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Kingston Court: Book One
by: Amy Reed
Chapter 1 | Jacob
I stuffed my dick back into my jeans for like the hundredth time. Whatever position I tried, it still looked like there was a fucking sausage down there. I’d gotten by over the summer with a desperate combination of gym clothes, loose cotton PJs, and swim trunks, but school didn’t permit “casual apparel” during class hours.
Honestly, I hadn’t realized how bad it was until I tugged a fresh pair of Levi’s up over a fat slab of morning wood, and walked by the full-length mirror next to my door.
It looked like a banana, except bananas don’t grow that long.
“Goodbye, dorky reputation,” I smirked, shamelessly admiring the rest of me.
I looked pretty good. A definite B minus on looks. I took after my mom, thank God, who was — not be gross or anything — a super hot blond, and I was getting pretty muscular for my age. Having no friends, eating like a pig, and working out on your dad’s neglected Bowflex all summer had certainly changed my body.
I even had real, actual, no bullshit abs, not that anyone outside my family had ever seen them.
My dick, though. That was my pride and fucking joy. My big fat prick had just grown and grown all summer, going from a very average 5.5 inches to, at last check, 9 ¼ inches long!
I could not fucking wait to wave it in everybody’s face.
New school. New dick. New life.
I giggled in excitement. Then, horrified, coughed and gave my reflection a manly little nod.
I was almost halfway down the steps to the kitchen before I imagined explaining my new dick — and my new dick print — to an angry assistant vice principal. I’d met her at orientation. She was a bitch.
I tried to imagine sitting in her office while she called my mom. Or worse, my dad, who spanked me at the dinner table last week, just for saying Jennifer Lawrence was “hot” — I have a thing for curvy blonds, sue me — and once made me drink a teaspoon of Palmolive dish soap when he found a naked picture on my phone.
Thank fuck he hadn’t found the folder I’d named “Language Packs” and hid in the directory for iBible.
If he saw me, with my long, chubby manhood pushing out my jeans like a denim cucumber, he’d snap it off and shove it so far up my ass I’d be able to get my tongue and my dick pierced at the same time.
And Mom, well… she probably wouldn’t say anything. But she’d know. And every time she looked at me, I’d know. About my dick, I mean. It would be inside her. Rubbing up against her thoughts. Her opinions. She’d look at Dad’s no doubt incredibly average five-inch noodle, or whatever, and there I’d be. She’d use her vibrator, and boom. Jacob’s dick. Fat and throbbing. Right there in her brain. Forever.
The idea really stressed me out.
And I had enough shit in “Language Packs” already.
So I’d stomped back up, peeled off my jeans, and tried everything I could think of. All my tricks from the summer. Briefs, boxers, swim trunks, a thin pair of shorts, and even a piece of tape to hold it down.
The tape actually worked pretty good, but I gave it a quick boner test and damn near circumcised myself.
I eventually settled on good old Commando, feeding my meaty prick down a pant leg, and just sort of… covering it up with a pocket. If I slid a hand into my jeans, I could hide it and rub it at the same time.
Not that, I mean. Not that I would. But it’s important to have as many dick related options as possible.
Hopping and tugging on my jeans, reaching through the fly and smooshing it, I flattened my dick as much as possible, counted to twenty while I waited for it soften, and grabbed a jacket to hide behind.
Since it was supposed to be 90 degrees today, I’m sure carrying around a fucking jacket would do wonders for my social status.
“This is such bullshit,” I told my reflection, before bounding downstairs and grabbing my sister’s Pop-Tart right out of the toaster. It burned my fingers, and it was strawberry—the grossest of all flavors—but I wasn’t all that hungry, and pissing her off meant I got to watch her pout before running for the bus.
I didn’t notice how much strawberry I’d smeared all over my shirt until almost third period, by which time about half the school thought I was a gross, strawberry-smelling slob.
New school. New dick. Same old me.
…this was going to be a great year.
So “Having a Big Dick” is supposed to be great, right?
I mean, it’s every guy’s dream to unzip at a urinal with that tiny bit of pride, or to see eyebrows go up when you pitch a tent like a circus fucking Big Top. Right?
Well, it was mine.
But you really only want that for a few hours a day. The rest of the time—hugging your mom, talking in front of class, running under any goddamn circumstance, picking your cousin up from preschool, whatever—it’s gross and horrible. And worse, when your dick is big and bulky, just about everything hurts it.
Oh, you think you can have a zipper? Jagged, metal teeth pressing against your dick all day?
Cheap cotton underwear?
Sure. But why not save time and just …sand your dick right off?
Oh, oh, did you sit down without carefully (and graphically) ‘adjusting’ yourself?
Well, welcome to Squish Town, buddy. Population: 2. (bruised testicles.)
To say nothing about Random Boners.
You know what’s worse than throwing a bone at a funeral?
Throwing a bone you can see from space.
In other words, it sucked. And I was STILL a virgin, and I was STILL an unpopular fuck up, and I was STILL in love with my sister.
Oh don’t worry, we’ll get to that.
Determined to salvage my debut, I waited until between 3rd and 4th period and slipped into the bathroom next to the wood shop. I waited around until someone came in—a skater with skinny jeans, sweater paws, and a beanie—and smirked.
This was going to be great.
I swaggered up to the urinal, stood a full foot back from that square, porcelain mouth, whipped out my big fucking donkey dick, aimed, and fired.
I pissed like a fucking racehorse.
And you know what happened? Skater boy turned, screwed up his face, and said: “are you showing me your dick, dude?”
“What?” I said, a limp little chubby in both hands like a corn dog without a stick. “No!”
“Dude, I saw you walk over here. There’s four urinals right here? And you picked the one next to me.”
“I… No. I mean… I didn’t- I just, um—”
“Pretty gay, dude,” he said, slapping the flusher and leaving without washing his hands.
I slumped against the sink and put my head in my hands.
Why was I such a fucking loser?
“Hey,” I heard, out in the hall. “This gay dude totally just flashed me his dick.
“Oh,” I said. “Fuck.”
“No way.” Came a second voice. “Who was it?”
“That one guy with the big pink smear on his shirt.”
Laughter. “That blond pretty boy who smells like fruit?”
“Yeah, he was probably in there pumping his quads or whatever. He came right up to me and like… wiggled his dick in my face.”
“Oh gross!” Laughter. “He must have fallen for those gorgeous blue eyes, huh?”
“Dude… shut up.”
“Face it. They’re dreamy, bro.”
“So… you wanna see my dick?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t bring my microscope today. Now FUCK OFF, Spencer.”
At which point they drifted away from the door, leaving me to look down at my dick and just sigh.
Immediately, the door swung open. A guy in cargo shorts, army boots, and a blue t-shirt with a stylized pony…person…girl and the words: Friendship is sexy! stomped in looking at the ground. His backpack, a nylon boulder covered in stickers—most of them Japanese—landed next to the closest urinal with a thump.
Looked at me.
Looked up at me, angry.
“Is that your dick, dude? Gross.”
He had the kind of voice that always sounds stuffed up, even when it isn’t.
I shoved my prick back into my pants and stormed out before things could get any worse.
“Hey!” the guy shouted at my back. “You didn’t wash your hands!”
Oh, yeah. Having a big dick? Is a fucking blast.
Sixth period. Spanish.
I was curled up in my desk at the back of the room, next to a map of South America labeled in Spanish. Or English, I guess. Hard to tell with a map.
We’d been given about a million handouts, and our teacher—Ms. Acosta—was explaining the importance of learning a second language in a diverse and globally rich boobies. Or something.
She was young, pretty, had like a ‘TV Mexican’ accent, and breasts that were the size, shape, and color of big, ripe cantaloupes. They were stuffed down into a simple beige dress with a tiny denim jacket, and little canvas shoes the same color as her dress. As she moved around, the lacy edges of her bra slid in and out of view, wrapped around a fat slit of cleavage like a deep, dark mouth that I wanted to—
“Mr. Kingston?” she asked.
She was looking right at me. Her eyes reminded me of dark, wet chocolate.
“Huh?” I said.
She gestured for me to stand up.
I got about two inches off my seat when I felt the throbbing bulge of a massive, swollen hard on.
I dropped back into my seat.
My balls took a brief vacation to Squish Town, and I nudged them back up with a grimace.
“I’m good,” I said.
“Everyone has to introduce themselves, Mr. Kingston.”
I lifted back up a few inches, shifting my handouts so they would cover me up.
“Hi, I’m Jacob Kingston, I’m new in town, my Dad’s the new—”
“Up here, Mr. Kingston,” she said, pointing at a spot abreast of her at the board.
I shook my head. The embarrassment was only making my erection worse. Dozens of eyes were burning into me.
I could just stand up and show off my dick RIGHT NOW, I thought.
My greedy cock, hungry for some kind of validation after a day of disappointment, throbbed in agreement.
Fine. Fuck it.
I adjusted things so my dick would look its biggest, and stood just in time for the Public Address system to Click. Everyone immediately looked up at the speaker.
“This is your vice principal Gerald Strickland. Yes, just like in Back to the Future. Yes, it’s just a coincidence.” He paused. Then: “If anyone knows the whereabouts of Emily Kingston,” he continued, “please dial RED 9 and inform someone in my office. Again, if anyone—”
I snickered. At least my sister was having a worse day than I was.
I sat back down.
“And while I have your attention,” Mr. Strickland went on, “I’d like to remind all students that the bathroom is for toilet and hand washing activities, and not a strip club or a singles bar.”
I stopped snickering.
“Please refrain from flashing your fellow students, and leave the bathroom once your hands are clean. I’ve received multiple reports of someone violating this rule, and if it continues, they’ll be very sorry indeed. Thank you for your attention.” Click.
My eyes closed, and my head slowly drifted down to my desk.
“We’re running out of time,” Ms. Acosta sighed, “so we’ll have to finish our introductions tomorrow.” She crossed her arms and her breasts pushed up and into her cleavage like rising bread. “Remember that we’ll have a vocabulary quiz at the start of every class, that includes tomorrow’s class, and—” the bell sounded. Her voice tripled in volume. “—don’t forget to do the reading online, and answer the questions on your sheet.”
Her class started to flow into the hallway. I stood, making a shield out of my handouts.
“Mr. Kingston,” she said, very loudly. “Stay in your seat. I want to talk to you.”
There was a lazy, half-assed, You’re-Gunna-Get-It Wooo as people turned to shoot me mean, Schadenfreude grins.
I sat back down and looked at the ceiling.
And I really thought that I’d enjoy her class, boob.
My teacher, arms crossed, waited for the room to clear. Glossy beige nails and skin the color of toffee. Dark eyeshadow and huge brown eyes.
She dropped her arms and the soft pillow of her breasts bounced exactly the way they were meant to—down, then up. Fake tits and fat breasts would keep wobbling, like flabby wads of dough.
She closed her door with one of her perfect nails. Still across the room, she raised her eyebrows and gestured with a finger.
“Stand up, Mr. Kingston.”
Her cheek twitched. “Put the papers down, young man.”
Behind the barrier of handouts, my swollen dick throbbed.
I took a breath, then dropped the sheets. They went everywhere, flying around me and the revelation of my prick like John Woo doves.
She nodded. “I thought so.”
She grabbed her pointer from the chalk tray, a half-meter length of polished wood about as thick as a back scratcher, and walked to the desk in front of mine.
As she sat, the firm cushion of her ass spread out over the top like a spoon of warm Nutella.
She had, I realized, a fucking incredible ass.
The pointer found my chin. A gentle tap brought my eyes back up to meet hers.
“Do you have a thing for Latinas, Mr. Kingston?” she asked, thickening her accent into a gooey Spanish paste.
“No!” I squeaked. Then, after coughing: “I mean, no. I mean, not like in a disrespectful way. I mean…”
“Am I supposed to believe, Mr. Kingston, that what I’m looking at is your erect penis?”
I looked down. My dick, finally getting some attention, was painfully stiff. More than obscene.
The pointer jabbed into my dick.
“Hey!” I said, doubling over, my hands coming up to cover my manhood.
“Well I must say, that felt surprisingly genuine,” she said, the beginning of a smile appearing on her lips.
“Well, it is.” I reached down and made sure I wasn’t, you know, impaled or anything. “And you don’t have to stab me with a spear to—”
Her jacket hit the floor. When I looked up, the top of her dress was folded down to reveal a massive, black underwire bra.
“—find that, um. Out.”
“You’re a virgin,” she said. Not a question. A fact.
I thought about arguing, but my dick said No!
“Yeah,” I said. I let all the disappointment and shame that I felt about that hammer down on my voice. It wasn’t much more than a whisper.
“Unbutton your jeans, Mr. Kingston.”
She was looking at my dick, not me.
After spending my day being taunted, ignored, dismissed, and humiliated, the sudden sexual attention was a huge rush.
Now this is what’s supposed to happen, I thought. This is what Pornhub prepared me for!
I reached out, put a finger under her chin, and made her look into my eyes.
“Why should I?” I asked.
A ripple of emotions passed over her beautiful brown face like a dark cloud. And when they lifted, I saw something I’d been waiting a goddamn lifetime to see.
Arousal. On a woman’s face. Because of me.
She made a tsk sound with her mouth that I can only describe as ‘Super Mexican’—I swear to God I’m not racist—and said: “Because I’m your teacher. And because if you don’t, I’ll call Mr. Strickland and—”
I rolled my eyes and unbuttoned my jeans. My dick flopped out with an audible thwack and the tip drew an O in the air between us with each beat of my heart.
“Ay, dios mio,” she whispered, the arm with the pointer going limp.
I grinned. Fucking finally!
“What,” I said (not racist, not racist, not racist) “you’ve never seen a white dick before?”
“Not one like that,” she breathed.
My dick. It’s as thick as a can of furniture polish, and veined so it looks like a screw. The long foreskin at the tip fills with wetness when I’m hard, and drools at my feet like a leaky faucet.
It was drooling like that now. It pattered on my Nikes and splashed on my jeans.
“I’m big,” I said.
“Eres un toro,” she said.
“You’re a bull.”
I smiled. I liked that.
“And what are you?”
She shrugged. “What else? I’m the fucking bull rider.”
A giddy thrill passed up into my limbs.
“Is your door locked?” I asked.
“Do you have another class today?”
She shook her head.
Yes yes yes yes yes yes!
“Write me an excuse for seventh period,” I said, trying to keep my voice from shaking.
She didn’t seem to notice. She nodded, walking over to her big pine desk and scribbling something on the interclassroom notepad.
She sat, quietly on the edge of her desk.
That word—submissive—made my dick buzz. This was what my big dick was for.
“Take those huge fucking tits out,” I said, in a voice that was half a growl.
She smiled. She was proud of her breasts, clearly. Reaching in between them as I approached her, she parted the bra and let them spill out all at once, as she stripped off the bra and let her dress fall to the floor.
Her breasts were pale and firm, with massive chewy nipples as big and dark as kidney beans. They hung defiantly, aggressive in the air above my dick, so thick I almost missed her hips, which curved around into a huge brown ass the shape of a massive, fuzzy peach.
She was just curvy enough to make me salivate like a fucking dog, though I knew she’d be fat as an old woman.
Right then, though. In her twenties. She was perfect. And I explored her with my eyes.
“Turn,” I said. “Show me everything.”
And she did.
Her pussy, dark, visibly wet, was surrounded by a thick bush of curly dark pubic hair. It was a bramble, a forest, as fragrant as a candle, as hot as flame.
She had not been wearing panties.
“I don’t think I’m going to be a virgin when the bell rings,” I said.
“No. No, you absolutely won’t.”
I reached down and gave my dick a single, excited pump.
This is it! This is it!
“What’s your first name?” I asked, as I tossed my shirt off over my head.
She made a little Oh! of surprise when she saw my body.
Oh yeah, I thought. I am kind of hot. In all the bullshit, I’d forgotten I was more than just a dick.
“Araceli,” she said. “Araceli Acosta. Aria, for short.”
Her asshole, deep inside the thick, fleshy crack of her ass, was the darkest part of her body. Clean, the skin dark and tight, with a line of dark skin connecting her ass to her pussy. I’d never seen that before, but I liked it.
I suddenly and all at once understood why men ate pussy.
Because some pussies look fucking delicious.
Her fingers were between her legs. She was holding her clit exposed with a V of fingers, while the other hand teased the little pink button around the edges. She was looking me up and down, breathing hard.
She’s masturbating to me, I realized.
“Be honest,” I said. “You took this job to fuck guys like me, didn’t you?”
She shivered. I could see the arousal overriding her better judgement. She nodded. “I’ve always had a… thing. For young white men.”
A trickle of warm syrup slid down the dark thicket of hair and onto her asshole. The whole area between her thighs sparkled in the harsh overhead light.
It took actual restraint to stop myself from diving down to my knees and just… burying my face in her ass.
“And do you like what you see?” I asked. I stood there, my jeans folded down but still on, my strawberry stained shirt crumpled in the corner. The body she could see was muscular, pale white, with a torso that pointed down like an arrow to a huge dick I was only just beginning to get used to.
“Oh yes,” she said. “Although my usual conquests are less…” she smiled. “Chatty.”
I laughed. Yeah, I’ll bet.
“Well, Aria,” I said, “I think I’m going to fuck the complete shit out of you.”
Finally, I thought.
“Finally,” she said.
I pushed her and she flattened onto her desk, arms above her head like a ballerina spinning. And without a second thought, I let my cock just slide into her pussy.
A lot has been written about the moment of penetration. How it’s supposed to feel or not supposed to feel. All I can say is that the inside of Ms. Acosta’s dark red pussy was so warm that I gasped in surprise.
I’d had my dick in quite a few things before then. My hand. My other hand. A fold of pillows. A borrowed fleshjack. (Don’t judge me, I was desperate!) Panties of various description. Even a banana peel.
I figured a pussy would be… kind of like that. But all those things are cold. Or at least room temperature. Whereas my Spanish teacher was 98.6 degrees on the inside.
And warm, it turned out, is good.
But more than that, she was wet. I wouldn’t find this out until later, but she was very wet. Like upper 90th percentile wet. Both because she was so turned on, and because she was just like that.
The total effect was like warm and jammy, but tight like a… like a…
Fuck it. Dude, there is nothing like wet pussy. No comparison. It was so good I groaned all the way in, all nine and a quarter inches as I shoved my clumsy way into her tight, Mexican womb, and all the way out again, as I went from inside her wet pussy clamp to the cold school air.
I reached up and grabbed her breasts, squishing them against my face, licking between them, sucking on her nipples and making her gasp.
And she made a lot of noise. She began to come when I was only three inches inside her, and she didn’t come down until fifteen minutes after I’d left. She had to bite down on the pointer to keep from attracting the whole building.
“Holy shit,” she said. “I’ve never been this full… I can’t get used to it, it just… it just… fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!” as I went from a slow insertion to a bouncing rhythm.
“Talk to me in Spanish you fat, Mexican bitch,” I groaned, in the least racist way possible.
“Ay Papi,” she said—
“That’s right,” I growled—
“eres enorme e—”
“Just like that, you dirty fucking whore—”
“nadie me lo—”
“You wanna teach me something?”
“Teach me how a hairy, latina slut comes for a white boy.”
I slapped her breasts, which felt better than I expected it to.
I sucked on her nipples so hard I left a mark.
And all at once, her eyes panicked, and she said “I just can’t believe how fucking big you are!”
And her pussy clamped down so hard I couldn’t pull it out without bracing her with both hands, giving me a long, tight scraping sensation that literally sucked the cum right out of me.
I wish I could say I said something cool, but all I said was “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” to her “Yes! Yes Yes!” and crossed my eyes so hard when I came that I thought my brain would turn inside out.
As it was, I collapsed onto a desk and panted until my breath came back.
“That was…” she managed, breathing hard, “the best first sex… I’ve ever had.”
I looked at the clock. The whole thing took less than ten minutes.
And my dick was still as hard as a rock.
“If you liked it so much,” I said, “Why don’t you suck the cum off my dick?”
It stood up in front of my stomach, goey and pale, my balls on the desk and squirming.
She looked up in disbelief.
Then smiled, and got down on her knees.
After she’d sucked herself off of my cock, I flipped her over and fucked her from behind, feeling the hard little balloon of her womb bounce against my dickhead until it softened. And as much as I loved her breasts, it was her ass that really got to me. It was slappable and round, and I could really… ride it. It kind of… fucked back.
I spent most of seventh period buried up to my balls in my Spanish teacher’s pussy, and I learned a little more each time I made her come.
I also made it clear to her that I’d be getting an A, and I wouldn’t be working very hard for it.
And that tomorrow, I was going to sink my tongue into that dark furry muff and learn how to eat pussy.
She enthusiastically agreed to everything, anything I wanted. She even offered to take me home and keep me all night.
And I’d like to say that I was thinking about her the whole time, but I wasn’t.
I was thinking of Emily. Emily Kingston.
I thought of her the whole damn time.
###End of Chapter One###
Chapter Two | Jacob
I woke up on my back, legs splayed, the fat meat of a fresh throbbing hard on flopped down on my stomach.
I grabbed my phone, unlocked it with a twelve digit passcode—3m!ly’zDcuq5—and turned to a source of great comfort in similar times of need: The Bible.
Yes, I cracked the good book with a sigh, scrolling down past the stories of mankind’s creation, the flight and plight of the chosen people, and the judgements and psalms of Solomon, scroll after blessed scroll, until I was one folder beyond the revelation of St. John the divine.
I crept through these, working my way through a labyrinthine recursion of massively cryptic and aggressively unnecessary folders, until I found myself at the shores of paradise.
I pulled my guilty, pale pink secret out from between my mattress and boxsprings, and draped it softly over my face.
Oh yes, I thought. My rod and my staff shall comfort me.
Fifteen minutes later, red faced, sweaty, my warm-up complete, I raced down to the basement in loose shorts and a sweatshirt. As I stomped down the stairs, my waxy, freshly exfoliated, 9-and-a-quarter-inch semi slapped around with a series of not entirely unpleasant smacks.
I choked down a huge glass of gross, purple, pre-workout sludge, popped two caffeine pills and two liquigel Aleves, and attacked my dad’s Bowflex like a demon possessed by another, larger demon.
“Could you,” my sister hissed, sitting up from the turned-away couch on the other side of the room, “possibly make more goddamned, mother-fucking, bullshit boy noise!?”
Pale, dry-lipped, and with dark, bruisy rings around her eyes, my sister Emily was still the hottest thing on thirty-five inch legs. She was wearing one of dad’s huge white sweatshirts over her smooth, pert D-cups, her perfect little nipples rubbed into stiffness by the naked cotton, a gold bangle watch that she obviously stole from our mother… and a lacy pair of soft pink panties.
Well, technically they were floral lace thong panties, though not as slutty as that implies, in a color called “Evening Blush” for some stupid reason, took me forever to find it—without the optional stripes, which I personally think makes a woman look weirdly like her pussy has aluminum siding—in size extra small. (Too big for her, but taken in by a fat Korean seamstress at the mall for the fucking extortionate price of $2 per pair.)
…not that I knew anything much about that.
Smirking, I politely obliged her by making twice as much noise.
She gave a little scream of frustration, then reached under the couch and pulled out a fat yellow tube.
Then, like a gymnast… which she actually is, so… as a gymnast? Hmm… gymnastly, she leapt over the back of the couch with a heart-stopping flash of her tight, muscular stomach.
“This,” my sister said, showing me her weapon, “is a Nerf brand Super Soaker, the very best there is. When you absolutely, positively got to wet every motherfucker in the room? Accept no substitutes.”
“Oh no,” I said, face blank, continuing to shove two times her bodyweight up over my head, “water. The natural enemy of the teenager.” I rolled my eyes.
“Water?” She blinked in confusion. “Oh, are you supposed to put water in these?”
I paused, a sudden chill sliding down my spine like a cold, dead tongue.
“Because I filled this thing with some of that dark, dye-like, easily recognizable purple workout shit you drink. See?”
She pulled the trigger and held it down for less than a second. A few lazy spurts of purple fluid splashed on my shirt.
“Aww…” she said. “Looks like you musta—” her voice darkened— “spilled some.”
I let go of the Bowflex and it flapped its arms up and down with a deafening sproing, as if it, too, wanted to just fly the fuck away.
“Emily goddamn it,” I said, “you wouldn’t—”
She sneered, pumping air back into its plastic tank, which I could now see was dark and thick with my pre-workout mix.
“Oh, Jacob. What would our very educated mother think of you, if you spilled your stupid fucking steroid paste all over her beautiful, white, upstairs carpet?” She took a step toward the hall, the staircase… and my doom.
I lept to my feet. There was no familiar smack of my big fat dick. It was thoroughly softened by terror.
“Emily, you put that shit down. I’m done with my workout. I’ll just walk away.”
“You know what the best part is?” she said, leaning against the back of the couch. “Even if you run up and hide in your room, like the scrawny fucking coward you are, Mom’ll still blame you. She’ll still find your stained sweatshirt. And Dad will beat your bony ass like he spanks mine.”
“I’m not scrawny anymore,” I said, pulling the sweatshirt up and off over my head.
“Yeah right.” Emily snorted. “You’re a real goddamn beefcake, with your hollow chest, and your—”
My shirt hit the floor. I had a pretty good pump going. My arms were big and hard, and my stomach was rippled and solid.
Her taunt skittered to a stop in her mouth. “Jacob?” she whispered, her arms losing strength, the gun dipping down.
That was all I needed. I sprang at her like a fucking tiger, snatching at the water gun and roaring like a… well, I mean also like a tiger. Tigerly.
But Emily, despite being obviously hungover, slid under the gun and popped up on my other side, my right arm—the one holding the gun—suddenly overextended and twisted the wrong way. All she had to do was push in the same direction, which she did. My hand came free and I teetered, completely off balance. She kicked out my knee with one shockingly smooth, delicately muscled leg, and I landed on the floor with an oof.
She backed up, reaching the hallway door with two unintentionally erotic, long-legged steps.
“Well,” she said. “I guess you’re not exactly scrawny anymore, but that dumb, boy brain hasn’t gotten any bigger, has it?”
I flopped into a sitting position. “Okay,” I said, surrendering with my hands. “You win, Emily. What do you want? What do I have to give you to make this go away?”
I was pretty glum. She was vicious at exacting punishment, concocting a scheme, and calculating ransom.
From the door, gun resting on one shoulder, legs tensed for a dash to the stairs, she smiled her sweet, thousand-watt smile.
“Eat,” she said.
“My,” she said.
Then she pulled up the bottom of her sweatshirt, showing me her surprisingly expensive band-name panties… and her gorgeous, creamy thighs. There was a gap between them the shape of a goddamned Coke bottle.
A little thump of excitement rang through my muscular chest like a bell. My fingertips buzzed, and my lips began to tingle.
Oh, you beautiful psycho bitch, I thought. You’re not hungover, you’re still drunk.
I licked my lips, my prick suddenly inflating like a Thanksgiving float.
But before I could stand and swagger my way up to and between her endless silky legs, she’d turned and vanished up the stairs like a tall, bitchy gazelle.
Confused, I dashed after her, but stopped after a single step. My beloved nine-inch dick had grown into an iron rod, tenting out my shorts like a tarp over a redwood.
You don’t run with an erection. Or at least I don’t. If I tripped with that thing out in front, I’d break my cock and my coccyx.
I leaned against the door to the hallway, slapping my dick to one side. I snatched my shirt off the floor, holding it out in front of my dick. Maybe I could just, sort of, put it between myself and anyone upstairs?
Sure, I thought. Totally inconspicuous, am I right?
“Goddamn it,” I sighed.
Of course she was kidding. You know, like ‘suck my dick’ or ‘eat my ass’ or ‘fuck my tight bubble butt little brother, I’m a virgin back there and I can’t even work my pinkie in, boo hoo,’ or… wait, what were we thinking about?
Her head appeared at the bottom of the stairs with quick flash of blonde. “Just to be clear, Meathead? This is about the Pop-Tart yesterday. You don’t even like strawberry. Do you know what I’m like when I skip breakfast? I got suspended, Jackass.” she punched the wall, then disappeared.
“Fucking bitch,” I spat. I love you, I love you, I love you, I love—
“And put your shirt on, Jacob. This isn’t a fucking strip clu—ooooooh ho ho, it was you showing off in the bathroom yesterday, wasn’t it? Strickland was talking about you, wasn’t he? You little goddamn deviant. So proud of your shiny new muscles.” She laughed, the back of her beautiful, french-tipped hand over her mouth. “Dad’s not even going to bother spanking you. He’ll drag you to the garage and just… shave your ass clean off with a belt sander. Ho ho oh yeah.” And she leaped back up the stairs with a cartoonishly evil laugh.
I dropped my shirt and punched the wall. To my surprise, my knuckles left a deep, wooden dent.
Out in front, like the mast of a little cotton ship, my swollen prick wobbled, a wet spot forming in my shorts.
“Goddamn it!” I shouted.
I didn’t even bother chasing her. I went back to the Bowflex, and bench pressed a screaming, joint-popping, vein throbbing new maximum with my cock standing tall like a thick, purple-headed, uncircumsized washington monument, slopping precum all over my abs.
The exercise filled me with a weird masculine energy. I wanted to lift more weight. I wanted to eat and eat until I puked. I wanted to punch someone—God, I wanted to punch someone—and I wanted pussy so bad my balls started to ache.
I didn’t just want to shove my dick in a warm, velvety slit, and hammer it until my balls were so empty they turned inside out, I wanted one in my face. I wanted to climb up inside a wet, excited pussy and swim around in the thick, funky salt of its softly gripping excitement.
I wanted Emily to drop to her knees, look up at me with that bitchy, beautiful, bad girl face of hers, open her mouth, and submit to my fat, veiny prick. Slip her tongue under the hood of my foreskin, and clean me before I shoved my dick up her perfect, beautifully sculpted ass.
Jesus Christ her ass. It was like two perfect round spheres pushed lightly together around a dark, puckered entrance so tight it was almost smooth.
Yes. That was what I wanted. My gorgeous, hateful, black-hearted sister’s flawless little ass, wrapped around my dick like a soft, second skin.
I stomped into the bathroom, and consulted my Holy Bible for the second time that morning.
Breakfast in the kitchen, all hands on deck.
Mom, fucking beautiful under her apron in a white silk kimono, was shuffling bacon around a cast iron griddle with tongs, while Dad, in a black suit with the jacket off, was reading a folded over newspaper and drinking his second cup of coffee.
Cindy poked a bowl of chalky marshmallows with a spoon, making a face.
I sat down heavily in the chair next to her.
“Mom?” Cindy asked. “Can I just, like… skip breakfast?”
“No,” Mom said. Eggs cracked. Milk poured over marshmallow.
Mom, groaning, shuttled bacon, eggs, and sausage to the table on a tray. I jumped up and put my hand underneath, taking the weight off of my mother’s wrist. She smiled and blew me a kiss.
Her mouth, I noticed, was very wide. Just like Emily’s.
“Recent studies have demonstrated not only that breakfast isn’t ‘the most important meal of the day,’ but can actually impair morning school performance by—”
“For the tenth time, Sweetheart, no. You skipped dinner, you’re not skipping breakfast too. Eat something.”
“In my day,” Dad said, “if a girl spent all her time locked up in her room, the townspeople would talk.”
“Your day,” Cindy said, “being… the 1990s?”
“It was a time of great innocence and simplicity,” Dad said. “Now eat your—” Dad looked— “sugar… cereal… people… and wheat nuggets in the shape of what appear to be small erect penises.” He made a face.
“Jeffery!” Mom snapped.
“They’re cannons,” I added, helpfully.
“Eat your penis cannons, Sweetheart,” Dad said.
“I want you to know that I find this experience very triggering,” Cindy said, “and I’ll be discussing it with my guidance counselor.”
“Your guidance counselor is a twenty-four-year-old dropout with a two-year degree in social work from a college with no entrance exam,” Dad said, returning to his paper. “Your mother teaches Internal Medicine at a distinguished university and your father is an attorney with a successful private practice. Eat your goddamn sugar dicks.”
“Jeffery!” Mom smacked him on the arm.
But she was laughing harder than I was.
Cindy, ‘exhausted by our antics,’ screwed up her face, sighed theatrically, and plucked a sausage off the tray with her bare fingers. It was extremely hot. She cried out, immediately dropping the sizzling tube of meat into her cereal.
“You’re going to eat that,” Dad said, without looking up from his paper.
Cindy, sucking on her burnt finger, muttered to herself. “You wouldn’t make Emily eat a bowl of Marshmallow Sausage Wieners.”
“Cindy!” Mom said. “They’re ‘dicks,’ not ‘wieners.’ Try to keep up, dear.”
Mom and Dad briefly shared a look and laughed at each other.
“Anyway,” Dad said, “of course we wouldn’t. We love her much more than you.”
Dad took three eggs and two pieces of sausage with the tongs. “Don’t feel bad, Pumpkin. We love her more than your brother, too. She’s always been our favorite.”
I laughed. Mom handed me a glass of milk. She had short, ‘sensible’ nails, and dry cuticles from all the sanitizer she used at work.
“You see? Jacob has dealt with our favoritism and he’s just fine,” Dad said. “You don’t always have to be loved, you know.”
“Maybe you can comfort each other,” Mom suggested. “Like a support group?”
Dad nodded approvingly.
“I hate you both,” Cindy sighed, touching the spoon to her tongue and swallowing three or four atoms of cereal. “Oh God it’s so gross,” she whined, sliding her bowl across the table.
I reached over and pulled the sausage out of her cereal, eating it in two bites.
Sausage does not actually go all that well with cereal, but it’s still sausage.
-Life motto, by the way.
I grabbed Cindy’s bowl and started eating.
She looked up at me gratefully.
I flashed her a conspiratorial grin.
“Jacob…” Mom started.
“See?” Dad said. “This is why we’ve never warmed up to you two.”
I gave the table a big square smile, milk oozing out from between my teeth.
“Boo.” Emily said, from directly behind my head.
“Ahh!” I choked cereal all over myself.
Emily, in ripped denim short shorts and a loose grey crop-top, reversed one of Mom’s antique schoolhouse dining chairs and balanced her head on the back. She was pale, and had recently vomited. Her eyes were red from the strain.
“Good morning, beloved family. I am, as you can plainly see, rather hung over.” She reached over the chair and snatched Dad’s coffee, placing it squarely in front of herself. “Please hold your recriminations until after I tell you Jacob’s been flashing the other boys in our beloved school restroom, to the utter vexation of the administration. Strickland is beside himself.”
She poured milk into her coffee and stirred it with a piece of bacon.
After a moment of shocked silence, she looked up.
“Oh wait, nevermind. That was it.” She stood. “Okay, discuss.” Turning, she danced away with her coffee.
Her legs were like marble sculptures, and I had a quick, intense fantasy about touching them. Sliding my hands up her thighs and over her long, rounded calves. Sliding my cock between her thighs from behind and pumping with my hands on her breasts, kissing her, head twisted, our fingers intertwined…
“Jacob!” Mom snapped.
“What?” I squeaked.
“You’ve been swaying back and forth for thirty seconds. You father asked you a question.”
“Huh?” I said, crossing my arms and sinking into myself like a turtle.
“And come back here, young lady…” Mom warned.
A nauseous, beleaguered Emily reappeared and swaggered back to the table. She plopped down with a sullen, meaty thud.
“What is this,” Dad apparently repeated, “about flashing people?”
“Misunderstanding.” I refilled my milk and took a piece of bacon. “I zoned out at a urinal and some guys freaked out.”
“You’ve been ‘zoning out’ a lot, lately, Jacob. Are you on drugs, son?”
Emily, smirking, said: “I don’t think that’s really at issue, father mine. We know he’s on drugs. I mean… look at him.”
Everyone looked at me, except Cindy, who was sliding an egg around on her plate with a fork.
“…what?” I asked. “I’m just sitting here!”
“You see?” Emily sighed. “He’s a meatball. Therefore the essential breakfast table question is ‘how do we stop him from getting high and exposing himself at school.’”
“I do not ‘expose myself’ at school!” I shouted, immediately realizing that this was, in fact, a complete lie.
“Look me in the eye,” Mom said, “and tell me you didn’t flash those boys.”
I looked her steadily in the eyes. They were blue, like Emily’s, and sharply intelligent. I wondered, out of the blue, what face she makes when she comes.
“I didn’t… I mean…”
Mom licked her lips. Her tongue, I knew, was very long.
I wondered what it was like to kiss someone with a tongue like that.
I bet, I thought, Mom is an amazing kisser.
She was staring at me with vast, echoing concern. All I had to do was tell her ‘No, of course I didn’t flash anyone at school, Emily is just doing that thing she does where she bends reality around her big stupid sexy goddamn brain because she is literally Sauron and… and..’
Mom’s breasts, enormous, pale, bigger even that Ms. Acosta’s at school, had pushed out her Kimono just enough for me to see the firm pink fingertip of a nipple.
It was so wrong my entire nervous system sparked. The ocean filled my ears, and my dick hardened so much, the skin so tight around my girth that it hurt. Later, I would find actual goddamn stretch marks on my cock.
Oh, God, I thought. Why are they all so goddamn HOT?
Once when I was a kid I heard Mom and Dad having sex. I was supposed to be at the Skatepark but I’d come home to change shoes.
The bed was actually bouncing, the feet leaping up off the floor and slamming back down with each stroke of Dad’s cock.
Come on, you big-dicked bastard, Mom had grunted. This is what you want, isn’t it? My pussy? My tight little pussy?
Dad, growling unintelligibly, just said yeah, yeah! And (I think) You perfect little slut. You’re gunna eat dinner full of my cum, you understand me? You understand me?
Heart pounding, a rush of hot blood in my chest, I slowly dropped down to my knees, down onto the cold walnut floor. I edged like a lizard up to the crack, and peered into their bedroom.
The huge metal bed was hopping, big male boots dead in the center, with smaller, feminine shoes at either side. Mom’s clothes were puddled at the foot of the bed, next to a big, unfamiliar, camouflage jacket and a big green duffle bag.
Fuck me! Mom, usually so calm and under control, screamed from the bed. Fuck me! Fuck me! I’ve missed this so much! I’ve missed this SO MUCH!
She came with a series of musical, inarticulate cries of pure pleasure, mixed with a terrible rhythmic grunt like Dad was punching her in the stomach over and over again.
Dad, his feet enormous in those big black boots, growled. A big powerful hand rose and swiped, slapping her. Again and again.
Fucking bitch! You think you can get away from this dick? You think you can get away from this dick?
No! Mom cried—I mean really cried, with tears and stuff, as she came a second time—No NO No I can’t give it up, I can’t give it up, I can’t give it—
Mom snapped her fingers.
“Jacob…” Mom said. “Are you ‘zoning out’ again?”
Emily, made a snide little ta-da gesture. “You see? Classic symptoms of chronic cognitive impairment.” She took a bite of bacon, then pointed with it. “Note also his increased appetite.”
She pointed down to my plate. Unconsciously, I’d stacked up four eggs and six pieces of bacon. Most of what was left. After my crazy, rage-boner workout, I was starving.
“You have been eating a lot,” Mom said, genuine concern creeping into her voice.
Mom transferred an egg and three strips of bacon from my plate to Cindy’s, who looked down at the small pile of food with horror.
“Three strips of bacon?” she marveled. “Are you broken?”
“Hush, Cindy. Your brother needs an intervention.”
“Mom,” I said. “You know Emily does this. I’m not on drugs, but I’ll bet she is.”
“Slander!” Emily barked. “Prove it!”
“She’s hungover, she’s amusing herself by using her… her superpower on the family again, and she’s the one who got herself suspended yesterday, not me.”
Cindy, muttering incoherently, buried her entire plate in black pepper before reporting that her eggs were cold.
“Is this true, Kitten?” Dad asked.
Emily looked at me through slits. Her fingernails dug into the table like claws. Her breath shoved her tits back and forth as the adrenaline poured into her body. Her nipples stiffened under the loose shirt.
She wasn’t wearing a bra.
“You know how Strickland is,” Emily whispered, furious, not looking away from me. “He wants to have sex with me, so he makes up excuses to keep me after school.”
Dad sighed. “That’s a very serious accusation, Emily.”
“It’s a very serious situation. If you doubt me, why don’t we go to school and talk about it?”
I snorted. Emily could manipulate anyone into anything. Especially our parents. She must have done something pretty bad to get herself suspended. If they were stupid enough to put her in a meeting with Strickland, she’d have him confessing to first-degree murder within ten minutes.
I missed when we used to be on the same side.
Dad, who was nobody’s fool—except, occasionally Emily’s—folded his paper and tossed it at the kitchen counter. He crossed his arms and shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea, Sweetheart. I’ll call him from the office and get the details myself. Play it by ear. You will be staying at home today.”
“What?” Emily spluttered. “You can’t… I don’t…”
“That’s enough.” Dad used his voice like a whip. Emily and I both flinched. He almost never used Court Voice at home. “I’ll expect you to do the laundry today, Emily. All of it. That should take you until the afternoon, considering the amount of ironing.”
“But Daad!” Emily, whining, was even more pathetic than Cindy.
“I’ll be checking the security cameras periodically to make sure you don’t just hire a maid again.” He stood and slipped on his jacket. “If I find out you’re making trouble, I’ll punish you. Don’t think,” he added, darkly, “that I won’t spank your ass in front of the family.”
Emily didn’t answer him. Instead, she turned to me and hissed.
“I decide not to go through with my carpet plan and this is what you do to me? You better hope this hangover fucking kills me, meatball, because if it doesn’t—”
Our faces were inches apart.
God, her mouth is enormous, I thought. Like it’s begging for a cock to shut it up.
“—follow you behind the fucking school, and feed you your own tiny dick, you dense little—”
I shivered, but not from fear. I could smell her. We were that close.
And thanks to my recent experience, shoving my big beef burrito into Ms. Acosta’s slutty, huge-titted, fat-assed little taco supreme—in a mutually consensual, sexually motivated acknowledgement of race roles, of which these metaphors are a well-meaning if gently evocative extension, not racist not racist—I knew a few things that I hadn’t known the previous morning.
I knew, for example, that her little blonde pussy was wet.
I could smell her wet slit, a mere three feet from my very sensitive nose.
“—are such a waste of calories and goddamn capital, your whole fucking gender became irrelevant at the dawn of the Holocene, you dull-eyed, slack-jawed, thick-bodied—”
She was snarling, her beautiful lips pulled back over flawless ivory teeth.
Dark brows, sharp jaw, her nose no larger than a sculptor’s thumb. The veins in her neck like hot wires, her muscles tense, her muscles moving, her breasts with their grapefruit weight, hanging behind cotton, nipples as fat as cherries—
My cock was a club of thick, hard meat.
The temptation to reach out and kiss her was overwhelming, but that whole ‘kiss the bitch mid-rant’ thing only works in movies. And would never appeal to her.
Four thousand years ago, Emily would have been a Priestess or an Empress or a Queen. The kind that knitted empires and invented gods. In another time, she’d be swimming in a basin of blood, riding some terrified gladiator’s massive gorilla dick, clutching the gilded rim of the tub, air smelling of metal and salt and raw red meat, cumming with a scream, cumming with a rare and privileged smile, cumming with her murderer’s hands wrapped around the man’s throat as she crushed his windpipe her with thum—
“You’re doing it again,” she hissed.
I blinked. “What?”
Emily, looked away in disgust. “He can’t stay focused on a single fucking threat. Are you actually on drugs, Jacob? What’s been with you?”
Mom, silencing dad with a hand on his arm, stood and walked over between us. She lit the flashlight on her phone and flicked it over my eyes.
“Follow my finger, Jacob.”
I sighed and gently pushed her phone out of my face.
“I was just thinking that Emily’s breath smelled like vomit, and I was deciding whether or not to make an issue of it. Do you really expect me to pay attention when she’s just going off like a child?”
Emily shoved her chair back and stomped to the kitchen door.
“Wait right there,” Mom said. “Bathroom. Now.”
“What for?” Emily whined.
“An examination. And I’ll be taking a urine sample from Jacob.”
“Fine.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m not on drugs. I’m just preoccupied.”
“Really, honey, that’s almost worse,” Mom sighed. “Why don’t we do you first?”
I shook my head. “I don’t need to pee,” I said, trying to will my erection away.
“You’ve had two quarts of milk in the last 20 minutes, are you sure?”
Suddenly, I really had to piss.
“I’m sure, Mom.”
Goddamn it, Emily, why do you have to be so sexy?
Emily, growling, said: “Let’s just get this over with, ” and marched into the bathroom.
Mom shaking her head, followed her, her big breasts swaying as she walked.
“Well,” Dad said. “I have work. Have a good day at school, you two.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I said.
Cindy, her plate a confusion of pepper and minced egg, slid her breakfast away with one finger.
“Don’t think we haven’t noticed your little foray into abstract expressionism, young lady,” Dad said, all the humor gone from his face. “We’ll be talking about this later.”
“Whatever,” Cindy said. “However much therapy you feel like buying.”
Dad sighed, picking up an Italian leather briefcase as shiny and polished as a Cello. He shifted the case to his left hand, and fished in his pocket for keys.
Cindy started typing things into her phone.
“Just… try not to end up like your sister,” he said. He waved with his keys, as though trying to clear a smell from the air.
In the nearby bathroom, Emily was grunting loudly, throwing her insides up into the toilet.
“Ung!” she groaned, “Ung! Ung! Huunnnnng!”
Mom, for her part, was encouraging the detox.
“Come on, honey,” she was saying, faintly, behind the door. “Come on, come on. Do it for Mommy. Do it for your Mommy!”
“Ung! Oh God! I can’t. I can’t. I… Ung. Ung. It’s coming!”
“Yes, honey. Nice and hard. Right in there. Right goddamn in there.”
Dad shook his head. Sighed.
“Why don’t you two finish getting ready for school,” Dad said, as he pushed the button on his keys. Out in the garage, his black BMW started with a polite little cough. All lawyers drive black BMWs. It’s like how all politicians wear flag pins, or all chefs wear white.
He kissed the top of my head, then Cindy’s.
“Bye, Dad,” I told him.
Cindy crossed her arms. “Your deductible is $2500, and after that your insurance only pays 80%.” She waved her phone. “Assuming two sessions a week at $200 per session, you can expect to pay $6500 per year on my therapy alone, and that’s assuming she doesn’t prescribe anything.”
Dad rolled his eyes, and opened the door to the garage. His car, slick in the middle of the room, modern, leased, purred like kitten with a 4.4-liter Turbo V8.
“I have a $4,000 Out of Pocket Maximum, sweetie,” he said, before slipping into the garage and closing the door.
“That doesn’t apply to mental health costs!” Cindy shouted after him, then, sour-faced, went back to sullenly plucking on her phone.
“I hope you’re planning to do the dishes,” she said, standing and wondering to the living room. “I’m planning to decompensate with a tantrum later. So I can’t do anything constructive.”
I laughed, standing, my dick back at its usual half-mast.
I ruffled her hair like a golden retriever— “Ugh. Dehumanizing microaggression!”—then poured myself another glass of milk before running upstairs to my room.
I was, of course, insanely horny. Even something as gross and benign as listening to Emily puke was thrilling me like a porno. I mean, I usually jerked off before school, but I needed something special this time. The well-explored digital pages of my Bible would not be enough.
I needed a fresh—by which I mean dirty—pair of warm, pink panties, pulled right out of that evil bitch’s hamper.
Given how fucking hammered she’d apparently been last night, she’d probably been cunt-teased all night. Or maybe even fucked by one of her dozens of orbiting bad boys.
You might think I’d be too jealous and homophobic to shove my face into a freshly creamed pair of panties, with some dude’s jizz splashed next to her juices, the lace all gummed up with her clear, wet grool, but you’d be fucking wrong.
I dashed up the stairs, into my room, grabbed a pen and the panties I’d used that morning—ugh, still wet—and crept down the hall to Emily’s lair.
Normal teenagers have big, police-like “NO ENTRY” signs, or spray painted “KEEP OUTs” in chalky orange neon.
Emily’s door had a single, small, discrete little plaque, no larger than a paperclip, screwed right over the doorknob.
You’ll be sorry.
I turned the knob. A marker—thin, quick, and permanent—slashed out of the jamb like a brief flash of light. I used the pen I had ready to catch the edge and carefully reset the spring.
A Thief’s Lock is designed for a razor. It cuts off your fingers if you don’t stop it. That Emily had traded the razor, which our parents would never allow, for a marker, which would mark an intruder and immediately inform her who was in her room… it was a very Emily kind of approach to privacy. Unfortunately, I’d seen the guy putting it in, and asked him how to get past it.
As a result, I could enter her room any time I wanted, and she’d have total confidence that no one could get in it.
I closed the door behind me and crossed into her room.
Emily’s room was big and airy, with windows on two walls and a balcony of its own.
There was a massive four-poster bed piled up with soft down blankets and wary stuffed animals, a nightstand with a clock, and a vanity. Two armoires across from the bed held the bulk of her clothes, but whatever she was planning to wear during the week was on a separate pole near the vanity. In the corner, a table covered in school stuff and a chair covered in clothes.
The door to her bathroom was partially open, the inside unnaturally clean and organized, with hundreds of mysterious bottles for all the confusing layers of ritual and preparation that girls always do.
And just inside the bathroom door, to the left under the switch, lay the tall cloth sarcophagus of Emily’s hamper. I opened it, and traded the panties on top for the ones in my hand.
Ensuring an exact parity of perfect pink panties, packed in the private place where she expected their presence.
Immaculate fucking procedure.
I inspected the panties, and they were, in fact, pretty damp. They would feel so goddamn good wrapped around my big donkey prick. I’d swager into to school with my dick smelling like my sister’s incredible pussy, and then I’d fuck Aria Acosta into a wet, screaming wreck.
My cock was already swelling against my thigh. I put her panties around my neck like a necklace and turned just in time to see her door open.
That single, panicked word scraped across my soul like twisted, rusty metal. The traffic jam in my… smart… having… ball… you know, the thing in my head? It shattered my thoughts into little shards of rapid, useless scampering.
All I managed to effectively do, was back up. Fortunately, this put be back in the bathroom, so Emily didn’t see me as she entered.
By then, I was thinking clearly enough to hide, so I closed the door to a slit and prayed she didn’t have to pee.
Which I then, horribly, remembered I had not done.
Emily sighed, and stripped off her clothes with a single, rotating stretch.
Shorts, shirt. Underneath, a pair of panties she quickly stripped off.
That left her in the bright wooden expanse of her room wearing nothing but canvas shoes and an anklet with her current boyfriend’s name on it. Travis? Tristan?
Something like that.
I used my phone to take a few quick pictures, which I tagged “LANGUAGE PACKS” and filed away where they belonged.
My dick, throbbing, was like a heart in my groin.
Emily dropped onto her bed and looked at herself in a full length mirror next to the vanity. She flexed, her fingers running down the sides of her beautiful body and testing that her flesh was tight and smooth. No fat, no wrinkles.
A light dusting of blonde hair slid down the muscular sides of her stomach, so fine as to seem more like a shimmer than flesh. Like she was always wearing tanning oil.
She touched her breasts. They were flawless D-cups, with nipples so thick and chewy it made Ms. Acosta’s kidney-bean nipples look like flacid dots.
And then, to my surprise, she pinched one.
“Ohhhhh….” she sighed, relaxing as though into a tub of warm water, laying back on her overstuffed bed like another one of her little stuffed animals.
Her other arm crept up and touched her other breast, tickling it, until the nipple tightened into a painful bullet of flesh. She reached over, took a teddy bear from the pile, and rubbed her nipple with it, another soft sensation.
I reached down and lifted her panties so they covered my face like a fucking mask, and dropped my shorts into a silky little puddle at my feet. In all my years of fawning over my sister, I’d never caught her masturbating.
And believe me, I’d tried.
The best I’d ever managed was to catch her under an old boyfriend, doing her up the ass, folded over the back of the bed, with the footboard pressing up into her stomach so hard I was afraid it might cut the bitch in half.
The boyfriend, a tall guy in an honest-to-god leather jacket, obviously a college student, came up her ass in under a minute. He drew a cock out of her barely thicker than my index finger, and zipped up with a jerk.
Emily, for her part, looked kind of bored. She leapt over the footbard and landed on the bed with a soft little phut sound.
“Leave the jacket,” she told him. Her phone was a rectangle of brightness between her breasts.
The boyfriend hesitated, clearly not wanting to give up an expensive part of his persona, but after a minute of angsty whining, he dropped the jacket to the floor with a bang and left by the balcony.
I never saw him again.
“Thank you,” Emily said. Quietly. To her phone.
She still wears that jacket today.
From my vantage point outside, clinging to the trellis beneath her window like a racoon in the dark, the glass eye of my phone pressed against the screen, I watched her glide, naked as moonlight, into the bathroom, where the regular pulsing of her shower head told me she had taken over where her idiot boyfriend had failed. But as desperate as I was to get a glimpse of that polished silver horn sliding roughly between her legs—what was the look on her face? did her toes lock with pleasure, her joints and knuckles tense as she came?—I couldn’t get the angle right. And I never had another chance.
My sister’s pussy is a small, thin slit. Not the beefy lips of a woman. There are slender tabs of bubblegum pink flesh, hardly a break at all in the fuzzy peach smoothness of her supple, tan mound.
There was no bush. No stray hairs between her legs like unkempt wires. And her prim little ass, when she spread her legs up and apart to inspect it, was a tiny pink kiss of wrinkled skin.
I’d never experienced a desire to put my tongue in a woman’s ass before I saw my beautiful sister spread her legs. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that her insides were sweet and pink, like the flesh of a peach. I couldn’t erase the fantasy of dipping my ever-growing dick into her juicy pink cunt and being wrapped all around by a warm peach tart.
A few months ago, my mother served peaches after dinner, pouring thick, sweet cream over the red-orange flesh of warm, wet fruit.
I’d had to excuse myself with a cough, dashing to the bathroom with a napkin over my lap.
I’d jerked off into the toilet with one hand over my mouth, trying not to groan. My cum hit the water so hard that the backsplash hit me in the face.
In the dim morning light her skin really could have been the yellow of a peach. Oddly lit, with shadows fucking slowly on her skin.
My dick was like a club in my hands. I gripped it, sliding the fat smooth foreskin back over my spear-shaped cockhead, and sliding it back like I was cocking a gun.
Looking around, I found a bottle of coconut oil next to the sink—what the fuck?—chipped out a piece the size of a fingernail and slid it under my dick’s sensitive hood.
The reward was immediate, a weird, warm softness lubricating my hard, slow strokes.
I sucked a little circle of her panties into my mouth, and my head filled with her smell. Floral, with a thin salty taste a little like lobster.
Like I said, pussy is hard to describe. It sounds gross until it’s there in your mouth, or up against your nose, or all up your fingers and all over your face.
And then it’s like… it’s like pussy is the only good taste there ever has been, and all the other flavors were just practice.
Of course, not every guy feels like that. Some guys hate the taste of pussy. The smell.
But some people hate pizza.
Some people are stupid.
And I was willing to bet that not a single person, no one, from her idiot Boyfriends to me, had ever seen that pussy and not wanted to taste it.
As if to prove my point, Emily lifted a damp middle finger up to her lips and sucked on it, her tongue sliding out and around the digit with surprising skill.
Then back down, where a V of fingers had exposed her clit, to drip a single droplet of spit onto the exposed pink brain of her pussy.
Then a tap on one side, a slide down her labia with two probing fingers, exploring them, her trim pussy lips, thin and small, no rougher than felt.
Her thighs, split by powerful, gymnastic muscle, tensed as she ran them over with fingertip and nail, surprising me as I pumped my fat dick by biting into her own leg with her nails, and smacking her thighs to make them red.
She mumbled to herself, eyes closed.
Soon, there was no pretense of oblique sensation. Her wet middle finger was a pressure on her clit, circular but constant, each revolution making her body jerk forward, her stomach briefly flashing a wall of abs.
“Hunh,” she exhaled, each time her whole body flexed. “Hunh, hunh, hunh….”
And her sex voice was deeper and more urgent than her normal voice, less controlled and more like an animal.
“Fuck,” she hissed. She grunted. “Fuck me…. FUCK.”
He fingers sped up. Her pussy was now very wet. Every twenty seconds or so she would stop, moaning with disappointment, and slip two fingers into her tiny red entrance.
They’d be dripping when she removed them, and they left a trail of clear, wobbling tears up her body, splashing pussy wet all between her breasts and on the tip of her chin, between her eyes, bullets of excitement, and down on the tip of her tongue, where she sucked them and licked them twice as wet.
In the bathroom, I was losing my fucking mind. It was so erotic, I didn’t know what to do. I’d pulled her panties off my neck and wrapped them around my dick, pumping into them and a fist full of strange, beach-smelling oil, biting my lip—and the bathroom door that hid me was wider open than it should have been.
But she was straight up fucking herself, not with a dick or a toy but with… herself, rapidly and excitedly grunting, and then—
“Mommy,” she whimpered, suddenly changing tones. “Oh God Mommy fuck me, fuck me, you’re so good with your fingers, you’re so good with your—”
Stunned, my whole body started flexing as I stroked myself, the way hers had. It must have been some genetic thing. I pressed my lips together as hard as I could to contain the sound of grunting, the pig-like snorts of self pleasure.
Mom? MOM!? She’s fantasizing about our Mom!
Which, on the one hand, was understandable because our mom was a babe, and on the second hand was amazing because it meant my perverse, gross, private, shameful lust for my sister was totally not a fucking deal breaker because she was just as fucked up as I was.
I closed my eyes and celebrated with a rapid, almost reckless jacking motion, fucking my hand like a madman.
GODDAMN IT, YES!
The big veins in my dick were throbbing, and I could feel my blood pounding not just in my dick, but deep in my stomach, up in my chest, my neck. It felt like my whole body was a huge, muscular cock, and all I could think about was slamming myself deep up into my sister’s tight, gorgeous slit.
Ye— oh, shit.
I gripped my dick as hard as I could, but it was too late. An explosion started in my balls, and shocked up through my body in waves. It was like trying not to puke, or holding it when you really have to piss. At some point, you can’t hold on anymore.
I opened my eyes, desperate to take more and more of her in.
She was laying on the bed, her fingers now fucking into her own pussy several stiff inches, as her whole body leapt off the bed and landed back with a puff of cool, downy air from her mattress.
If she hadn’t been close to coming, she’d have heard me in an instant.
I let go, hoping to get it over with quickly, my dick pumping a solid quarter cup of cloudy white cum into her already damp panties. So much that I had to dump it into the sink, before I realized how stupid that was, since I couldn’t run the tap.
I bucked like a donkey throwing a rider, desperately covering my mouth, trying not to hit anything with my stupid, out of control spasms.
There was cum on the floor, on the door, and in my hand.
I cursed under my breath.
I reached into the hamper to retrieve something I could use, when suddenly Emily came not with a scream, or a moan, as porno and Ms. Acosta had trained me to expect, but with a loud, joyous, bubbling laugh. Followed by little chuckles of pleasure, and smoothing down her thighs with both hands, then cupping her breasts, and finally, tickling her skin all over, here and there, her own damp juices drying into salty white circles on her skin.
I made sure my phone was still recording. LANGUAGE PACKS was now the largest thing on my phone.
I couldn’t believe how attractive she was. I wanted to cry.
But I had to clean up. What if she decided to go to the bathroom? What if she decided to change clothes?
I raced to mop up my come with a towel, including the pudding-thick mess in the sink. It solidified in weird ways as it dried, my army of masculine sperm trying to invade an egg that wasn’t there.
It’s harder to clean sperm up than you might think. Especially without water.
I was frantically polishing the same centimeter of floor, when words came from behind me that almost stopped my heart.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
Cold pain punched me in the chest. I think my heart might actually have stopped for a second, the sudden sense of weight knocking me to my knees.
I turned. No Emily.
I looked out through the tiny crack in the door.
She was sitting up.
But then, leaning against the headboard, crossing her arms behind her head, she said: “I needed it.” She shrugged.
“Typical selfish girl. You’ll have to be punished.”
Emily, smiling like a child, eager, playfully, flipped over, her ass in the air.
At which point our mother walked up to the bed, shedding her clothes like a layer of skin, her long circus freak tongue extended toward my sister like a wet, eleventh finger.
###End of Chapter 2###
Chapter Three | Cindy
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a big dick, must be in want of a fuck.
This truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding women, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or other of their pussies.
“My dear Mother,” said I to my Mother one day, “have you heard that Brother Jacob is rather hung?”
Mother replied that she had not.
“But he is,” I returned; “so long it just hangs there, and stiffens whenever he thinks.”
Mother made no answer.
“Do not you want to know what’s been up with him?” I cried impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it. I’m an amazingly tolerant parent. Remember that, to your therapist.”
This was invitation enough.
“So you told your mother, shortly after breakfast, that your older brother—” here he consulted his notes in an aggressively theatrical fashion—“was ‘hung.’ By which I assume you meant that his penis is unusually large.”
“Yes,” I said.
“Really.” The man was expressionless. Bored.
“Yes!” I insisted, railing upon the arms of my chair.
Michael Thomas Wyndham, tall, darkly bearded, sitting across from me in his shabby corduroy suit, vest over cotton—no, cotton/polyester, unstarched, and with plastic buttons—considered me with a most unpleasant expression. He set his notebook down on his thick and masculine thigh.
He slowly recapped his pen.
We regarded one another; I in my yak’s wool cardigan, he in a state of disbelief.
Thomas was the school’s head guidance counselor (for letters G through L), and I, alas, had been a fixture of his office for years. He was shockingly attractive, with his thick powerful body, stuffed into that hideous orange suit like a corduroy bear, bursting at the seams. He looked less like a twenty-first century high school guidance counselor, and more like a nineteenth-century Scottish land agent. The kind of rough hewn, plain spoken man who whips the horses and runs them ragged, squeezing them half to death between his powerful bare legs, kilt riding high over the scattering of hair on his muscles— but brushes them all alone in the pens at night, whispering sweetly into their glossy, brown ears, bare chested and scrubbed, quietly reassuring them that he pushes them only for their own—
I’d been clenching and unclenching my thighs.
I made a face. Snatched the water from my pack and took a microscopic sip.
“Well, practically,” I admitted.
“And there it is,” he sighed.
I snapped, spitting out my sip. “Don’t attack me for my flair, damn it!”
He leaned back in his reproduction Paris Club chair, of which my mother owns the original, a fact I have never pointed out to him, and crossed his enormous, tree trunk arms. With his riot of unruly hair, and his shiny brown eyes, he reminded me—beautifully—of a paper towel mascot.
“What did you actually say?” he asked, uncapping his pen.
I kicked my legs and bounced in my chair like a child. My feet only just touched the ground, for I am cursed with a terrible shortness, unique within my family, and agonizing, as though I were doomed to be their infant forever.
I looked into his eyes and sighed like a wet autumn wind.
“A ‘fried egg,’” I explained, “is the burnt, coagulated secretions from the feces-caked ovaduct of a sexually aroused chicken.”
“Oh here we go,” Mom sighed, sweeping the remains of breakfast into a little silver pan.
“Chickens, Mother, have only one hole. In the back.” I glared. One hole! For everything!
Mom slid the silver pan under the sink. “Sweetheart, if you don’t want to eat eggs anymore, you can have something else.” She returned the milk to its place. Five additional gallons of whole, organic, grass-fed, Vitamin D milk sat behind it. JACOB was written upon all of them in inky black Sharpie.
God, Jacob was absurd. Freud much, you Oedipal Goddamn Cliche?
Immediately I regretted this. Jacob was, as he would put it, my bro. And he was a good brother.
Unfortunately, he was also deeply aroused by the women in his family.
Mom, unmoved by our vast bovine surplus, tested the griddle with her fingers, sliding it down the counter with a towel. Carefully, she used a spatula to scrape bits of scorched pig muscle into the sink.
I followed her around, illustrating the dreadful nature of breakfast with my hands.
“It is called a Cloaca, and it looks like a huge, popped pimple.”
“Ugh,” Mom said.
“These selfsame chickens, by the way, are a bird which we kill by the billions, then bleed out, dismember, grind up, slap into weird ovoid patties, armor in gross orange breadcrumbs, parbake, freeze, deep fry, and then-”
Mom stopped cleaning to look up at the ceiling. “Oh, Cindy, for Christ’s sak-”
My voice became shrill.
“-and THEN, sell by the literal goddamned ladleful in one of our countless, child-packed, sweat-smelling, state-supported, Dickensian Nightmare School Cafetoriums!”
“That’s it,” Mom said. “No more espresso. Like… ever. In your life.”
“Avoiding the issue!” I shouted.
Thomas, looking up from his notebook, narrowed his eyes.
“While this version of events seems much more… credible… is there a point to it?”
I screamed in frustration from my fake Paris chair.
“Interruptions marginalize my contribution!” I snapped. “To say nothing of questioning the relevance of my thoughts, in my own goddamn therapy session.”
Thomas sighed. “This isn’t therapy, Cindy. You just came to my office instead of going to first period.”
I kicked. “Do you want to know what I said or not?”
He waved me on with his pen, in a needlessly beleaguered way.
“Avoiding the issue!” I cried, steadfast in the face of my mother’s absurdity.
Mom, sighing like child, turned, the implied threat of the spatula dripping soap and sausage onto the floor.
“I made it clear that you can eat something else,” she said. “I am not going to apologize for the anatomical grossness of chickens, nor will I be blamed for the evils of factory farming. I can’t believe your father gave you a copy of The Jungle. What in God’s name was he—” she shook her head. “What do you want from me?”
“Sympathy? Empathy? Mutual horror at the inescapable necessity of feeding on the dead!?”
Mom dropped the spatula in the sink and wiped her hands on a towel. She took me by the hands and led me to the dim sitting room where you can find several authentic Paris Club chairs. From Paris. Where they are made.
“What’s going on, Cindy?” Mom asked. “I feel like all of my children have lost their minds. Emily getting suspended? Jacob on drugs? And I can’t remember the last time I saw you eat.”
“Jacob isn’t on drugs,” I said. “He’s just horny all the time.”
Mom, dropping my wrists, blinked. “What?”
I rolled my eyes. Mom was, to use the vernacular, such a little cinnamon roll. I mean, how did she even have children? With our dad?
The sudden thought came to assail me: my father, stripped to his silk argyle socks, climbing onto our mother, a snow angel in the deep fluffy center of their big wooden bed, patiently waiting for him to lubricate her vagina like a rusty old pickup, shoving a brand new bottle of KY against her opening and squeezing—Oh! It’s cold!—and Dad, his modest little penis beginning to wilt—What? Oh, right. Sorry, Sweetheart, I wasn’t thinking. Do you want me to stop?—and mom, shaking her head, trying not to think about dinner or the war in Afghanistan or the rising price of gasoline or the hot neighbor boy, saying—No, no, just give me a second.—and Dad just patiently waiting there on his knees until Mom, realizing he needed to be told—Okay, Jeff, go ahead and put it in me!—and Dad looking down at his limp penis and saying, outloud—oh, darn.
Seen through such a lens, my life was doubly a miracle; that I was once conceived, but more, that I was conceived by them.
God, and there were two come before me. Madness. A lottery of dominoes.
Mom narrowed her eyes.
“You haven’t noticed how Jacob looks at us?” I asked.
“Us us. You, me, Emily us. You know… us.”
Mom shook her head.
Jesus, Mom, are you on drugs?
“He spends all his time on Dad’s exercise junk, them comes upstairs with a pillow over his—shall we say, his masculine cylinder—disappears to his chambers for hours, only then to present himself and stare at Emily like a hungry dog might a steak.”
“Honey, that’s ridiculous. And such a terrible thing to suggest. Jacob isn’t attracted to his sister. That’s completely inappropriate, Cindy.”
I considered my mother sadly. She was far too pure for this world. Such an innocent.
But innocence, alas, is an unstable armor of lies. And I, in truth, must pierce it.
That is my youthful burden, in this household of obnoxious goddamn bitches.
“Mom, all I’m saying is that if you just look down between Jacob’s legs the next time he zones out, it’ll all make sense.” I sighed. “It certainly isn’t hard to see.”
Thomas nodded and scribbled on his pad.
“What is it that isn’t hard to see?” he asked.
I heaved a dramatic breath into the air between us, gesturing vaguely. “He’s massive. Obviously.”
God, it’s as if these people exist to punish me.
“He’s hung like a… a bull. His manhood is frightening.”
Thomas repeated the word ‘bull’ and wrote in silence for several minutes. He also removed a small, leather notebook from a drawer and wrote something short on an inside page. Then he looked up, his gorgeous brow as tightly knit as a Cashmere scarf, his eyes as sharp as needles. “And how do you feel about your brother’s… sexuality?”
I shrugged. “I think he’s going to get a cheerleader pregnant and spend the rest of his life living in my basement.”
“You’re not threatened by him?”
I shook my head. “He’s like a dog who can’t stop licking his nuts. I feel sorry for him.”
Thomas nodded enthusiastically. He continued to write.
“Now how did your mother respond to these… observations?”
Sighing, I allowed my body to become a liquid, flowing right off his fake French chair and spilling out onto the floor. I lay there, pooled at his feet, until at last I felt a groan was necessary.
Realizing he was too stubborn to sympathize with my pain, I relented, climbed back into the chair, and resumed the nature of a solid.
My God, men are hopeless little things.
He raised an eyebrow.
“She went crazy,” I insisted.
More scribbling. Coffee from the corner of his desk.
“Your mother is also Jacob’s mother? Biologically, as far as you know?”
He continued writing. I waited with unreasonable patience.
His office was fairly large, with enough room for his desk, our chairs, a complicated pink massage table surrounded by problematically appropriated Asian pseudo-art, and several fully-packed bookshelves along the far wall. Fresh plants survived on trickles of artificial light, and there was a fish tank under his coffee table that boiled with plump, spotted fish.
It was the cheap version of nice, in other words. Someone with more taste than money, but not much of either.
I was more comfortable in his office than I was back at home.
He put down his coffee.
“Crazy how?” he asked.
This called for a ‘reaction.’ I sighed and slid back to the floor.
My mother was going crazy. I endured her with an air of confused innocence, my natural at-home state.
She was on her feet, shouting. We now rejoin the scene, already in progress:
“-believe that you insist on saying something that awful about your own brother!” Mom shouted.
She was red, fists clenched, vibrating with an illogical fury.
“I… I didn’t say he did anything,” I insisted, “I just said-”
“You accused your brother of sexualizing a family member. Something no one in this rapidly degenerating household would ever do!”
“Well it’s not like Emily isn’t really pretty, and-”
“You now?” Mother screamed. I mean, actually screamed, as though I’d come at her with a knife. “It’s projection, isn’t it? Isn’t it!? You’re aroused by Emily and you want to test the idea by projecting it on your brother. Well it’s not okay, Cindy. It’s not an acceptable response to your sister!”
“What?” I sat back, startled. “I don’t… Emily!? I’m not even attracted to women.”
“Nonsense! She seduced you with her magnetic, almost supernatural charm. Teasing you in private. Overwhelming you with praise. Taking every opportunity to be naked around you, to expose you to her smell, her pheromones, her fluids, touching you more than necessary, arousing you casually, assaulting your senses when you were at your most vulnerable, pushing you and pushing you and pushing you until you just had to taste her silky, peach-colored flesh!”
“Silky?” he said, expressionless.
I sighed. “Yes.”
“She was in a frenzy!”
Thomas made a face and tapped his pen against the pad. His watch ticked audibly in the vacuum.
“Your mother is the blonde woman I met at Orientation, correct?”
“And your father was the guy following her around like a puppy?”
“Do they sleep in the same room?” he asked.
I thought about this. “Dad falls asleep in his office pretty often, but most of the time. I think. Oh! Do you think her anger stems from a feeling of isolation, and that her unselfconscious melodrama is a coping mechanism she developed in order to force others to engage with her!?”
Thomas stared at me.
I cast my face to the ceiling, the air rushing out of me like breath from a balloon.
No one understands me, not even my beautiful Thomas.
He narrowed his eyes.
“Well!?” I demanded.
“…No,” he finally answered. “I don’t believe that’s your mother’s problem, no.”
We continued to look at each other. I reacted to this like someone being punched in the guts.
“Can I please go on?” I asked.
“Thank you,” I said. The drama queen.
“I’ve never had a sexual thought about anyone in this family,” I said.
Mom ripped her apron off with a single, violent jerk. It tore with a sound like distant lightning. “You little liar. I’ll bet you’ve been burying your sexual needs for years, unable to admit what you really want to anyone but your vibrator.”
“My… I don’t even own a vibrator!” I lied.
Mom threw the tatters of her apron onto the supple, buttery leather of an authentic Parisian masterpiece.
“We’re going to talk about this tonight,” Mom said. “All of us, as a family.”
“But first, I’m going to go talk to your sister and make sure you haven’t traumatized her with your disgusting preoccupations.”
“Go to school!”
Mother flushed like—well, silky peach skin, actually—and stormed out of the room, breathing as loud as bagpipes. Her feet upon the steps were like an awful, dying heart.
Distantly, I heard Emily’s door open, and a gasp of surprise as her stupid marker thing drew a line over Mom’s fingers, “Oh! Ugh. We never should have let her put this-”, and the sound of a door slamming.
“And after that?” Thomas asked.
“I sat there for a few minutes, grabbed my backpack, and walked to school.”
“I thought your mother took you to school,” Thomas said. “You don’t have a car?” He leafed back through his notebook.
The label on its cover was fresh, about half the size of a ‘Hello my name is’ sticker, and labled in his flawless cursive hand.
C I N D Y
Not ‘Cindy Kingston,’ not ‘Client 00056789/k,’ not ‘Notes.’
I felt very good about this.
“I guess she forgot,” I said.
Again, Thomas looked me over. He scratched his jaw with the capped end of his pen. The sound of it reminded me of construction paper, and slowly tearing cloth. He reached up and combed aside a big handful of thick black hair.
“How do you feel about that?” he asked. “About all of it—breakfast, your sister puking in the bathroom, your brother’s uncontrollable erections, the argument with your mother, being forgotten at home?” He ticked off the list with his pen. Right. Left. Right. Left.
“You know how I feel,” I said.
I hid an X of pale legs behind my Etsy darling backpack and hugged myself with both arms. I used to be able to disappear behind my bag. When I was a kid.
So I spread out. Legs and arms filling up the space like normal, boring, people. I looked over at the fish, who were sucking little patches of grossness off a plastic tube.
“I feel like a background character in someone else’s adventure,” I said. Still looking at the fish. “Like, I’m not my crazy, sexy sister. And I’m not my big horny brother. I’m not a lesbian, or a tomboy, or a girl scout, or a sociopath. I’m not a doctor or a lawyer. I get good grades, but I’m not a genius like Emily or Mom. I don’t play video games or lift weights or have a following on Snapchat. I don’t have a boyfriend, I don’t have a car. And if I did have a car, I’d have nowhere to drive it.”
More silence. Thomas was staring at me as though my words were written on my face, just a little too small to read.
“So who are you, Cindy?”
I kicked my backpack. It was empty.
“The crazy girl who spends half her day in the counselor’s office? The loser who reads two-hundred-year-old novels about handsome aristocrats and sexy stable boys? Who writes angsty internet fanfics about the guys from EXO fucking the shit out of each other? And being werewolves? The vegan who stopped eating animal products two years ago, but who matters so goddamn little to her family that no one even noticed? Is that who I am?”
Thomas shrugged. “Are you?” he asked.
“Yes,” I told his fish.
“You’re not special at all?”
He wasn’t writing. He was rolling the pen over his kneecap, back and forth like a clock.
“Do you think I’m special?” I asked.
“Avoiding the question,” he said.
I snorted. God, that was annoying.
“What does ‘special’ even mean?” I asked.
“Avoiding the question,” he repeated.
I leapt out of his stiff, fake chair like a spring.
“No, goddamn it, I don’t! I don’t feel special! Okay!?” I clenched my fists.
“Look into that mirror over there,” he said, quietly.
A short girl, pale, bright lemon blonde, with mom’s blue cartoon eyes. A thin layer of chalky pink lipstick spread like an afterthought over a wide, thin mouth. Nose just kind of there in the middle of my face. Legs too thin, chest too fat. Standing like a boy in her Carven summer dress and wedge espadrille.
I made a face at the girl in the mirror and hated her with all of my heart.
“Isn’t this how your mother was standing, when she yelled at you?”
My eyes widened. I unmade my fists. Sat.
“Yeah,” I said. “I guess it was.”
“What’s fifteen times twelve?” he asked me.
“150, 30—One hundred and eighty,” I answered, immediately.
“How many bones are in the human hand?” he asked.
“Twenty-six? No, Twenty-seven.”
He crossed his big, masculine arms. “Why’d you answer twenty-six first?” he asked.
“Because that’s how many are in the foot,” I said, honestly. “I get them mixed up.”
“What’s the atomic weight of Gold?” he asked me.
“One-hundred and ninety-seven,” I said. I shook my head, disappointed. “Are you trying to make me feel smart, Tom?”
“I’m trying to show you how full of shit you are, Cindy.”
Thomas didn’t curse, so the sudden realness made me laugh.
He tossed his pen at his desk, just narrowly missing his coffee. “No, you’re not a genius like your sister, but your sister gets straight Fs, Cindy. She’s failed her senior year twice. And she’s probably going to end up in jail someday.” He considered this. “Or the White House.”
He interrupted me. Another thing he doesn’t do. “You read old books because you’re a romantic. And you like them because you’re an adult. You write because you’re creative. And—can I assume The Exo are a music group?”
‘The Exo.’ Adorable.
“Yes.” I smiled.
“And they’re beautiful young men?”
“So, you’re not their only fan?”
I gave him a complicated look, in response to which he sighed.
He closed the notebook with my name on the cover, snapping a rubber band around the middle, and setting it in a drawer of his big metal desk. Standing, he leaned against the fake Paris chair like a teacher awaiting the bell. His legs were so thick with kilt-filling muscle that I could see the keys in his pocket, the hem of his boxers, and the heavy pouch of his curled-up manhood, slung between them like a sack.
My heart fluttered like a frightened bird.
Oblivious, he shook his head. His neck, pale, held a constant ruddy blush, like the cheek of a maiden.
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Cindy. You feel like other people are more important than you because you care about other people. And because you’re not so full of yourself that they feel like your background characters. And…” he sighed, shaking his head. “And you could have a boyfriend, Cindy. If you wanted one. And toned down the theatrics, maybe. Any guy.” He bent forward, his clothes creaking with the strain. “Any guy. Believe me.”
He sipped coffee. “You resist intimacy because you fear rejection. That a normal, teenage thing.”
I sensed the end of a conversation. Which meant the beginning of a boring school day.
“Would you go out with me?” I asked, desperate.
“Of course,” he laughed. “But when I was in high school, I wasn’t exactly-”
“No,” I said, quietly. “I mean… would you go out with me? Like… you. Me. For real.”
The words “Of course not” formed in his mouth, then tripped over themselves. I saw this happen. Sometimes, a hunger can be so strong that it strangles your inhibitions. But while his were certainly choking, they didn’t hit the ground.
He stared at me for a long time before answering. His face was as hard as the one on the clock. “That wouldn’t be allowed,” he said.
Thanks to Jacob, I was familiar with the hip-rolling, pants-tugging, awkward dance of a man hiding an erection.
Thomas shifted and lifted his jacket off the nearby desk. He folded it between his forearms as though he were about to slip it on. Conveniently, this protected his loins from my attention.
I held my arms in a similar position, because my stomach had turned upside down. “And if it were?” I asked. “Allowed.”
To my surprise, he colored. The rusty blood in his cheeks really lit up his face. His lips, now stained, were thick and wide. Much bigger than mine. Would kissing him overwhelm me? Would it be like kissing some powerful, hairy beast?
Would he hurt me… with all that strength?
Would I want that?
Oh, I thought. That’s why people like Twilight. Huh.
He looked away from me, fidgeting.
“I’m… not much of a dater, Cindy,” said the best looking human I’d ever met.
“Avoiding the question,” I whispered.
We looked at one another.
We looked at one another for a very long time.
He stepped in my direction and opened his beautiful mouth.
I moved to well within his personal space and he didn’t push me away.
Hands took my shoulders and squeezed.
And the period bell came with a long, electric scream.
He looked up. Looked back. Grinned and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m afraid our time is up.”
I stood. “I thought you said this wasn’t therapy?”
He turned away and found a pad on his desk. “It isn’t recess either. Go to your next class. I’ll write you an out for your first period. This time. Okay?”
I was so disappointed I thought my insides would spill out through my skin. I had come so close to… to what?
The moment, as the old novels say, had passed.
I took the long punchcard slip and dropped it in my empty backpack. Zipped up with a snap.
“See you at lunch?” I asked.
Pause. Too long. “Uh, no, actually. Someone is taking me to lunch. I probably won’t see you until tomorrow.”
Pause. Too long. “Okay,” I said.
I went through the door, closed it behind me, and sank to the floor with a thud.
And my tears were as hot as the school was cold.
Medical Hall West was a hundred fluorescent feet of white tile, maple accents, and long panels of bright frosted glass. All the counselors had their offices at one end, the two school nurses, the health studies coordinator, and the sports and reproductive clinics at the end of the hall. There was something like a birdbath right between the two clinics, overflowing with condoms in crinkly, lollipop plastic.
The joke was that the condoms were there for the sports clinic, not the reproductive one, and it was a fad for varsity athletes to wear a string of them hanging from their belts, like scalps.
This was actually pretty devious, since you couldn’t really take them away, could you? Subsequent pregnancy or an STI would be a school-gutting liability. And if you told them to put the condoms away, they’d innocently ask: “But why? Are you suggesting that prophylactic protection should be considered taboo, or even… dirty? That a nice young man like myself shouldn’t carry them and be open about reproductive health?”
After which the innocent teacher, gritting their teeth, would mutter the words: “Of course not,” and retire to the lounge to clean out their wounds.
At the other end of the hall, where a left turn brought you to Administration West, was the old nurse’s office—now a kind of medical supply room—and the Guidance Office, G-L. Thomas’ office. They were squeezed together in the corner.
On a whim, I pushed through the door marked SUPPLY and found myself in a dark, abandoned space, with boxes full of tongue depressors and condoms.
Seriously, there were enough tongue depressors in that single, darkened room to depress all the tongues in the state. It was so depressing you needed Prozac just to stand there.
It was in this eerie wooden environment, surrounded by the splintery smell of a million wrapped depressors, that I heard the words that would change my life.
Preceded by a long, heavy sigh.
“Jesus Christ,” Thomas said. “I need to jerk off more.”
His voice was so loud it was like he was standing next to me.
I turned toward the noise.
A slender line of yellow light drew me across the room as he gave another heavy sigh.
One of Medical Hall West’s iconic glass windows separated his office from the old nurse’s room. On his side, there was a bookshelf bigger than the window.
On my side was a big stack of boxes.
Tongue depressors, of course. Thousands of individually wrapped tongue depressors, solemnly and individually entombed like a vast popsicle mausoleum.
I got down on my knees and burrowed through the boxes like an unusually pathetic beaver, discovering a thin vent peering out on the crammed together pages of a dozen or so books.
If I could see through the vent, I could see into his office.
I could listen in on his sessions.
I could gawk at him in private.
And much, much more importantly, I could see how he spent his lunch.
…but his books, like everything else in my life, were in my way.
I tried to poke my finger through, but it was too thick. Ditto the strap of my bookbag.
Feeling very smart, I took the stiff paper punch card out of my backpack and stiffened it with a finger. Carefully, I slid it through the crack and touched the pages of a book.
Slowly, I pushed the book forward.
It was tricky. Push too hard, and the paper would collapse. Too soft, and the book wouldn’t move. So I was completely focused on my task when Thomas said, growling and making a corduroy sound with his hands: “Holy shit my dick is hard.”
I slipped in surprise, falling softly against the glass.
The punch card, with my name and presumably my fingerprints, slipped all the way in and vanished behind the book. Meaning if Thomas saw the slip, he’d know I was there. And if he saw it later, he know where I was.
And what I’d probably heard.
Fuck! I screamed, in my head.
I was halfway through designing an ingenious device for remotely pushing books, deciding the tack I would take with the shop teacher, when I slipped on something plastic and cracked my head against the floor.
This resulted in a catastrophic chain reaction that tipped over three boxes, all of which magically did not crash to the floor.
And also a fourth, which did.
It hit the floor with a muffled boom, and sprayed me with crinkly box blood.
Boxes, my floor-addled brain quietly insisted, do not bleed.
“Huh?” I said, outloud, like an idiot.
Stop talking, and wipe the box blood off your face, my brain said.
“Oh, right,” I said.
After which I discovered the my entire body was covered in fresh, free, individually wrapped, vexingly numerous tongue depressors.
A tongue depressor, my brain added helpfully, is a long, thin piece of wood. They are exceptionally good at pushing books, and surprisingly so-so at depressing tongues.
“Oh,” I repeated. “Right.”
“Hello?” Thomas said.
“Danielle Lawrence, please,” he said.
I relaxed. His voice had the weirdly universal distance of someone talking on a phone.
“Dani? It’s me. How are you?”
Silence. Then: “Listen, I know it’s been a while, but could you meet me at the office?”
Then: “As soon as possible.”
Then: “See you.”
His phone, tossed on the desk. Another oppressive sigh. Chair rolling, muscles stretching, a crackle of rice crispy joints. He drained and tossed his coffee. Tapped on the desk with his pen.
“God, I need this,” he said.
There was a zippery sound of hands sliding down corduroy.
Cindy, my brain insisted, you should really get to work on that peephole.
Ten minutes and a small mess later, his copy of The Principles of Clinical Psychology, Vol 4 had slid one inch to the side, presenting me with a narrow cone of vision over the top of his desk, and the back of his chair.
His phone rang, and brief conversation ended with his door opening up.
An upsettingly attractive brunette in a green, short-sleeved dress stepped into his office. She wore plain black flats and a thin gold bangle. A grocery store wristwatch. A cheap leather purse. Sunglasses with those big oval lenses, clipped to the front of her dress. To my utter, furious disgust, she strode across the room on long, slender legs with a rich caramel tan. Smiled through sensible makeup. Brushed hair off simple gold hoops.
Her teeth were distractingly white.
What an ugly bitch, I lied to myself. He deserves better.
“Hey,” she said, pressing her lips together.
“Hey,” Thomas said, standing up next to his desk.
“Well?” she asked.
Thomas nodded. “I need to fuck,” he said.
She smiled. “Do you now…” The word morphed into a low, appreciative sound. “God, so do I.”
Mere feet away, I—not being a gross, cheaply dressed whore—burned with excited shame everywhere from my neck to my thighs.
This was not some vague sexual allusion in a dusty, leather-bound novel. It was not an anatomically suspect, manga-inspired rendering of a gorgeous, Korean Adonis. It was not a fantasy, and it was not the furtive, hairy beast that sometimes took me in my wettest, guiltiest dreams.
It was real. And I was there.
I shivered. Private muscles clenched between my legs, as a warm place formed like a stain.
I could see them both. Her to one side, and him fully out of cover, standing in front of her and, therefore, in front of me.
His manhood was thick and visible, a fat sausage in his overstuffed slacks, completely obscene, covered with corduroy but as clear as his lust. It lay across his thigh like a great, fallen tree—heavy, stiff.
And it throbbed.
The woman dropped her purse and tossed in the ugly sunglasses like the cheap plastic shit that they were, poured the woolen snake of a thin brown scarf to her feet, shedding, and moved closer to him with catlike, predatory steps, all the weight on her toes.
His erection shifted like a tectonic plate.
She reached down and stroked it through his pants, her fingers beautifully capped by glossy red polish.
At least she spends money on something, I thought. The bitch.
The look on his face, as she stroked his cock, was feral. His nostrils flared, and he showed her a sliver of teeth.
“Where’d you get this?” she asked.
He looked away. “Long story,” he said.
Immediately, she slapped him. Hard enough to leave an angry red handprint.
I tensed, though what would I do? Crash through the window? Scream down the hall?
He didn’t seem bothered by the violence. His head turned. That was all.
He turned back, smiling, a thin line of blood along his jaw.
“Are you fucking one of your students?” she continued.
He shook his head.
She kissed his chin. Her arms crossed.
“What’s her name?”
He sighed. “Cindy Kingston,” he admitted.
My eyes hollowed out like keyholes. Call me an innocent if you must, but I’d assumed his sexual comments were unrelated to our session.
She stepped back. “A Kingst—you’re crushing on one of them?” she asked, horrified. “Christ, Tom. Wealthy, self-obsessed voluptuaries aren’t exactly your type. I thought, anyway.”
My forehead wrinkled.
What’s a voluptuary?
It sounded kind of nice.
He shrugged, smiling and sheepish. “Cindy’s a sweet girl. With incredible breasts. Her mother’s supermodel face. And a sad, smart, clueless soul. You know how that gets me. Plus her brother, Jacob—I’ll need to look into him.”
“Incredible breasts, huh?” she said.
He nodded, smiling, eyes wide. “Oh yeah. No clue, either. Totally innocent.”
“And a sad little soul?”
“Histrionic Personality Disorder. More or less textbook, after today’s ‘please date me’ fiasco. She’d be a jewel in any other family. As a Kingston, she feels like a sapphire in their big pile of diamonds.”
“Ahh,” she said, nodding to herself. “Sexy but miserable. Is that your thing now? Now that you’ve left your bad days behind?”
He growled like a bear.
I shuddered with a wet surge of adrenaline.
She wrapped one arm behind his massive shoulders. The other cupped the torpedo shape of his still-clothed manhood and squeezed it.
Then she stepped back and rolled her dress down to expose modest, bell-shaped breasts. They were larger than mine, smaller than Mom’s, and bore the luminescent ghost of a truly scandalous summer bikini.
“It’s a weakness,” he said.
The muscle in his arms tightened, but he stayed in his place.
She smirked. But then buried her face in his chest, rolling her forehead slowly against him.
“Lucky me,” she said.
He kissed the top of her head.
The casual affection of it made me nauseous.
“Thanks for coming again, Dani,” he whispered, into her hair.
For some dumb reason, I teared up. But I couldn’t look away.
Dani’s fingers peeled his erection like a fruit, slipping the button from its hole, unzipping it so slowly that I wanted to scream, tugging down the flaps of orange corduroy skin, folding them down over his thighs, and carefully slipping her delicate little hand into the fly of his oversized shorts.
“Your hands are so cold,” he said.
“My pussy won’t be,” she answered, her voice as tense as a guitar string.
She was trembling. So was I.
He was smiling. Relaxed.
She bit her lower lip, and tugged his cock free with a jerk, carefully fishing it out of his shorts.
He sighed, leaning back as she extracted the single thickest penis I’d ever imagined. The bulge hadn’t done him justice. It wasn’t long, but it was thick enough that it didn’t matter.
The big, wet mouth at its tip was big enough to hide a marble.
“Fuck,” she said.
“Fuck,” I whispered.
“Yeah,” he grinned. He crossed his arms over his head, and rolled the stress out of his neck. Meanwhile, his cock dumped a mouthful of precum onto his polished leather shoes.
Quietly, she sank to her knees.
###End of Chapter 3###
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