blinking red dot overhead provided a sort of slow, lurching rhythm to my sex-crazed insomnia. As did Mom's snoring.

I got up. I went to the bathroom. I clicked on the light. I squinted at myself as my eyes adjusted. I looked tired. I looked flustered. I pulled my cock out, held it in my grip, and twisted my hips a little to see it from a couple different angles.

I liked my cock. Camila swore by this cock. She adored it. She worshipped it. Mark and Joe and Kyle even had a running joke, now, too, about how good my cock looked. I was pretty sure it was just a joke. Those guys were so strange with their nudity.

Mom, in contrast to Camila, absolutely tortured my cock. Teased it half to death. Refused steadfastly, unflappably, to make even the slightest skin-to-skin contact with it.

Refused to grab it, like this, and then forcefully, greedily start to jack it off, just like this. Like she wanted me to cum. And just me. Just her Guy. She had no interest in pumping and milking and teasing my shaft while she gently cupped and caressed my balls. L-Like this. While she gently but intently gathered speed. As I sighed about how good she was making me feel. About how I liked us being like this. How I appreciated that she and I could be Mother and Son but still be silly sometimes. Still just let that feeling overtake us when it wanted to.

It overtook me more than it overtook her.

She had not once surprised me with a sudden bare hand to my cock. She had instead, surprised me in endless other ways. Springing herself upon me in the dead of night. Waking me up to find myself already perilously close to orgasm, pinned beneath her steaming hot butt as she ground on me and fully welcomed me to go ham on her cute, jiggly Mom titties. Sometimes she wore nightshirts she could unbutton. That I was welcome to unbutton as she rode me. As she panted and puffed and filled the sweaty space between us with the warm sweet odor of her breath. She loved how much I loved her boobs. There was nothing she wasn't okay with me doing to them, so long as it didn't involve her coming into direct contact with my cock. Oh, sure, she could grind on me, completely bare-assed, until I came in whatever underwear I happened to have on. Usually my own. But God forbid she ever let me cum on her poor, sweet, innocent tits. Those were strictly for fondling, groping, smooshing, sucking, licking, chomping, tugging, and kissing on.

Not even so much as a hand job in the almost four months since we'd started letting ourselves get silly on a regular basis. Not so much as a gentle, bare-fingered caress. Plenty of groping, but only ever through some minimum of underwear, pants, and/or bedcovers. And sure, maybe once or twice she had swiftly and perfunctorily tucked me back in if my cock slipped out through the fly of my boxers or a leg-hole of one of her skimpier garments.

I caught myself scowling in the motel mirror as I mounted towards an orgasm. Yikes. I lost my focus for a second.

Here I was, masturbating alone while Mom snored away out there, oblivious, and indifferent besides.

But I couldn't go back out there like this. My nerves ablaze with desire. I needed to rub this one out. Then I was pretty sure I would be able to go out there and fall straight to sleep. I was road-lagged. I badly needed sleep. I needed to ace this interview thing tomorrow. For Mom. She had me all nervous about it for some reason, even though I had zero interest in becoming whatever a Sooner was.

The sooner I came, the better. I needed to get to sleep. I needed to wake up rested and get this stupid interview out of the way. And then ... well.

A boy could dream about whatever might conceivably, with just a little more convincing, come next. Mom had arranged for us to remain in this motel for an additional night, ostensibly so we could relax and not have to do two big days of driving in a row. But this also meant that after our early AM interview, we had the entire rest of the day to ourselves. To do whatever. However many times we wanted.

Honestly, what else could there possibly be to do in a town called Norman?

I needed to cum so that I could sleep, and so whatever silly dreams might feasibly come true could stand a fighting chance. I jerked off hard over the toilet. I focused on a scene. An image. I won't describe it here, because I didn't want to jinx it. It took a few minutes. The orgasm felt big and long on the approach, but felt quick and meaningless by the time it was done. Some of my cum spat onto the upturned toilet seat lid. I wiped it off with toilet paper. I also wiped up what I'd dribbled onto the toilet seat itself. I wiped myself off, too. Then I peed. I flushed. I glowered at myself in the mirror.

I looked like I needed more sleep than I was about to get.

Mom and I didn't snuggle or spoon or anything the whole night. We slept facing opposite sides of the bed. But she did let our feet touch. The soles of our feet were in-bounds. She let us keep each other's toes warm under the blankets the entire, too-short night. And by the time the alarm clock went off, even though we were all higgledy-piggledy under the covers by that point, one of my feet still had a toe on one of hers. God, and but the sun wasn't even up yet. Fuck. I slapped the buzzing, alien alarm clock. I accidentally turned on the radio. The DJ shouted his laughter at me as I begrumblingly army-crawled my way up out of bed and half onto the motel nightstand where I could better reckon with the infernal machine.

Chapter Text

Mom was reading a book in the hallway outside Admissions. She had put her cardigan on. She would say it was because the A/C was too chilly for her. But what I’d bet she would have meant was she’d worn a summer dress with no bra, and her nipples were on the verge of wearing holes through the soft fabric. She was wearing her reading glasses and had a big smile when she looked up.

"Hey sweetie. How’d it go?”

“I honestly have no idea,” I yawned. She looked at me waiting for more of an answer. I shrugged at her. I was ready to leave. “I answered all her questions. She touched my, like, leg. And my arm. And kept telling me I didn’t need to worry.”

“You sound bored,” Mom frowned, concerned. "Did you at least act interested for her?" She took her reading glasses off. She folded them up and tucked them into her big purse along with her book. She made a perfunctory spot for me on the bench beside her.

I blinked at it.

“Uh. Can we go, actually? Instead of sit? This place stresses me out. It smells like a school and a church had a baby.”

"Guy," Mom sighed.

"In a library."

“I hope you didn’t crack jokes about their lovely campus in your interview,” Mom sighed again and stood up tersely before me. She smoothed her dress across her thighs. She slung her purse over one shoulder then crossed her arms and sort of gave me one last look of distaste. She looked fucking incredible glaring at me like that. Her boobs sort of squeezed upward together when she folded her arms underneath them, too. Even the cardigan couldn’t hide how cutely they were shaped. “Well?” she scoffed, pointing behind me to the exit. “Let’s go. You apparently need some fresh air.”

“Mom, remind me again. Why did we even have to do this?”

“Have to?” she scoffed. “I think what you mean to say is, ‘Gee, Mom, thanks for driving me eight hours to have a chance to visit a really great university I might think about attending after I graduate.’”

“I’m a sophomore. I don’t need to be thinking about this stuff yet. None of my friends are.”

“Really? So the great and powerful Kyle O’Dowd isn’t planning to attend college next year?”

“I mean none of my sophomore friends,” I groaned as I held the door for her. "And even if they were, I doubt Oklahoma would be at the top of their lists."

"This is a terrific school," Mom said.

She was clearly annoyed with me.

Mom in a sundress. God. I wanted her to wear it to bed. Pull the top down, hike the skirt up, but keep it on. She looked so Mom-like, so confidently cute.

We drove back to our motel. She let me drive.

“So. Now what?” I asked the question she had to have known was coming.

“Turn your blinker on,” she said.

I flicked it on. It ticked. I looked at her.

“You look really nice, by the way,” I told her.

She looked at me like I had just told her something terrible. But she blushed a little. Then she seemed to swallow whatever that physiological reaction had been, and promptly un-blushed. She glared straight ahead at the changing traffic light.

“It’s green,” she said.

“Mom?” I frowned.

“Go. You can turn,” she stepped reflexively on a non-existent gas pedal on her side.

Someone two cars behind us honked.

“Mom, if you are telling me you wore THIS of all dresses …”

“Gael. Cut it out. Drive!"

“… and expected me to just hang out with you ALL day in the world’s most boring city, literally an entire place named frigging NORMAN … ”

“Gael! Please stop! And just GO!”

“… like a ‘normal’ insanely horny son and his 'normal' insanely hot Mom, like, like, you’re seriously telling me …”

“OKAY. FINE.”

“… see ZERO reason whatsoever we cannot go even slightly silly just one stupid time on this never-ending trip to …”

“HERE,” Mom spat. She wrenched open her cardigan, snapping something in the process, and tugged down the front of her sundress. Her bra-less tits popped free. They were beautiful. Her nipples were hard and dark and alive with angry energy. Mom sat there, her bare brown breasts heaving rapidly as she panicked in hard silence, and held her sweater open, letting me look. Demanding that I look. So that I would stop talking and just fucking drive.

I stopped talking.

The car directly behind us honked now, and the one behind it joined the chorus. Longer honks this time. All around us, it felt like.

“Satisfied?” she hissed, glaring at me.

“Yup,” I gulped. And we began to drive again. I got honked at again even as I turned and left the intersection behind us. Someone hollered something out their window at us. It was a lazy, unspectacular epithet, but it made me laugh.

“What’d he call us?” Mom asked, putting her tits away again, and laughing a little from the adrenaline spike of being honked at while topless in public.

“Motherfuckers.”

“Oh,” Mom scowled. She fiddled with a button on her cardigan. “Shit. Did I break this?”

I chortled.

“This was brand new!” She punched the console of her car.

“Oh? So not only is this outfit a deliberate attack on my hormones, but you literally just bought it for this trip.”

“HUSH you,” she smacked me again, on the arm this time. "I should ground you for the rest of Spring Break. Show your sister how it's done."

"Sh-she's grounded? For what?"

"She, um. Ahem," Mom cleared her throat. "She went to a friend's without asking permission."

"So? It's Spring Break?"

"It was a friend we don't like."

"Who? Melanie? She sucks, but she's not like. Bad? That I know of. He GROUNDED her for that?"

"She's still just a kid, Guy," Mom shrugged, presenting a weirdly united front. Usually she was happy to dunk on Dad's inability to parent without Mom present; which was to say, on his inability to parent. "You forget that sometimes."

"Do not," I scoffed. "Mila hangs around me more than either of you guys. Trust me. I know exactly how dumb she is. But as much as I approve of disapproving of Melanie, it really is sort of bullshit that you'd ground her for going over there."

"It's her brother I don't like," Mom suddenly shifted tone. She narrowed her gaze at me.

"Kyle?"

"We don't love you hanging out with him, either, to be honest. But you we trust. Camila, she's too reckless."

"She wears pants at friends' houses."

Mom touched my arm.

"She's ungrounded as soon as we get home. Your Dad wants me to speak with her."

"About ... Kyle."

"About making smart decisions as a young, hazardously sweet treat."

"Did you just call your own daughter a treat?"

"Both my kids are beautiful," Mom smirked, and the hand on my arm upgraded to a caress.

I remembered the interview for a second. Or, well, I remembered the interviewer. She had had nice fingers. Smart, pretty, like a pianist’s, or like someone who did origami for pleasure. I sort of spent a good portion of the interview fantasizing about things my interviewer did for pleasure. She had touched my leg once, almost like a reflex, because I kept making her laugh when she was trying to be serious. And then that had opened a flood gate, I guess, to lots of additional flirty touching. And by the end she had been literally holding my hand and doodling a sort of palm reading with her middle fingertip on my palm as I watched and fantasized about that fingertip to the soundtrack of her postulations about where she figured she might be after she graduated.

Had I … interviewed her by accident?

“Honestly, you could look into psychology,” the interviewer had said, giggling and poking my knee. “I like can’t help telling you my life story.”

“Guy?” Mom said. “Can I just say something for a second?”

“What?” I came back to my surroundings. We were on the last quick stretch of straight highway before the motel.

“Here, pull over a sec. Here at this Waffle House is fine." She pointed to a little row of parking spots lining the windowed diner's front exterior. "Park in there.”

“Gross,” I said, but obeyed her. I pulled up and parked. An old, small couple lunching in the window turned to chewingly, eyes half-closed, regard us. We stayed in our vehicle. We tried to ignore them.

“Listen,” Mom said. And instantly I could sense that she was not doing terrifically well. “The feeling here?” She pointed back and forth between us. “Is mutual. Okay? It is taking every fiber of my being to be an even halfway normal human person around you on this trip.

“But you must please understand. Okay? Are you listening? Gael, I need you to look at me.”

I looked at her.

She offered me her hand.

I had to glance down to register that's what she was doing. Then I took it. And I looked back up.

“I’ve told you my Papi passed away when I was little -”

“Right."

Mom looked at how our hands almost matched. Mine were bigger and just a bit knobbier knuckled. She laced her fingers in between mine. I was tanner than her. Track kept me in the sun.

“I was just a kid,” she whispered. “Not ready for the world. Not ready to grow up.” Mom looked up, not at me, but at the fabric ceiling of the cabin interior, like she needed to wail. “Not ready to be a Mom," she said simply.

I just held her hand. I gazed at her face. I listened. Huh. Maybe I could look into psychology.

“Honey. I’ve never told you this, but I had already been pregnant once before. B-before you came along.”

I nodded. I was here. She could keep going.

“Guy, this is hard to talk about. But I think you should hear it. Because the truth is I’m not a considerably … well person. I'm not well. Even if I act it. Some truly, truly evil things have happened to me. I-in my lifetime, things I cannot speak about, that I am okay letting you know happened, but not okay describing or reliving."

She sort of went quiet for a little while. We were at Waffle House. I was pretty sure we weren't going in.

"Sometimes I can't believe I’m still alive, somehow, today."

"Huh," I said. I felt like I needed to say something just to let her know I hadn't drifted off.

"I've gotten so used to there being this part of me that I just ... can't see. Can't think about. Can't go near it. But it's always, always been standing there, looking at me, staring at the back of my head, waiting for me to turn and see it, even just by accident, one of these years. I have gotten so used to just never ever ... I can live like it's not there. So automatically."

"Is this making sense? Am I rambling? I'm sorry."

“I’m listening,” I assured her.

“Gael. I … I truly felt like I had no choice. I couldn’t, couldn't do it. I couldn't! Have a kid?! I WAS a kid!”

“Uh-huh,” I said. “Right. … Wait. What?”

“I couldn’t. And your tía Vivi agreed. Of course. She took me to get it, you know, - um. She drove me, took care of me, helped me through it. She saved me from it.”

“Mom. I missed something. What?”

“She HAD to, didn't she? I was too young, and - and I just couldn’t. I couldn’t do it. She knew I couldn’t have his baby. I couldn’t be its mommy AND its … ”

“Mom. Are you saying you, like, had an abortion?”

“I never asked for any of it,” she sobbed. She apologized. "I wanted the baby. I knew I couldn't. I knew. It scared me bad enough, I knew. But I... w-wanted it." She let go of my hand. She tore a fistful of tissues out of her purse. She blew her nose pathetically. She tucked the snotty wad into a plastic grocery bag we’d designated the road trip trash bag.

The two old Waffle House voyeurs must have been riveted by the show we were giving them. Mom was a mess. I looked shocked and confused. Lord knows what they thought we were talking about.

“But so. You didn’t want to be its mommy and its … what, again?” I asked the strange question she’d left hanging open.

“If I tell you this," she sniffled, pausing carefully to think this through. "If I begin to tell you, it’s because I trust you to hear me all the way out. Okay? This is something that only my brother, my sister, and your father know anything about. But I want to share it with you now, too, sweetie. If. If you want.”

She took my hand again. Hers was uncharacteristically clammy. Mine may have been, too. Weird. This was weird. What was Mom talking about?

“My Papi. Tu Abuelo. W-was the father. Of the baby. That I had to - . That I lost. Okay, sweetheart? That’s why I had to do it. Th-they ask. When you go in to see your obstetrician. Who is the father? You have to let them know about any instances of … well.”

“Incest,” I barely murmured, much less comprehended.

“Correct."

“Geez," I said. I gaped at her, helpless. Hapless. What was I supposed to do with this? Hug her? Cry? Go inside and slap the couple watching us upside their stupid wrinkly faces? No, me, I gaped at her.

“Yep,” she sniffle-snickered. “That’s about how I thought you might take it.”

She had her sad Mom smile on again. She shook her head. She dabbed her eyes and nose with a Kleenex.

The moment felt so weird. We were in the middle of nowhere, literally in the middle of a conversation I never would have dreamed up. And I'd had some pretty elaborate Mom-related dreams lately.

She looked at me, into me, onto me. She smiled pure relief at the non-freak-out I was accidentally displaying. I was okay enough, I guessed. But I badly wanted to hold her. Was that not okay? I felt bad for Mom, for little girl Mom, and for everything she had gone through. Her own father had impregnated her. Mi Abuelo.

Hm. Yeah. That was a really, really tricky fact to just simply pick up and add to my brain. To my vast store of known facts about Mom. To my much smaller store of known facts about Abuelo, who'd bitten it way before I ever had a chance to meet him, and who I'd up until now - up until this one weirdly misshapen factoid regarding having fucked a baby into his daughter - heard nothing but good things. Dad and my aunt and uncle on Mom's side knew about this. Frigging Vivi knew. Ick. 

And then, out of the blue, we both sort of cracked up. We laughed a little at the same time, and then we sort of exploded. We caught each other as we flew apart, and hugged and cried and maybe sort of kissed here and there, but nothing that went anywhere. Just sweet, impulsive, weirdly honest little kisses. Then we broke apart again.

The old couple was sipping their like eighth cup of fucking coffee and staring at us.

I put my hand on Mom's forearm. It was prettily fuzzy. And we looked at each other and just laughed a little more, sort of sadly but nicely.

Eventually, Mom took a long, deep breath, withdrew her forearm from my touch, and put her hands together in her lap.

"Guy. Can you promise to be good when we go back to the motel?"

"Hm. Good how?"

"If we go back to the motel and things start to get … silly, I mean. You’ll be ... good? For me?”

"Can I be good and silly?" I frowned.

She nodded, and shrugged. "That's sort of what I'm asking," she scrunched her nose at me. 

"Oh. Okay. Then yeah. Like. YES. Are you serious?"

We left Waffle House. I drove us the final four miles. She held my hand the entire time, which might not normally have felt very silly, but had me hard as frigging hell. Her palm was so sweet to touch. She had girl skin. That extra sweet, slightly cool to the touch, extra soft stuff girls come wrapped in.

“I can’t believe I told you,” she murmured at one point.

I squeezed her hand.

She squeeze-squeezed back.

“You always talked so fondly about him,” I said.

“Yeah,” Mom sniffled. “He was a good Dad. Amazing, really."

"Just … up until the end. Obviously."

"It's ... not so obvious to me. I ... never really. Could make sense of it. He loved us so damn much. It had to have killed him just to leave. I sometimes think ... maybe something else ..."

“So, wait, are you saying he got you pregnant, and then LEFT? I thought he DIED. What is HAPPENING?"

“Mm. Well,” Mom shifted in her seat, flattened her already wrinkleless skirt, couldn’t quite seem to get comfy, and then sighed. And spoke her truth. “He left. He couldn’t ... For what I’d - we’d - done. Without his input. His say-so. In secret. It was like... W-when he found out, he said…”

Mom choked up for a second. I held her hand through it. Then she finished.

“He said that night, ‘We can always start over.’ And, and, I remember I was terrified at that. Those words. Start over. Because I thought he meant he could just keep … trying. On me. All that night I couldn’t sleep because I kept waking up from horrible dreams where he had sneaked up on me. Where I caught him hiding past the foot of my bed. Staring at me in the dark. But the sun came up. And Vivi came and told me he was gone. Papi had abandoned us. He’d taken his bag. But he'd left a drawing. One I’d drawn for him. Of us. Of us just being happy together."

Mom shared this story as if talking to a stranger on the bus. Her tone was so plain, almost noncommittal, as if at any moment she was ready for me to let go of her hand and tell her, ‘This is my stop.’

“M-Mom?” I faltered. Shit, I think I was feeling more emotional than she was about this heartbreaking loss she was describing.

“He couldn't bring it with him. It weighed too much, I guess."

"Geez, Mom. Seriously."

"I’d broken his heart. I'd forgotten he was human, and that I could really hurt him. And I’d hurt him so badly he didn't something I didn't ever think was even possible. He - ." Mom choked. She choked loud. Then she shook her head. "He broke my heart, sweetie. And then he did the one thing that had always made the most sense to him. He moved on. When reality threatened to ... wake him from his dream."

"I thought for sure he'd come back. I was sure it would hurt him too much to stay away from us. To even try to imagine a life without us. I knew, knew, knew he loved us.”

“Bullshit! He left! He abandoned you!”

“He was in crisis. We had killed his baby. In secret."

“He wanted out of the Matrix,” I scoffed. “And he was willing to abandon his children to get there.”

“I don’t even understand what you just said," Mom furrowed her brow.

“Mom," I sighed humongously. We needed to hit the eject button on this shit. Stat. This was too much. No wonder she never thought about it. It was TOO much. "Listen," I placed my hand on her knee. "I know this is ... all very super heavy. Very serious, difficult subject matter. And I promise. I promise. I will keep your secret to my grave…”

“Well, son, Dad knows. So you and him could, in theory- ”

“I’d rather not,” I assured her.

At some point we had arrived at and parked outside of our motel. I had driven us here. I had no recollection of selecting this parking spot. We were beside the motel pool. Some cute little kids were hollering at the edge of the pool just in front of us. They jumped in one by one, each screeching the made-up name of the dive they were doing as they struck spastic mid-air poses and then splooshed into the blue.

Yeah. I wanted two of whatever they were having. For me and for Mom. I put my hand on one of hers in her lap.

“Mom. Coming from a place of sincere love and respect and just wanting for you to always be happy, and only happy, from now onto forever?"

"... What?" she squinted at me.

"You and I should smoke a joint and go see The Matrix.”

“Right. The sci-fi ninja movie?” she frowned.

“The sci-fi ninja movie,” I squeeze-squeeze-squeezed her hand. “I still have that twenty bucks you gave me yesterday. I walked to the theater and checked the prices, then came back. So that I could tell you we could get two tickets, a large pop, and a bucket of popcorn for twenty bucks.”

“And if I say no, like a responsible adult?"

“Then you’ll have to endure a lifetime of me making Matrix references that you’ll never understand.”

“Uh-huh. And you promise this fate can be avoided if I simply: do drugs with you.”

“Mom. I’m rolling us a joint. We are smoking it. Look at those kids. Splashing and having fun. Don't you want to be like those kids? We're smoking a joint. And then we’re taking you to get your mind blown at the movie theater."

“By Keanu Reeves?” I said. “Doubtful."

“Mom. Did you not see him in Speed? He rules.”

“Did not care to see that one.”

“Okay. Well. Note to self. We are renting Speed when we get home.”

“Pass.”

“It’s just a fun action movie.”

“I don't find death and blood and guts fun.”

“Mom. I appreciate how much of a Mom you are capable of being. I really, like, obviously do. But let’s go back to our room, and you can look up movie times while I roll us that joint, okay?”

I let go of her hand and unstrapped my seatbelt.

“Gael. No. I’m not smoking drugs with you.”

I was exiting the vehicle. Mom was still buckled in.

“Guy. I’m not messing around. One of us needs to stay sober.”

I shut the driver’s side door. I walked around to the passenger side. I opened Mom’s door for her and politely offered her my hand getting out. She sighed frustratedly and took it.

“How did you grow up into such a bon vivant?” she grumbled as she stood up to her full, petite height before me. I took her into a short sweet hug.

“What did you call me?” I smirked, confused but a little aroused to hear Mom speak French. Spanish, I could take or leave. But French? Hell oui.

“You're an animal,” she translated.

“Oh,” I shrugged, and gave her perfect butt a beastly squeeze. I couldn't see what I was grabbing with my eyes, but through just two thin fabrics (sundress, panties) I could vividly and precisely envision the grippy deformations of her musculature my fingers were creating.

“Hn,” she grunted, but didn’t quite push me away.

“I am trying to help you,” I said.

She scoffed, spun, and caught me in a quick, assertive kiss. I snorted.

“I don’t need your help. I’m your fricking Mom. And don’t you forget it.”

And she squeezed my ass right back! I blushed and almost burst out laughing. We were in public! In broad daylight! A couple of families with young kids were frolicking in the motel pool nearby. Sure enough, right on cue:

“Ooo, look-look! They’re KISSING!”

“Ewwww! GROSS! Not in PUBLIC!”

"Stop it! [raucous laughter] STOP IT!"

They actually managed to splash some water onto our windshield. Their weary, sunburnt parents yelled at them to leave us alone from their little sun-umbrella'd picnic table. But they shot us complicated looks of apology and disapproval.

Oh well. If our fellow motel guests had mistaken us for mother and son before, I supposed they knew now that we were something much, much sillier. 

***

“Okay. Fine. I admit I may need help with this.”

Mom was frowning, cross-eyed, at the joint in her lips. I had urged her not to light the joint on fire, but instead to try to sip the flame into the cherry end, as if pulling through a straw. But some psychic barrier or another was getting in her way. Her lighter hand kept trembling, and twice already she’d burnt her thumb.

“Here, let me get it rolling for you,” I insisted, and took the joint and lighter. I slowly, demonstratively, took a nice deep hit, sipping and puffing on the lighter flame and slowly rotating the joint in my fingertips to try and evenly distribute the heat. With full, stinky lungs, I held my hit in and nodded that it was her turn now. I proffered the joint semi-urgently, my incessant glancing at the glowing red cherry intended to convey ‘Hurry, it’s rolling!’

“Actually, do you want to just give me yours?” Mom asked, and before I could process her request, she had my face by both cheeks directly in front of hers. “Blow it into my mouth!” she commanded.

I exhaled. Mom sealed her open mouth around mine. I had never done anything like this before. I could hear the whooshing noise of my lungs’ smoke filling hers like a balloon. Only maybe halfway through my exhalation, she hit a wall, coughed directly into my throat, and broke our seal. She coughed and spluttered. I gave her a minute. She doubled over on her side of the bed. I patted her back.

“Coughing is good,” I told her what had been told to me. “They say, ‘You cough, you get off.’”

Mom, despite her spluttering discomfort, looked up from her lap and gave me an unamused look.