Ingrid (Act 1 of 2) by burgwad,burgwad

Literotica.com submission notes:

(1) This draft contains uses of bold and italic text.

Ingrid (Part 1 of 2)

by burgwad

(1) Note: All characters in this story are at least 18 years old.

(2) Substance Use Warning: This story contains significant amounts of recreational drug use (marijuana, LSD, alcohol). This author only condones recreational drug use when practiced in safety and moderation with trusted friends or family. Readers whose values or beliefs clash with this position have been respectfully warned.

(3) Specific Thanks to a handful of Literotica and r/incest contributors whose writing I have lovingly and non-consensually pilfered for inspiration: Dave_LG, lovecraft68, onehitwanda, Spector_Dugan, and Xarth. Stylistic nods to their works are threaded into this one with deliberate intent to flatter and allude. Readers who enjoy my work are encouraged to seek out and gorge on their vastly superior output.

Chapter One, Part One of Two

Ingrid will be here tomorrow. Will’s little sister.

Will stands at the door of the room he’s loaning her. He sips hot coffee. The scope of the mess is such that he has to kind of stand and glower at it for a minute.

Ingrid had, in preparation for going to Paris, learned barely a word of French, but had eagerly stopped showering and shaving. Mom had tried to tell her Parisian women shower and shave just as often as American women. But Ingrid insisted on the change regardless. She argued that if even if it turns out Parisian girls shave, then she was content to be the exotic American who doesn’t.

The new body hair and smell had been an abrupt change and drawn Will’s attention to his younger sister’s new age in ways stranger and more graphic than anybody had prepared him for.

Whenever she sat next to him on the couch with her arms hooked behind her head, Ingrid’s pits had kind of looked and smelled like his. She had let him feel them once, in fact–well, made him–and he hadn’t hated it. Her underarm was cute. It had been coarse like his but softer, slightly blonder, and stinky like his but different, fresher somehow, like the ozone smell of fresh rain. He’d sort of liked the way her BO smelled. But he had told her she stunk, of course. She had thrashed him.

He never wanted to sound creepy. They were just close siblings. They understood each other, and cohabitated well. She could stretch her feet onto his lap and make a small quick face at him that made it okay. She could tuck her toes under his thighs. She could tickle his scruffy chin with her clammy toes if he nodded off. Her dancer’s toes were strangely intelligent, capable little digits.

A lone bean-shaped spot of floor is bare, where Will sometimes stands when he composes. He is standing in it now, for some reason, appraising the mess from inside the mess. Everywhere, audio cables lay looped and tangled about foot pedals, synthesizers, recording equipment, everything but speakers. Will’s music room’s ruckus feeds entirely into a pair of well-loved over-ear cans dangling presently from the doorknob over yonder. Lately, even those have been quiet though. Will just hasn’t had it in him.

Pieces of laundry, mostly his, dress the mess haphazardly.

And all over, like an animal has been in here, lay beaten, stepped-on, fucked-on scraps of paper scrawled with half-formed song ideas. Will’s eye happens to land on “–love you like a dog loves chocolate,” peeking out from beneath a crisp, stinky sock. He winces at it. It makes him feel down on himself when he writes bad lyrics.

Ingrid can’t see this mess.

And he still needs to hang up these blackout curtains. She’ll need sleep when she gets here from the other side of the world. He glowers at these curtains, too. He sips his coffee.

The monster’s dormant brain and skull, Will’s computer desk, is more trouble today than furniture. His old desk chair frowns at him beside it, learned helplessness pounded into its seat. Is he really going to clean up today? Does he mean it?

This whole mess makes Will worry about things he can’t even really name. The word “metastasis” occurs to him, seems to approximate it. He scans the chaos for his notebook. Either to write in it or to get rid of it.

Anyway. About Ingrid going to France. A few years ago, a dance school in Paris had gone out of its way to invite his goofy little sister to come study in its prestigious halls instead of going back to boring old American college. Will and Ingrid’s parents had argued ferociously about it. It was going to cost a fortune. There would be no way to monitor her behavior. There were legitimate reasons to worry about her safety.

But Ingrid was someone who mere normal people, Mom and Dad included, were helpless to oblige, and she adamantly wished to go. Sure enough, the tuition cost triggered a seismic shift in family finances that sent Mom and Dad’s hitherto gradually declining marriage into full nosedive. Dad went awful. Mom just kind of lost her get-up and go.

For Will, the absence of his sister stung quietly at first, but then louder and louder as weeks went by, until one day it knocked the ear cans right off his head. He had stood in the bean-shaped spot of floor, the piece he’d been working on looping in the phones around his neck, and wept. He had lost the urge to create. Trying after that became what felt like wasted time.

It wasn’t that his sister had been his muse, per se, but he was beginning to understand that she had been inspiring to him in some indirect way. If he had a word for it, he’d have a word for it.

For the first few months after she left, Will would dream that she was still at home but hiding, tiptoeing about, sneaking around just out of sight, or letting him glimpse a flicker of hair before slipping away again, and all the while rehearsing gibberish that in his dream had stood in for French. Her voice in the dreams was always so convincing, like she was really there. But he just couldn’t ever see her.

And, not to gross anyone out, but she was always nearly naked, taking clothes off, an impossible, dreamlike quantity of clothing, and dropping them breadcrumb-like for Will to find and pick up and sigh at. Please don’t get the wrong idea. The laundry was never anything scandalous. But this somehow only made it that much sadder for Will. The real Ingrid had never cared what she left lying around.

Meanwhile the divorce itself was, if anything, kind of a welcome distraction. Will actually got closer with Mom because of it. Watching her struggle was how he learned that she was smart, and tried hard, and kept herself occupied. Even when things got bad, and they surely did, she was still nice to be around. Will starts to hurt in this bittersweet, chest-tightening way when he thinks about Mom.

Mom and Will had had all these conversations about Ingrid in the early days after the separation where they would both just wind up silent, depressed, and missing her to death. But these were still nice. Will had liked these.

When Will graduated, simply moving away proved surprisingly doable. He had half expected to just kind of fall over once he left Mom’s orbit. But he had stayed upright. He had gotten all the way to school fully awake and alert and merely very badly depressed.

At college he listed about from classroom to dorm room in a sort of dull merry-go-round, feeling cross and stale and apart.

Girls sometimes found this alluring. They would get on the ride with him, get naked with him, maybe fuck him a little, and then disembark once they realized how lonely he could make them feel. He did not miss them, really, when they left. Maybe in little bursts. But mostly he missed other, better people.

So, he was dying to see Ingrid tomorrow. But he was also worried. What if he made her feel lonely? Ingrid had gone supernova over in Paris while Will had pickled in his own juices in … wherever he’d been.

And okay, there was the issue of her attractiveness. Let’s just get that out of the way. Sometime in high school, people started talking more and more creepily about Ingrid’s looks–her shapely cheek bones, her pouty lips, her sprinkling of freckles, her effortless hair, her endless neck, her this, her that, you get the picture–and then after that it had never really stopped.

Did he buy into the hype? Sure, why not. She was only his sister, even kind of looked like him, but he could tell ‘pretty’ when he saw it.

Did he ever try to sneak a peek at her while she was changing or stepping out of the shower? Of course not. Gross. Maybe once or twice, by accident, but that shouldn’t count.

Had he ever stolen a pair of her underwear out of the laundry and snuck them into the bathroom and then sniffed at the gusset lining, even licked the dirty fabric, even stuffed them wholesale into his mouth while he jerked off over the toilet? Oh, come on. He was her brother. He cared about her.

His sister’s beauty was not a fetish for him. It was a burden. She was a freak of splendor. Her grace was weird. No one in their family was anything like her, least of all him, even if you could sort of put her next to the bunch and go, “Oh, there is a resemblance.”

(He had felt truly gross about the whole panty-stealing thing, and really only done it a handful of times. And to be clear, he never came inside the underwear. He just liked the way they smelled. It helped him cum for some reason. And then he would put them right back in the laundry, no harm no foul.)

Has anyone mentioned yet how cunning Ingrid was? She was a sociopath. She started dating left and right just as soon as she could. Boys and girls alike, as it turned out, in roughly equal proportion. Boys couldn’t get enough of her, naturally. Girls, meanwhile, were scared of her. And Ingrid liked scared. Girls or nonbinary people on the fence about their sexuality sometimes found they could use her as a testing ground, so long as they were okay with being toyed with. She broke hearts, got hers broke, ruined some lives, saved others. And all the while she stayed little sister. She would whoop his ass in Smash and make him feed her Oreos at the same time; her armpits soupy smelling, her feet vinegary, her crotch sort of fishy, and still her brother just saw Ingrid. Okay, wait, we were talking about her cunning. Well, anyway, after a certain age, watching Ingrid mature into a woman was like was like watching Clark Kent mature into Superman.

And while all of this was happening? Her lonely brother simply coped. Little sisters could turn into this? Nobody had warned him. His silly, sloppy kid sister had somehow, at some point while he wasn’t paying close attention, morphed into a living, breathing, unshaven piece of art.

Will considers writing this down, too, for some reason, but then replays it in his head and thinks better of it. Where is that fucking notebook anyway?

Ingrid had come home once for winter vacation while Will was away. He had been stuck at college, beholden to a part-time job at a restaurant that needed him in town over the break, and so he had not been home to see her, nor been physically present to help cushion the blow of their newly separated parents’ radioactive dysfunction.

She had phoned Will in the middle of the night, crying, and then called him again every night after that. This had gone on for three weeks straight. A miniature era.

That era had been the first time Will felt happy and awake at the same time. He remembers staying up in his shitty dorm room bed all the way until the sun came up on her end. He remembers being sleepy most days for work. Had had suffered indifferently, simply excited to get home, nap a bit, and wake up whenever the phone rang again. He had been really productive somehow, too. Written good music.

Ingrid had initially called on the pretense of needing to unpack the day’s melodrama, but it got to where this charade only occupied a minute or two of their time, and then after they just kind of hung out.

Then Ingrid had gone back to France.

Will’s girlfriend from earlier this year, Mai-Lee the cocktail artist (who resented even that term), was the first person to accuse him of being in love with his sister.

She had already seen photos of Ingrid and joked that it would be okay if Will invited her to have a threesome with them. She liked to mention how closely they resembled one another, but how much better Ingrid wore the look. She had kind of pushed Will’s buttons, to be honest.

Then several months into their relationship, this was around February, Mai-Lee had dropped in by surprise while Will was in the shower. She had happened to find Will’s laptop open to porn, which she politely closed–and but found this hidden photo album of pictures and videos all of her boyfriend of several months’ younger sister wearing skimpy dancewear, string bikinis, skintight cocktail dresses, the like, and Mai-Lee realized that Will’s fondness for his sibling was in fact a grave matter.

Will had tried to shrug it off. His kid sister was pretty, he could admit that. He could see her good looks the same way he could see certain men’s good looks. But he wasn’t some kind of creep! The photo album? Sentimental! The porn? Circumstantial!

Mai-Lee had asked him why he had hidden the folder.

Will had answered poorly.

Mai-Lee had cried and said the whole thing made her skin crawl.

Will still has a recurring nightmare in which this scene replays, and Mai-Lee’s face really does squiggle and relocate as she scolds him. He has stood there wrapped in his nightmare towel and lied to her, told the truth to her, simply done nothing (his specialty) and yet the damnable dream has only ever always circled back. Sometimes a bunch of times in one night.

About Ingrid coming to stay with him tomorrow, he feels: complexly.

At the drop-off area outside the Air France terminal, amid a crowd of locals surreptitiously ogling his sister’s ass in its gray leggings, brother and sister had said their first last goodbyes–neither of them had ever had to do something like this before. It hurt like hell. But Will didn’t know how to act hurt and not upset anybody, so he didn’t act hurt.

Ingrid had, when her brother had tried to hug her, wriggled free and broken into a jig, a whole new fuck-you-I’m-off-to-France number just for him. For both of them, it had been sad. Then she had grabbed him by the cheeks, squeezed them together so he was making a fishy face, and kissed him on his out-squished lips–that is, on the wet pink insides of his lips. Mom had cried like a child.

The kiss had had a melony flavor. Later he remembered this flavor and he wept by himself in the bathroom on the toilet holding a t-shirt she’d borrowed from him that still smelled like her. Since when was he such a crybaby? He’d always struggled to cry, even on purpose, before Ingrid left for France.

What will Ingrid be like tomorrow? Better at dancing? What does “better” mean when it comes to Ingrid, who was already such a natural talent? Smarter? Frencher? … Sexier?

Ingrid has, if the selfies she has sent him and Mom recently are anything to go by, certainly adopted the French dance student aesthetic: disheveled, cultured, horny. But this doesn’t worry him. What worries him is something else.

Chapter One, Part Two of Two

The bed in his music room is just a mattress, a sheet, and a blanket, never cleaned, laid directly on the hardwood floor. It is very much a part of the mess. Will does not remember sitting down on it, but here he is. He has his notebook, but no pen. He has now also misplaced his coffee.

When Will has had dates over, it has been this ghastly room, not his own, in which the very hottest things have happened. In his actual bedroom–a spartan, sexless space–dates have tended rather to fizzle out. Will can hardly even masturbate in there, much less please somebody else.

Yet here, amid coils of wire and crumpled up lyrics, women have fucked him. Aimee had fucked his face to tooth-loosening Valhalla. Emily had fucked his cock until he came inside her, and then sucked his softie clean. Katyana had forced him to fuck her in the ass, after which she had fucked him right back. With his vocoder mic. Will sighs, presently.

Just sitting on the bed in here, feeling the familiar cushion of the shabby, stinking mattress underneath him, Will gets an urge to whip his dick out. A hot, primordial urge to do exactly that, right this moment, one last time before his sister claims the space tomorrow and all Will’s music stuff, his mojo, his ability to masturbate at all, gets packed away into the closet.

He should not masturbate, of course. At least not to orgasm. It would be perverse to jerk off in a room he is about to lend to his little sister.

Will fishes his dick out of his underwear. He tosses his notebook to whence it came, brushes aside some papers on the bed, and makes room for himself to get comfy. He nestles in, becomes one with the mess, and slowly pumps his stiffening erection to life. He sifts through his memories for something suitable. He finds an old classic, pulls it out, and sets it to play in his mental theater.

Petite salon artiste Aimee had stood barefoot in the bean-shaped spot on the floor in nothing but a pair of powder blue panties, and in a steadily rising tone had told her ex-husband–not present–that if he fed her kids macaroni and hotdogs one more time then she was going to figure out a way to kill him and make it look like suicide. Will had gazed at Aimee’s girlish body and wondered how twins had come out of there. He had been selfishly glad she hadn’t breastfed, that she had such great big well-preserved mommy nipples atop such adorable tits.

Little Aimee had quieted, sighed at Will, and set her imaginary argument aside. She had come and pushed Will over onto his back. And she had said, smirking, in a kind of child’s voice, “Can I ask you a favor?” as she had tip-toed into position over his face.

She had looked down at him from between her breasts, from over the softly fuzzy dip of her navel, and from this strange angle had locked eyes with him. Light brown. And Will had answered somehow, he forgets, and Aimee had sat down. She grabbed him by the sides of his head. She kept her panties still very much on. And she humped his face to Valhalla.

Will pulls down his underwear so he can wank properly. He pumps his cock and reaches back into his sense memory for the weight of the petite artiste and mother of two on his head, the surprise abandon of her assault, and of all the visceral smells she had ground into his face: first of piss, a sharp tangy odor he had not realized he found arousing until Aimee had proved the point, and but also of sweat and ass and pussy, that holy cunnilingual trifecta.

Will hurriedly kicks off his underwear, wads them up, and shoves them in his mouth.

Aimee’s panties had grown soaked, and when he had sucked on her gusset fabric it had made a soft juicy noise and released hot fresh-out-of-the-oven flavors that, as he savored them amid the pummeling, had struck him as impeccably seasoned: savory, lemony, unique. Maybe it didn’t smell the greatest, but it tasted fantastic, and she was an expert at making you not give a fuck. The pain, too, had been that added pinch of spice that really brought the recipe home. Sometimes the tiny mom had bucked so hard she made his nose crackle. One of his lower front teeth still bore a very slight jiggliness to it he is pretty sure was not there until that morning.

He sort of missed Aimee, he could admit.

And the scratching, the scratching. Aimee had scratched at Will’s scalp as she rode his head, torn at it with mind-blowing scritchy-scratches like only an expert salon artist could. Her scalp treatment had tranquilized him. While cumming amidst all of this, because of course he had, he realized that he hadn’t felt its equal since he was a kid, when his mom had scritch-scratched pictures on his back and made him guess what they were.

Will can taste the sweat and ass and piss stains in his own underwear. Salty, uric, a little stale. For now, it is enough. He keeps one hand pumping furiously and brings the other to his scalp.

Aimee clamps down once and for all onto his ears and with her strangely strong little thighs squeezes so hard he worries his skull might pop, and he feels rather than hears her cum.

A sad little dribble of semen spurts out of Will’s cock and runs onto his fist, drools over his thumb, and drips onto his stomach. He lets it cool there as he gazes up at the ceiling, remembering Aimee’s twitches and aftershocks, her pinkened cheeks, her breathless little laugh and apologetic coo.

Will lay panting through his nose, gazing up at her past the sweet and sour underwear still crammed in his mouth, fully smitten.

He watches her stand back up in his memory, rise above him with her bare feet setting the mattress springs to hollering in his sweaty ears. She gazes down as Will stares up, and both take in the sight of her disheveled underwear, her soaking crotch, her inner thighs rubbed red. Then, as their eyes meet in the middle, she blushes and does a sexy little fuck-you-I’m-off-to-France number above him.

No wait. Aimee had simply stood up, set the mattress springs to hollering, and then, on seeing what she had done to Will’s face, said, “Yikes.” After that, she had dismounted from the mattress and gone off to the bathroom.

He feels the memory fade, float out of the room, and leave him alone in this bed that Ingrid needs ready by tomorrow.

Will takes the boxers out of his mouth, uses them to mop up the cum on his belly.

Chapter Two

Ingrid collapses onto her fresh clean covers and heaves a sigh of blissful exhaustion. Will humps the luggage in behind her. He flicks on the light. It’s dark in here with the curtains drawn.

Her shoes and socks lay already strewn across his nice clean floor. Ingrid has somehow gotten these off in the two or three seconds between when she disappeared into the room ahead of him and when he got into the doorway.

His little sister’s bare feet twist and flex off the edge of the mattress, her ankles pop, her toes splay.

Ingrid’s feet are a distinctive part of who she is. Dexterous, bony things. Her toes, especially, are callused and bizarrely intelligent.

“Where do you want me to put your shit?” Will asks, patting Ingrid’s twin monster suitcases and hot pink duffle bag.

“Closet’s fine,” she yawns serenely, just kind of blissing out for a moment.

“Oh. Um,” Will goes to the closet door and opens it to show his sister the floor-to-ceiling wall of stowed away music equipment.

“Merde, what is all that?”

“My music stuff. This is my music room. Er, was.”

“Oh,” Ingrid furrows her eyebrows, suddenly wistful. “You didn’t have to put it all away.”

Will flashes back to Katyana pulling the slimy microphone out of his puffy pink asshole.

“Trust me,” he promises. “It was a lot.”

Ingrid pulls her sweatshirt off, sort of shimmies out from under it, then throws it onto the floor where it joins her footwear.

“I don’t really mind a mess,” she says. “And I definitely do not want you to stop making music just because I’m here.”

Will nods, pretending to have heard.

Ingrid is wearing her favorite pale pink camisole with the soft built-in bra that sort of lets her nipples poke through. Ingrid stretches her arms–contorts them, really–and her little curls of underarm hair peek out at him for the first time in years. Gross, he thinks, and is overcome with fondness for his kid sister.

“Hey,” Ingrid startles him. “I appreciate you letting me stay here.”

“Yeah,” Will says, scratching a spot at the back of his scalp that doesn’t itch. “It’s no biggie.”

“Well, I promise I won’t hang around too long. Give me awhile to catch up on sleep, get readjusted, you know, then I’ll go find work. After a month or so I want to be able to afford my own place.”

“Sounds doable.”

“Speaking of which,” she cracks her neck, “do you know any studios in town looking for talent?”

Will shrugs. “You’d know better than I would.”

“Hm,” Ingrid nods. She breaks into another yawn. And still yawning, she admonishes him, “Do you mean to tell me you haven’t been patronizing your local dance community?”

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and peels them off.

Will had not for one tossing, turning night forgotten how comfortable his little sister was undressing around him, but certain skin-crawling events had transpired since the last time she had done so in person. She tosses her leggings onto the floor at his feet.

Her panties, which have come slightly loose, are a crazy hot pink zebra print affair that sort of matches her duffle. Ingrid sits back up and readjusts her underwear. Will looks on, somehow numb. She scratches at her newly liberated thighs.

“So,” Will clears his throat. “It took me hours to clean up in here.”

He stoops over, scoops up her socks and leggings and sweatshirt, and deposits them in the upright hamper by the door. He does this in a way that is, to him, nonchalant.

“And I put this here for a reason,” he pats the lid like it’s being a good little hamper.

Ingrid extends one long, strong leg–shaved only up to where the leggings had begun–and toes at her shoes on the floor, uprighting one and then the other and sliding them together, nice and neat.

“Pardon moi,” she frowns at her host.

“You saw how much was in that closet, Inge. That was the easy part.”

“Mhmmmm,” she says, laying back and unfurling into maybe her third or fourth full body stretch.

“And those sheets you’re lying on? Probably two or three years old, but I don’t think I ever washed them until last night.”

Ingrid grimaces and recoils from the bed she’s laying on.

“Brooo,” she groans. “Why even tell me?”

(‘Brooo’ rings him like a bell.)

“Well–I mean, sorry, they should be fine now. I think. Point is, while you may ‘like a good mess,’ I would still appreciate it if you could just–uh, humor–um–”

Unfortunately, Ingrid has now rolled onto her back, stretched her sculpted legs up straight into the air, and then lowered them back toward her face, folding herself effortlessly in half. Her ass cheeks bulge inside her panties, her you-know-what bulges between those, and the soft puffy skin of her you-know-what’s you-know-whats threatens to poke out either side of her stripy pink gusset.

The Ghost of Gussets Past comes elbowing into the room and casts a big chummy arm over Will’s shoulder. An old mutual friend of him and Aimee’s.

“I came as quick as I could,” he pants. He gives his little sister’s ass a hubba-hubba and, glancing suggestively at Will, points a big meaty thumb as if to say so is this what we’re working with today?

Will had not known that he did not want to know that his little sister did in fact shave her–he winces and resists saying the word, but the Ghost provides it for him: pussy–until the knowledge was right there, razor burnt and framed in hot pink zebra. It seems to be the only part of her she does shave.

His sister’s toes find purchase on the lightly textured wall and steady her. Something in her lower back pops, and then something else. She holds this pose for as long as she lets out a cathartic groan, and then for a few deep breaths after that.

“Sorry, I’m still listening,” she grunts.

Will manages to remain stony-faced. He considers looking away, but his little sister is in such a flagrant pose that looking away seems to him almost as obvious as staring. He attempts a casual, brotherly gaze.

Inconveniently, the numbness he had felt earlier is fading, and the neurons in his loins are coming online with a message that he is not presently interested in hearing.

“Sis, do you have to do that right in my face?”

“What? Don’t look if it bothers you, weirdo.”

“Right. Let me just take a dump on the floor, then, while you do that.”

“Like I said,” she snorts, “I like a good mess.”

“Right.”

His sister’s ass looks so completely and comprehensively inviting that he is dizzied standing so close to it.

“Well anyway,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “Granted, it’s your room while you’re here, so do what you want. But like, for my sake, maybe keep it tidy for a day or two?”

“Can do,” she says. “My bad.”

Ingrid then parts her legs into a perfect middle split–Will’s heart skips a beat, fumbles for a handhold, slips down a few more beats–and sits up still holding that split, then bends all the way forward and grabs the edge of the mattress, grips and pulls, stretches–basically tortures–her back.

“Gaaawd, fuck that fucking flight,” she moans facedown into the covers.

Her back is long and pretty. A few freckles here and there, like him. Her spine is a rugged arrow pointing to her underwear. Her ass, again, doing its thing. Big brother now realizes these hot pink zebra underwear sort of disappearing into his sister’s ass crack are occupying maybe more of his attention than is healthy.

The Ghost of Butt Sex Past appears out of nowhere, shoves a smelly, lubricated microphone in Will’s face and asks him to share what he means by ‘more ass than is healthy.’ He ignores him.

But for real, since when are kid sisters allowed to wear sexy hot pink zebra underwear?

Ingrid sits back up. Will’s re-bothered by her frontside. He tries to keep healthy sibling-like levels of eye contact. Couldn’t she have done all this before she took off her leggings? The tendons in her groin form little hollows in her upper inner thighs that sort of fuck with the panties’ grip around her legs.

And yet, she doesn’t seem to care whether Will is looking or not.

She twists her torso, first all the way one way, bending and hugging her knee on that side, and then all the way the other, bending and hugging that knee too. As she does this, her spine rewards her with several shattering pops, while the puffy pinkish skin of her–Will looks meekly to the Ghost of Gussets again who gladly helps him out: labia–all but fully protrudes out either side opposite the way she leans.

She breathes slowly in and out.

“And fuck those fucking bullshit seats.”

She sits upright, centers herself, still holding the splits and now in a kind of dancer’s trance. She takes a deep introspective breath. His little sister is here, now, in this room. Her chest rises and falls.

Ingrid’s little boobies–her big brother just automatically calls them this and always has–seem to have shrunken somewhat from her training. They are still nice little boobies, but now truly little. Her body is all strength. All economy. Little Ingrid had been slinky before she left for France, bony in places and soft in others. But now, hundreds of thousands of dollars later, she was like something factory made. Lithe, aerodynamic. Built for control.

Her brother’s cock finally gets wise to the goings on outside his pants, and suddenly Will wishes his sister were wearing much more clothing.

Ingrid opens her eyes and in complete earnest tells her brother that there were moments of such prolonged and agonized discomfort on the plane that she wanted to scream bloody murder, that she wanted to kill the seemingly perfectly comfortable woman sitting next to her, and that she must have walked half the distance from France to here pacing the aisles.

“That steward even scolded me for it! I told him, I’m in too good of shape to be crammed into such a shitty seat for eleven hours. Onze heueres, Guillaume! My muscles, they have to move and to breathe or they start to die, right here on my bones.”

His sister drifts in and out of a strange driving cadence that Will thinks sounds French.

He pictures her walking up and down the aisle of a commercial jet in those soft, stretchy–the Ghost of Butt Sex Past leans his mic in closer, gives Will an expectant look, but Will bats the mic away–gray leggings. He knows for certain that nearly every single man and probably a significant number of women on that flight did not mind his sister’s pacing. So, what was the steward’s problem?

Then, just like that, Ingrid snaps out of it. She seems to have noticed something off, and Will notices that she seems to have noticed. She unsplits her legs, crosses them in front of her in that fully pretzelized way she does, and folds her hands in her lap.

“Sorry,” they both say simultaneously.

“For what?” his sister says, raising an eyebrow.

“I mean–I know what you mean. About tiny seats. Long flights. We’re both long-legged creatures. You know?” He shifts his weight to his other foot. “Why did you apologize?”

“Because. I don’t know.”

Ingrid stares at her brother for one long, French moment, and then asks him point blank, “Do you know what I really think you’re sorry for?”

A spider of panic crawls up Will’s back.

“… what?”

“Viens ici,” she says, patting a spot beside her on the mattress. She lays back on one elbow, crossing one leg over the other, and smirks at him.

Will is reminded, unfortunately, of Emily. Laying on that very same mattress in that very same pose. Curling and uncurling her finger at him. Her bright pink freshly fucked peach pouting at him from behind her. What had happened next is something that, presently, Will needs not to be thinking about.

“…what?” he asks again.

“Come here, damn it.” His sister slaps the spot on the mattress beside her.

“Come suck your cum out of me,” Emily had said, and then pointed to her tongue. “I’m hungry.”

“How am I supposed to come–” Will approaches and begins clumsily lowering himself, “–here exactly? This is awkward, Sis. What, are we doing?”

“We are doing … this,” Ingrid says in a voice so unexpectedly seductive as to actually make the hairs on the back of her brother’s neck stand up, and she presses him into the mattress, slowly, sensuously gets onto her hands and knees and swings her leg over his head, the little girl he grew up with’s now achingly womanly ass inches from his nose. She squeezes out a short puffy fart.

“Now you’re sorry!” she cackles and rolls off onto her stomach.

Will sniffs. There is maybe just a half a beat too long before he roars in disgust and spanks her hot pink ass stingingly hard. She lets out a yelp, abruptly stops laughing, and curses at him. He flees from the fart, from the bed, and from his sister’s insane gravitational pull. He stumbles to the door.

“You spanked me!”

“You farted down my throat!”

Ingrid glares at her brother, boldly holds his gaze, then bursts out laughing.

“I did,” she cries, literally tearing up, “And I’d do it again!”

She lets out a maniacal hoot, springs to her feet, and bows deeply to her audience of one. Then with a triumphant flourish, she spins on her heels, curtsies toward the wall, and squeaks out another nearly inaudible fart.

“Dang it,” she guffaws. “Why are they so quiet tonight?”

Will is unimpressed. “Is that what they teach you in French dance school? How to le fart?”

“À péter,” she corrects, her voice suddenly seductive again, and still with her back to him she runs her hands down her camisoled sides and over her exposed hips. She clutches two handfuls of hot pink zebra ass and holds her cheeks like this for a moment, before finally peering over her shoulder at him. The look on her face is ridiculous. She will crack up in T-minus three, two–

“Let me guess, you’re farting?”

“Oui!” she replies with riotous pleasure. She flops onto the mattress in a spasm of self-satisfied giggles, practically hiccupping as she celebrates her amusement, “I didn’t mean–for them all to be–so quiet! But it was so much better–so much better that way!”

She dies, right there in front of him.

“Well, I need to go throw up. And wash my face.” Will starts to leave.

“No, wait! Don’t go! I actually do have something for you!”

Will is half-certain it will be another fart, but he acts curious anyway.

“I brought it for you all the way from France.”

“Okay. What.”

A moment of silence passes as Ingrid gives him a hard, earnest look. And then at last, a noisy little toot.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Will laughs. He can’t help it. It was funny.

“Alright, I’m sleepy. Vous pouvez y aller,” she purrs and rolls over onto her pillow, luxuriating, “mon frère.”

Will looks at her blankly.

“I said you may go throw up now,” she sighs dreamily, already halfway to sleep. “But don’t you wash your face. I’ve marked it with my scent. It’s mine now.”

“Oh sweet, flatulent sister. If you only knew the things I’d done to that pillow.”

“Oh, sweet, fart-sniffing brother. If you only knew the things I plan to continue to do to it.”

After Will leaves the room, Ingrid sniffs cautiously at the pillow. At first, all she smells is her brother’s laundry detergent. She lets herself relax. She nods off.

Then something occurs to her, and she sniffs at the open end of the pillowcase. She curses aloud in French. She rolls tiredly to her feet–standing all the way up off a mattress on the floor is laborious in the best of times–and fishes her sweatshirt out of the hamper. She tugs it onto her pillow like a second, extra-thick pillowcase.

And then at last she lets the jetlag, and all those miles and miles of pacing across the Atlantic, have its way with her.

Chapter Three

Ingrid wakes up urgently needing to pee. She doesn’t know what time it is. Will hung blackout curtains in here to help her sleep.

She trudges bleary-eyed to the door, cracks it open, and squints as sunlight shoves its way in. She glances down at her sunlit body and is reminded that she is naked.

She reaches frustratedly into the hamper beside the door, fishes out her leggings, and clambers into them. She almost pees a little. Time’s up! She tip-toes topless down the hardwood hallway to the bathroom door. It’s locked. She whimpers and pounds.

“Please don’t tell me you’re pooping,” she pleads.

Will isn’t pooping. He is seated on the closed lid of the toilet with his cock in one hand and his sister’s hot pink zebra panties in the other. The dreamy bubble of eroticism he has drawn around himself pops almost audibly, and he suddenly feels exactly as gross as he looks.

“Just a minute,” he tells her. He pulls up his pajama bottoms and shoves his sister’s smelly panties in his pocket. The pocket bulges comically.

He makes a noisy show of fiddling with the toilet paper roll. He stands up, drops a crisp clean leaf of toilet paper into the perfectly clear water, and flushes.

He checks himself in the mirror. He doesn’t love what he sees.

He checks his boner. Still a boner, and proudly pledging its allegiance to his sister inside his pajama bottoms. He clamps a hand around the base of himself and squeezes, trying to cut off the blood flow. He’s not sure if this works. Between this and the bulging pocket, he is feeling a little fucked.

“Okay, you flushed. Please get out.” Ingrid prances in place, one hand clamped to her crotch, the other covering her chest.

Will opens the door wearing a thick, smelly bath robe, and saunters out. He tries to distract his sister with a silly face and some hand-waving, lest she glimpse the unbrotherly bulge still perceptibly saluting her beneath the robe. He is so concerned with his own embarrassment that he almost doesn’t register her toplessness. The flesh-tone tops she likes to wear have trained him not to fall for such illusions.

“Okaymovethankyougoodbye!” She jukes around him into the bathroom.

“Sorry about the smell,” he lies as the door slams shut in his face. A second later, there is the high-pressure sound of his sister’s pee spraying into the toilet bowl, and a dramatic and contented moan.

Ingrid had always been most comfortable wearing as little as she could, but was she just straight-up not wearing clothes anymore? This was going to need to be dealt with.

But what was a brother to do? Mention it, like some kind of pervert? What if he weirds her out, and then he’s stuck with a weirded-out little sister in his apartment? Or worse, what if she is secretly doing this on purpose to prove some kind of creepy point, and by bringing it up he is giving her a strategic advantage? She could be that way. Even just playing Smash as kids, she could be that way.

Will massages his temple, glaring at a faraway point in space. His little sister needs to get a job and move out. Then she can go be naked wherever she wants.

The Ghost of Topless Women Present sneaks up and wraps her slender arms around Will from behind. She gibbers in French with subtitles, “Let’s just wait and see how this plays out, no?” Will nods, hypnotized, and takes her with him back to his empty spartan bedroom. He is going to need to learn to masturbate in there eventually.

“Maybe the panties’ll help,” the Ghost of Gussets proffers.

Chapter Four, Part One

“So, what have you been up to?” Ingrid asks one night as they pass a bowl back and forth in her room.

The siblings lay side by side, backs against the wall, bare feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. Their feet could not look more different. Hers sun-kissed and intelligent, his pasty and dumb.

His little sister is in panties and a cami again, a look that Will is not exactly acclimating to so much as getting better at desperately pretending to ignore. Her deeply tan tummy beams at him from between the snow white of her top and the pale yellow of her panties. These underwear are a favorite of hers from when she still lived at home. They’re a favorite of her brother’s, too.

“Brooo?”

Will is staring at his little sister’s crotch when she says this. His bell makes a clonking sound.

He coughs.

“M-me?” He whoops out a thick, stinky cloud. “School, work, m-music …”

“School going okay?”

“I guess. I’ve been taking it easy on that front. Had to switch to part-time. Actually, taking this semester off.”

“Right. Sooo, you’re not in school.”

“Yeah. I don’t know why I said school.”

“But you’re still doing music?”

“Yeah,” he lies. He hasn’t been able to produce anything worth anything in months.

“Good. And still working at that restaurant you hate?”

Will nods grimly.

“Ooo! What about that little hottie you were banging, the bartender?”

“Mai-Lee?”

“Mai-Lee! She was, um,” Ingrid pauses to take a hit. “She was fun.” The smoke billowing up through her throat softly warps her voice, gives it a fabric-like quality.

“Yeah,” Will smiles wanly. “But we’re done. She left the restaurant a few months ago, back in February.”

“Ha. ‘Everyone leaves in February,'” she nods. An industry truism Will taught her. It isn’t much of a truism. It was more like something he had sort of noticed on his own and but then told her was a truism. Ingrid had hosted once at Will’s same restaurant.

“And me, I’m managing now. So. You know.”

“Shit that’s right! You’re the big guy in charge now! How the hell did that happen?”

“Eh, I’m just a manager,” Will shrugs. “And it’s not a very interesting story.”

“You know,” Ingrid says, taking another hit and exhaling little plumes of smoke as she talks, “I’ve learned that when people say that, they’re usually telling the truth. So, please forget I asked.”

“Appreciate it,” Will smiles. “Anyway. It’s not the nightmare job everyone makes it out to be.”

“You know, I’ve always wondered, what the fuck does the manager do? It never looked like much.”

“A question for the ages,” Will sighs profoundly. “We do a lot you wouldn’t see. Payroll, scheduling, reservations, phone calls, menu changes, um, oh, wine stuff. Staff training. Hiring. I’m probably forgetting something.”

Ingrid rolls her camisole further up her abdomen and palms her soft brown tummy. She begins to rub it in a sort of self-soothing way.

Will likes looking at his sister’s belly button. It literally looks sewn on, the way the soft, thin cushion of her bends in toward it. It’s a cute little innie.

“Then there’s all the daily random problem-solving we have to do.” Will takes a hit and lets it simply roll out of his open mouth, unfurling in the air in front of his face. “That’s where I kind of stand out, I think. I like that part. I like feeling needed.” He blows out the rest.

Ingrid stops rubbing herself to pluck idly at some peach fuzz. Each little plucked strand is shimmery and twisty with sunlight.

“Sounds like you found your calling,” Ingrid muses.

“Ha. I hope not. But I do seem to be … unique?” He hands the pipe back to her. “In that I am not a terrible asshole? I kind of learned how to do something by watching everyone else suck at it.”

“Like how you taught me to play Smash!”

“Hey now.”

“You were such a good teacher.”

“It’s like–hey now.”

“Buck up.” Ingrid shoulders herself into him. “It’s okay to suck.”

“I’m good at Smash.”

“But at least you don’t suck at your job!”

“Right, well,” he lets it go. “Honestly, it still blows my mind.”

They both sit there quietly a moment after Ingrid takes her hit. It’s kind of hazy in the room. The curtains are open, and the sunlight through the blinds cuts slices of light into the smoke.

“Yo Bro?”

“Yeah Sis?”

“Proud of you, Bro.” She hands him the pipe. How much have they smoked today?

“… thanks Sis.”

“But, sooo … Guess you’re not dating your coworkers anymore, huh?”

“What? No.”

“And? How’s that going for you?”

“I don’t know. Could be better? Not that I mind the, you know, the uh, strictures.” He takes a smaller hit than before. He’s starting to feel pretty high. “Strictures? Is that the word?”

“You mean how managers can’t date staff?”

“Right. I’m okay with the strictures. But I have to admit it’s kind of lonely. Like ever since I took the promotion.”

“Wait, so there’s no–um,” Ingrid smiles glazy-eyed as she picks a word, “temptations? Among your staff?”

“No. Or well, I mean, yes, but they look at me differently now, and I look at them differently too. It’s a different vibe all around. Not sexy.”

“Aw, Bro. That’s actually kind of sweet.”

“How so?”

“You respect them!”

“Sure, I guess. But it’s mutual, you know? Kind of easy. It’s like my whole schtick.”

“But it’s not a schtick.”

“It’s not a schtick.”

“It’s just who you are. You’re good. You’re a–” her brother hands her back the pipe and she takes it and rubs the mouthpiece dry before putting it to her lips. “You’re a good person,” she says dreamily, almost more to herself than him.

Will watches his kid sister take another hit. She goes a little cross-eyed focusing on the bowl. She flicks the lighter. She inhales, tugging at the flame until it dips a fiery toe into the pulpy orange-green bit nearest the spent bit. She holds it there precisely long enough to cook herself a just-right baby-bear amount.

“I guess I’m alright,” her brother concedes.

He can sort of see the contours of her, um–he looks helplessly to the Ghost of Gussets: labia–through the soft yellow crotch of her underwear.

Chapter Four, Part Two

Ingrid murmurs.

“What?” Will asks.

“I said ‘you high?'”

“I believe so,” Will sighs contentedly. “Want to play a game or something?” He points at the Nintendo.

Ingrid just looks at him with her big pink and hazel eyes. The siblings have shifted ninety degrees and are both now laying lengthwise on the mattress, their heads somewhat crookedly sharing Ingrid’s sweatshirt pillow. Ingrid is laying too closely for him to hold her gaze comfortably. He looks down at her body instead.

Through the thin fabric of her camisole, he can see his little sister’s nipples poking cheerily up toward the haze overhead. They look like they might be sort of mauvy brown like his. He hasn’t seen her naked since they were kids, and he doesn’t remember her nipples from back then. Back then, her nipples had just been nipples.

“Hey Bro, I want to ask, in case it might, like, bother you–”

“Ask me what?”

“Are you okay if I do some acid?”

“If you do some what?”

“Acid? I brought it from France. It doesn’t stay good for very long so I have to use it.”

“You mean like … acid acid?”

“Lysergic acid. LSD.”

“Whoa.”

“You ever try it?” she asks, grazing her fingernails down his arm.

“No?”

“Dooo … you want to?”

“Um,” Will’s head starts to spin a little just thinking about the invitation.

“It’s safe, I promise. It’s fun.”

“Is this like a French thing you do now?”

“Um, I’m pretty sure it’s an everywhere thing? Acid is splendid.”

“I don’t know. My head hasn’t exactly been in the best place recently.”

“Hm,” Ingrid frowns. “I am sorry. But … you might love it anyway? Even now? Maybe especially now! And hey, I’ll be here with you. Your little sister can take care of you.”

“Yeah?”

“Honestly, Bro, I was surprised how much I loved it when I tried it. It was a very,” she chuckles, looking at him, “a very thinky experience. Totally your thing. LSD was made by scientists, you know. So, it’s not like shrooms or DMT or whatever, all loosie-goosy.”

“I haven’t tried shrooms or–the three-letter one you said.”

“Well, take it from a blood relative, they’re not for us.”

“Huh.”

Her brother makes a face that Ingrid instantly recognizes as his caving-in face.

“Maybe I’ll try just a little. Is that an option?”

“Yes!” Ingrid giddily scrambles onto her hands and knees, scrabbles over her brother, and wrangles with the hot pink duffle on the floor.

She stays like this, basically on top of him, as she unzips first one pocket and then another, rifling around in the chaos she brings with her everywhere she goes. Finally, she makes a small noise of success and pulls out a small bottle of hand lotion. She pats his belly as she unclambers back to her side of the mattress.

She sits cross-legged (the Ghost of Gussets sighs fondly) beside her laid out brother, unscrews the lotion’s cap entirely, dips in one long slender digit, and fishes out a tiny plastic phial smeared in lotion, its contents fully obscured. Her finger, meanwhile, is slathered.

“Um,” Ingrid regards her finger. “Have you got a tissue or something?”

“Uhh,” Will stammers, realizing tissues aren’t something he owns. “Can I get you toilet paper?”

“You know what, it’s fine,” Ingrid says, and starts rubbing the gobs of lotion off into her palms and then onto her wrists and arms. “I hate your cheap, crusty toilet paper. Here, you take some,” she says, and smears the front and back of her hand on his cheek. “It’s eucalyptus,” she tells him.

“It smells,” he sniffs. He rubs the lotion into his cheeks and chin and nose. The vapors tingle in his eyes.

Ingrid wipes the phial clean on her hairy thighs and starts to rub that in, too.

After all the excess lotion is dealt with and both siblings are properly moisturized, Ingrid holds the phial up for both of them to see its contents: several itsy-bitsy strips of off-yellow paper.

“That’s acid?” He sits up on his elbows, squinting nervously.

“That’s acid.”

“How do you … do it?”

“Like this,” she says. She unscrews the phial’s tiny red cap, withdraws a single slip, and places it on her tongue. It sticks there to her tastebuds. “Then you jutht kinda hold it theh.”

She hands the phial and its itty-bitty cap to her brother. It’s greasy. He removes one tiny strip. He replaces the phial’s cap. He hands the phial back to Ingrid and she chucks it in the duffle.

Will holds the eerie little paper in his moist, perfumy fingers, eyeing it uncertainly.

“Is this going to be too much? Should I do half a strip, maybe?”

“Nah, you thould be okay. Eath one ith juth a thingle drop.”

“Are you going to do just one?”

“I’m gonna thtart with one, and maybe do a thecond later. We’ll thee how I feel.”

Will plops the paper on his tongue before his brain can muster a retort. He closes his mouth.

He can’t help moving the strip around. Its sharp little corners tickle the roof of his mouth. He half-expects to taste a chemical reaction on his tongue, something sour maybe. He kind of does but can’t be sure it isn’t lotion residue.

“How long doeth it take to kick in?”

“A little while. Fifteen, twenty minuteth? Thometimeth longer.”

“Do we have to keep it on our tongueth the whole time?”

“No,” she giggles, “we can take it out afteh a while.”

She does a giddy little scritchy-scratch on her brother’s stomach. It zaps him through the t-shirt he is wearing.

“Thith ith tho exthiting!” she shivers.

Chapter Four, Part Three, Subpart One

Will first notices he’s feeling something when he goes to wash his hands.

He goes to wash his hands because he has told his little sister he is going to wash his hands.

He has explained to his little sister that he doesn’t want to start tripping with his hands dirty.

His little sister had clutched at his ankle, and whined that she liiikes him dirty.

He insists, as he stands there with his fingers under the water, waiting for it to get nice and warm, that he is going to have a good trip.

Every time he looks up, his reflection is watching him like a concerned manager. A good manager, he thinks. The manager looks like he has a sec, and so Will asks:

“Hey boss, why am I washing my hands?”

“Because it’s safe,” answers the manager. “It’s smart.”

“Right,” Will smiles. The tap reaches that perfect temperature. He cups his hands underneath. They fill and run over. “Feels nice,” he says. His brain is sort of temporarily in his hands, bathing and warm.

“Feels great,” chuckles the manager. “Hey, can I ask you a question, Will?”

“Yeah. Hit me.”

“Why do YOU think you’re washing your hands?”

“Oh, to get away from Ingrid.”

“Oh?”

“She’s killing me, man.”

“How’s that?”

“Come on. You see how she’s dressed in there.”

“Like she usually is?”

“Like she’d almost rather be naked.”

“Oh. Are you sure?”

“Just about. She’s … she’s good at conveying ‘meaning’ through action.”

“I see.”

“You say you see. But I’m serious.”

“You don’t want to be around your sister because you feel like she wants to be naked?”

Will doesn’t answer.

“Is that right?”

“I don’t know. Listen, I just don’t want to be in there lying next to my little sister with a boner.”

“Maybe you should just go hop on your computer and deal with that boner the usual way? Is your computer still in her room?”

“Shh! She’s in there high as balls right now! I don’t want to make her skin crawl!”

“Alright, Will, alright. I get it. I can tell you care about her.”

“I do. I do, boss.”

“And that’s why I hired you. Because you’re a good person.”

The manager reaches up to the mirror and touches it in the same spot where Will touches it. Their palms connect.

“High-five,” the manager says. The mirror’s chilly-feeling glass fogs up around their hands.

And for a second, Will is sober enough to realize that he is feeling what he is pretty sure is something.

Chapter Four, Part Three, Subpart Two

Will is still in the bathroom. He shuts off the brain jacuzzi. How long has it been?

He checks his phone. His phone tells him the current time. It does not tell him the time he entered the bathroom. He sets the phone on the edge of the sink.

It falls in a second later, slides to a halt under the tap. He watches it gather little splatters on its screen, mesmerized by the way the shiny pixels kaleidoscope underneath the water.

He wonders if Ingrid knows how long he has been in here. She has a good internal clock. She has a good internal everything.

Will exits the bathroom. It is still daytime. He takes this as a good sign.

He feels good. He feels like he could walk for miles. He could probably walk across the Atlantic, he feels like. He could certainly walk to the bedroom.

He bops barefoot down the hallway floor to his sister’s open door.

Suddenly he gets a nasty, stupefying pit in his stomach. Like someone has filled his belly with coarse sand, poked a hole in the bottom, and then just let the sand pour out. He stops dead, sick to his stomach with the feeling.

Can he still retreat to the bathroom again? He has been quiet.

He checks his emotional state. He feels: complexly.

“About what?” his manager asks.

“I can’t look at her in those skimpy clothes, boss. I know how she’s going to look in there and I’m not ready to handle it, man. This is basically a truth serum, right? I cannot go in there.”

“Now wait, I think there’s another way to look at this,” the Ghost of Gussets chimes in.

“You’re late, GG,” chides the manager.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry to me. Be sorry to Will.”

“Will, I’m sorry.”

Will asks GG to explain what he means by ‘another way to look at it.’

“Right, so it’s like, the way I see it, Will: why not just go in there?”

Will looks at the Ghost as if expecting there to be more.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah! I mean: really stop and think about it: what if you just went in there?”

The manager frowns a moment, but then nods thoughtfully.

“He’s kind of got a point.”

“Thank you, boss. I really think you’re over-thinking this, Willy. That room is the happiest place on earth right now. It’s what you need right now. You said you wanted to have a good trip? Well, get in there and have the best damn trip.”

The Ghosts of Topless Women and Butt Sex hear-hear in agreement. Butt Sex appears to be recording all this. The manager chuckles then shushes the team. He turns the spotlight back to Will.

“It’s your trip, Will. You do what feels right.”

Chapter Four, Part Four

Ingrid is lying there in her yellow and white, right where he left her, looking half-asleep but for the one hand inside her underwear, and the other inside her cami. Will lays down beside her, reclaiming his half of the pillow.

He happens to notice his sister’s hands. The one hand has what seems to be a squeezy, twisty grip on her left nipple. The other hand is further down and, to his pleasant surprise, fairly visible inside her yellow underwear from this angle. The light inside the space inside her undies is warm and cheery. He’s glad he came back to the bedroom.

The manager gives him a thumbs up from the doorway, then disappears.

Will likes his little sister’s new shapes. The way her pelvis kind of rounds upward before it bevels down. He likes how she kind of humps at nothing, her cute little ass cheeks clenching beside him. She arches her back a little off the mattress. He likes that, too.

He feels his cock stir inside his pajama bottoms.

And his sister simply says out loud, quietly:

“Sorry, I’m just kind of riding the groove.”

“Yeah,” he says.

“That okay?”

He gestures with childlike fascination at her lower half. “You shave.”

“Yep,” she giggles. “It’s worth it.”

What had he ever been worried about?

“Since when do you shave?”

“Since none of your business.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Ha. It’s fine.”

“…”

“Isn’t acid great?”

“Is that what this is?”

“It’s thinky,” his sister giggle-gasps.

She’s really going at it. Will slips a very clean hand into his pajama bottoms and adjusts his aching junk.

“You too?” she asks him, a little excitedly.

She frowns at his hand when he withdraws it from his pajama bottoms, adjustment complete.

“Oh, um, I hadn’t planned to,” he mumbles.

“So? You’re on acid. You should try it.”

“Um, should I?”

Her sister’s eyes go wide for a moment, and she seems to process the reality of the question. She looks at the tent in her brother’s pajama bottoms.

“Please do,” she breathes.

“Oh,” he nods, somehow considering it. “Well. It’s kind of hard to, uh, if I don’t–ah–take these off. Is that–?”

“You know what,” she sighs, “I could look at a cock right now. Let’s do it.”

“Let’s do it,” he confirms, and tugs off his pajama bottoms. He folds them up and lays them on the floor beside the mattress. He lays back down bare ass next to his sister. His erection is at full attention. He is suddenly very conscious of the mound of pubic hair at its base. He looks uncertainly at his sister.

“Fuck,” she whispers, and twitches. “It got big.”

Will almost says thank you. He stays silent. He looks at his cock. He watches his hand in disbelief. He is masturbating. There is kind of nothing sexy about this. Particularly next to his kid sister, this just feels kind of fun.

“You cool if I watch?” his sister asks coolly.

“If you don’t–I mean, I don’t mind,” he says.

“Aw,” she says, pouting. “He’s comfy with me.”

“Fuck,” he says, and suddenly slows down.

“What?” she asks him. Her hand slows down, too.

“We’re … doing something strange.”

“We’re tripping and hanging out. What’s strange?”

“About masturbating together?”

“Who cares! We’re siblings.”

“Sis–” he lets go of his cock. It fidgets on his belly, not at all ready to stop.

“Hey, no, keep going,” she whines.

“Ingrid–”

“Keep jerking off!” she scolds him. Then she blushes. “Uh, please?”

“Right. You’re serious,” he says, feeling his cock jump at his sister’s earnest. “But are you sure you want me to–? Like … to completion?”

“Bro, I’ve cum like three times. It feels amazing. You need to catch up.”

“It’s going to be messy,” he frowns. “I need to go get some toilet paper.”

“No, don’t go! Here, just use these,” she says, and grabs him her leggings off the covers beside her.

“Oh. Um. Okay.” He smells their crotch, surreally unabashed, then places them at his side. His sister either doesn’t see or doesn’t care.

“So now we–?” he asks, wrapping his fingers uncertainly around his rock-hard shaft.

“Now we.”

The siblings resume hanging out.

A few strange moments later Ingrid is just kind of smiling at nothing. She turns to look at her brother’s face. She reads bewilderment and uncertainty. She comes to.

“Will,” she says, a little concerned, a little turned on. “Bro. Quit looking like that. If I minded you doing this I wouldn’t have told you to do it.”

Will startles. He lets go of his cock. He can’t do this.

“Willll,” she whines. She takes her free hand and grasps her brother’s cock like it’s something he’d meant to hand to her. Will dies instantaneously. She tells his corpse, “Here, see? I touch you. Neither of us explodes.” She gives him a little squeeze. “How does that feel?”

“H-holy shit!” he hears himself gasp. His little sister startles, but doesn’t let go. She studies his face. Her grip is soft, moisturized, hot. She nods eventually, when she is confident that her brother isn’t about to smack her hand away.

“This is my brother’s cock,” she announces, and starts moving her hand up and down its length, not jerking him off, just pausing and doing little squeezes here and there. Processing. Will squirms, practically thrashes, in her grip. She looks up at him with a simple face. “You like this?”

“W-what are we–?” he stammers, fully disembodied. His little sister palpates his throbbing erection and watches his face twitch each time. Her small tan hand looks so little next to his–Oh no. He does like this.

“It’s so warm,” she hums, geeking out. “Your skin, I mean.”

She levers his boner gently away from his abdomen until it strains at the fulcrum–Will hears himself grunt uncomfortably–and then she releases it like a loaded catapult. It makes a lame rubbery bouncing sound off his stomach. She snorts.

“Sorry,” she says, combing her fingers through his pubic hair and affectionately scritchy-scratching his pelvic bone. “Didn’t you say you wanted to play with me?”

“Sis–but you just–Nintendo–” and yet he wants her to grab his cock again.

“What? I’m having fun doing this. Here. Do you want to touch me now?” She lets go of her brother and lays back down. She holds her yellow panties open, proffering him the cheery warm space inside. His heartbeat thwomps. “To be fair?” she asks.

“No!” Will shouts by accident. “I mean, that’s okay. That’s nice of you, but no. Please put that away.”

“D’accord,” she says, sounding a little annoyed. She slips one hand down the front of her panties, the other up from around the back of her gusset, and begins masturbating two-handed. “But to be clear, you can touch me. Standing offer.” She breathes in one shaky breath. “But, um, fair warning, I’m a little messy at the moment. You’ve touched a vagina before, right? Know what you’re getting into?”

“I’m good,” Will feigns.

“Are you though? You don’t know unless you try.” She makes a playful gnashing sound and takes a pretend bite out of his shoulder.

“That’s … not something I can do, Sis.”

“But j’ai tout rasé,” she says, spanking her hairless vulva inside her underwear and frowning at him.

“What?”

“I shaved,” she whimpers.

“Right,” he says, wishing he hadn’t asked.

“It’s sooo sensitive.”

Will is half surprised to find that he has resumed masturbating. Intently?

Intently.

“Bro,” she says.

“…Sis?”

“Are you going to cum for me?” she switches into that seductive, hair-raising voice again.

“I don’t know,” he answers, suddenly ravenous for honesty. “I love that voice. Keep doing that voice.”

“You like when I talk to you while you jerk off?” she humors him.

“Where are all my misgivings, Ingrid? I had so many, and now they’re just … gone.”

He pumps his cock even harder as he watches his kid sister’s hands squirming inside their yellow fabric. He can smell her from here.

“This acid stuff is crazy,” he rambles. He pinches up his face, edging too close by accident.

“But wait, wait–” He releases his cock again. It practically barks at him to come back. “Ingrid, stop. Please. When the acid wears off, and it will, our misgivings will come back. We can’t do this.”

“Right,” she says, not stopping. “You think this is it, huh? Our last hoorah? Since we’re touching our genitals next to each other?” She lets out a small, horny laugh. “You realize I masturbate next to you, like, all the time, right? What’s it matter if you do it next to me, too?”

“Uh, you do?”

“Kinda, yeah. Sorry.”

“Shit. Don’t get me wrong,” again honesty just feels so right right now, “Sis, I am having a good time. I like masturbating, and I like you, so this is nice. But you grabbing me? You–you know–masturbating me? I mean, yeah, it feels good. It feels good. But.”

“But what?”

“I don’t want us to be, like …,” he struggles to stay cogent, grounded, in touch with his inner moral security system. “This could traumatize us, couldn’t it? Couldn’t this haunt us for the rest of our lives?”

“Gosh you make it sound so scary!” she mocks. “Buuut what if…”

“What if?”

“What if we did just have one crazy acid trip? And then that was it? And then we just said fuck it to being siblings, let’s bring on the trauma!”

“Ingrid, come on. No!”

“I mean, this is going to be hard to swallow later, Bro,” she puts her hand on his cock again. She doesn’t grab it, just lays her hand over it. His cock nuzzles her. “Especially since you like it so much.”

Will gazes down at her small warm hand, mystified.

“You know, maybe we just won’t remember,” he says vaguely.

“Yeah, maybe we won’t. Maybe I can do…” she wraps her fingers around his cock. “This?”

Will grunts, but doesn’t stop her. His little sister starts jerking him off. Her hand is a little sticky, but that’s not exactly stopping this from feeling astounding.

“I–I–don’t–I can’t remember how to worry. Like, I see you–you’re–oh my God–th-this! But I can’t seem to–to–”

“Fuck it,” she interrupts, and she squeezes his cock excitedly. “Let’s get naked.”

Will’s heart does something violent in his chest. He winces. Ingrid lets go. His cock gasps for breath. She grabs his chin.

“I don’t mean naked in like a sexual way, Bro. If that makes sense. I just want us to be naked while we’re tripping. And dude,” she laughs haughtily, “I think you might just like how I look.” She ribs him. “Ehh?”

He laughs uncomfortably.

“Ehhh?” she reaches for his cock again. “Fuck misgivings! Right?”

“What do you want from me, Sis?” he says, finally batting her hand away.

“Hey,” she pouts. “We’re family.”

“You. That logic … is not supposed to make sense. Why does that make sense?”

“Come on, I feel like you won’t judge me right now, and I promise I won’t judge you.” She huffs a piece of hair out of her face.

Will regards his little sister’s gaze as if for the first time in years. He wants to hug her.

“Fine,” he hears himself say. “But if it gets weird? I’m getting dressed.”

He has to speak in short bursts because everything he says right now reverberates across time and space. He can feel his future selves recalling this moment with flashbulb vivacity, hearing him speak, masturbating vicariously through him, legion.

Ingrid sits up, bubbly to the brim. She grins wide like he’s just promised to take her to the park and do the spinny ride for her.

“Yay!” she cackles.

She straightens her back, adopts an elegant arms-up pose. Her little boobies disappear, but gorgeously. Her armpit hair calls to him. She ties her hair up into a messy bun on top of her head.

Her face goes serious, artful, French.

Then she drops her slender arms and grabs the hem of her white camisole. She checks to see if her big brother is watching. She laughs nervously.

“Hey Bro?”

“Hey Sis?”

“Do you want to see my adorable little tits?” she asks.

“You know what,” he swallows, “I could–I could look at some little boobies right now.”

“Let’s do it,” she laughs, and peels off her camisole. She tosses it onto the floor.

A split-second later she goes ‘ope’ and leans back over, retrieves it, then folds it up nicely before placing it back on the floor. She grins at her brother in nothing but a pair of soft yellow panties. She isn’t very tall but her torso looks so long in the nude.

“There,” she exhales. “See? Just me. It’s not much, I know, but, you know.”

Her pale little untanned boobies are littler than he had even imagined. They are like breasts in relief. He could palm them, maybe, but not cup them. He adores them.

And her nipples are ecstatically cute. They are twin brown pencil erasers, darker than his, more bulbous and much, much prettier. He reaches up to touch. He chooses her left nipple and presses it like a button. Ingrid makes a ‘boop’ noise and giggles. Her nipple springs back up under his finger. Will rubs it like a thumbstick, making it sort of swivel around on its areola. He loves its firm little crosswise crease. He pinches the bud, rolls it around between his fingertips, watches her watching him do this.

They’re just family.

“À toi,” she says, pointing at his shirt.

He takes his shirt off. Folds it up. Puts it on the floor. Whatever.

Except now he is butt-ass naked on a mattress with his little sister who is dressed in nothing but a very soft yellow undergarment, who is speaking to him in French, begging him to touch her in his empty apartment behind locked doors through which no one can burst and stop them and tell them that this is obviously a crazy, drug-addled mistake and that they need to abort, abort, ABORT before they do something that will permanently alter the most important relationship either of them has.

The manager appears at the door and calmly guides Will’s hooting panic monster by the shoulders back out into the hallway. “Don’t know how he got away from me, sorry. I’ll keep a better eye on him.”

Ingrid reaches out and touches her brother’s chest. Her hand is warm. She runs her fingertips across his abdominal muscles like he’s the hood of a brand-new car. He doesn’t have much in the way of body hair. Weird little curls occasionally sprout around his nipples, but he plucks these compulsively.

Really, their chests are sort of similar, if you squint your eyes while high on acid. Hers is just sexier, tanner, less muscly. She has some of those same tiny dark brown moles that he has. There’s one right between her little boobies.

She tweaks one of his nipples. He flinches.

“I like this,” she says. “You have a pretty body.”

“Okay,” Will hears himself say, awkwardly. He is fully naked, cock and all. Ingrid is not.

He points at his little sister’s fuzzy yellow crotch. She looks down at where he’s pointing. He has half a mind to flick her nose for looking.

“I, um,” she says, chuckling self-consciously. “I kind of smell.”

“Ah-twah,” he says, pointing at them again.

“If you insist,” she smiles. “À moi.”

See rocks back and uncrosses her legs and tugs her yellow underwear off.

She raises her feet up over Will’s face as she rolls the undies up past her ankles. One toe catches the hem before they fall off completely, and with it she lets the panties dangle over his face. She twirls them around. Then she lets go. The panties fly crazily upward, arc over the desk chair, and land with a clickity plop on his keyboard.

“Nue!” she says, kicking her legs over his head and slapping her butt cheeks.

Will sort of laughs. It’s what you do in these situations.

Ingrid pivots on her butt and lays down lengthwise next to her brother, one hand holding up her cute, nervous head. Her gaze is fixed nervously to his. She walks two fingertips across the landscape of her figure: up her hip bone, down her thigh.

“Sooo, thoughts? Impressions?”

She has a small, bikini-bottom-shaped farmer’s tan. She has shaved herself bald. She has an innie that right now is swollen and pink. The hood of her clit is sort of brownish like both of their nipples, or like the soft cuff of skin around his shaft.

“You’re naked,” he says.

“I know,” she says, laughing anxiously and rolling her eyes. “Give me a real answer.”

“You have, um … tan lines.”

“Will. Tell your little sister she’s hot. You can say I’m hot.”

“You look … nice.”

“Tell me I look fucking edible.”

“I guess … technically you’re edible.”

“Tell me I have a cute pussy,” she laughs, and parts her legs even further to admire herself. “Look at it, damn you. It’s fucking cute, right?”

“It’s … your vagina.”

“Hey, keep masturbating.”

“I am masturbating.”

“You know, I had to see a lot of my classmates naked. Or–let’s be honest,” she drops her fingers down between her legs, “I got to see them naked. And you know what? My pussy ranks up there, Bro, with the best. It’s preeetty fucking cute.”

She gazes at him as he watches her manipulating her clit and labia for him. Her eyebrow sort of furrows, her smile sort of clenches, and the thrill of showing off breathes into and back out of her.

“Sooo … want to touch now?”

“Sis–we went over this.”

“No fair, I touched you! Here–” she starts to drape a leg over him, “What if I just bring it to you? And you just lay there?”

“Please don’t.”

“Lay back down.”

“Don’t. Ingrid.”

“Lay the fuck down.”

“Okay,” he caves.

“There. Now. Bro. Relax.” She keeps her leg over his, but pauses her attack. “I’m not going to make you touch me. And I’m not going to smoosh myself onto you if you don’t want me to. But we are going to lay here and be nice to each other, alright?”

“Okay,” he smiles appreciatively, if still a little apprehensively. “Okay.”

“Okay? And maybe later, when you’ve gotten over yourself, you can touch my amazing little pussy in like a clinical, non-sexual way. Or, sorry, I mean my amazing little ‘vagina.’ You apparently don’t like calling it a pussy.”

“Ingrid, can we please just–”

“Please touch me. I am asking nicely.”

“I’ll–fine, but later. This is already a lot. Can we just focus on this?” He opens the hand gripping his cock, showing her how pink and pleased and overwhelmed it is.

“Okay, sorry, I’m done. No more talking until we finish.” She resumes masturbating with her leg still draped over him. “Thank you, by the way.”

“I–you’re welcome.”

He exhales carefully, trying to recente.

“Will?”

“What?”

“I’m excited to watch you cum.”

“You’re talking.”

“Hey, you want to see how I really touch myself? When you’re not around?”

She takes her leg off him and rolls over onto her stomach so that her side is pressed up against his. They’re both starting to get a little bit sweaty.

“This,” she grunts, “is how I usually do it. It just feels … better.” She lets out a ragged, happy breath.

“You’re still talking,” he says.

“Sorry,” she snickers, “I’m happy. I can’t help it.”

Her arms are pinned beneath her as she fingers herself with both hands. He certainly hears something or other going on. But he can’t see what’s actually happening down there. Just her naked butt, wiggling and writhing and humping. The occasional fingertips.

Will’s cock is leaking precum hard. A bit of it trickles under his thumb, gently alerting him to its utility. He brushes his hand over his glans, gathering the surplus precum, and slathers his shaft with it. He uses this little burst of self-made slipperiness to pump ever closer to orgasm. His hand starts to make that classic fapping sound.

He regards his sister’s naked ass, humping itself up and down into her hands. He has a feeling he could just ask and she’d let him shove his face in there. He’s like 70% sure she’d go bananas over the idea.

“This is it,” Ingrid pants. “We’re doing this. Yaaay.”

“Can I–” Will begins, but is suddenly close to cumming next to his naked sister that he has to cease all brain activity for a moment.

“You need to cum?” she asks, breathless.

“N-no, not yet, I–”

“You want to touch me?” She raises her rump up off the mattress, tilts it toward him.

“No, I was just–I was going to say–” he stares at his little sister’s ass but shakes his head no, feverishly putting words together as coherently as he can.

“What,” she sighs, lowering herself back onto the bed.

“Can I just–tell you something?”

“Okay?” She twists her head, peering at him curiously from under her hair.

“I just want to say, I’m glad you’re–unghh–back. And that you wanted to stay with me. I really, mhm, I really missed us hanging out.”

“Awww, Bro,” she says. She lets herself kind of teeter over away from him onto her side. She puts her tan leg back over his white leg. Her hands keep massaging thoughtfully down between her thighs.

Her hazel gaze is half-lidded and sedate, a little distracted, but when she sees how her big brother is looking at her, she comes to and stares back with her irises on full soulful display.

“I missed you too,” she tells him. Her voice is close to his ear. It sounds so pure. Suddenly Will is thinking about lossless audio quality.

Ingrid switches to masturbating one-handed. She brings a couple messy fingers to her lips, kisses them, and then touches them to her brother’s lips. He kisses them back. This is how they used to kiss, sometimes. Except that airport number.

“H-hey Sis,” he says, talking through smooshed lips.

She doesn’t remove her stinky, juicy, sister-flavored fingers from his lips. She presses there, intently, almost sort of diddling his mouth.

“Yeah Bro?”

“I’m going to cum now. I’m going to cum. I’m going to cum.” Her eyes are watching his, eagerly absorbing what she sees. “I’m–Ingrid–”

Will goes warm, then hot, then boom.

“Here,” she tells him matter-of-factly. She parts his lips with first one damp fingertip and then the other. Taps his teeth. He shutters as the first bolt of thunder rumbles through him.

Will accepts his sister’s fingers into his mouth. She shoves them in far. His tongue presses back, and they wiggle playfully. Then she pulls them out. He swallows. The flavor is intensely salty, fruity, sweet–

It is Will’s turn now to arch is back up off the mattress, to pop his ankles and splay his toes, and to make grandiose moans of catharsis. Ingrid keeps touching his face, caressing his cheek, feeling his jaw muscles as he cums. She flinches when some of her brother’s cum splatters onto the back of her forearm, then laughs when the next spurt sprays across his own face. His big manly hips bounce up and down off the mattress.

“Fffuck,” he gasps, watching jet after jet squirt out over his body, “Inge, I just–keep–”

His sister puts a hand over the hand on his cock. He moves his hand. She takes over milking him. His shivers of bliss make the mattress quake.

He grasps hold of one of her tits, firmly, squeezing her hard nipple as another encore rocks out of him onto his stomach.

And finally the gratuitous surging slows to a drizzle. He grabs his sister’s hand, gives her a pleading look to stop. He brings it to his mouth and suckles again each of his little sister’s disgustingly delicious fingers. He likes chewing them, the way her fingernails are hard but her fingertips are soft.

And then suddenly the smell of his own sibling’s genital secretions hits him the wrong way, and it occurs to him that he has done something he should not have.

“Ingrid,” he murmurs, “I’m–I’m finished.”

“Took you long enough,” she chuckles. “Can I … have my hand back?”

“Oh, yeah,” he releases her in a daze. A string of cum lisps across the space between his hand and her forearm, snaps loose, clasps onto to her. “Oh–” he says, appalled.

“I know,” she pouts, acting hurt. “You came on your little sister.”

“Oh, s-sorry,” he mumbles.

The orgasm has left him momentarily unsexed, stripped naked to the permanent ramifications of his lust.

This is the darkest timeline.

This is trauma, even it hasn’t sunken in yet.

Big brother has defiled his sister.

And God, he can still taste it.

Sadly, there are still hours yet until the drugs wear off.

“Hey Will?” Ingrid says, teasingly. “You’ve got something on your face.”

“What–?” He reaches up. His nose and cheeks are slick with cum. He vaguely recalls ejaculating onto his own face.

“Oh,” he mutters, still in shock.

“I’d get you a tissue, buuut,” she sighs, feigning helplessness. She quietly grabs the leggings and throws them across the floor.

Will is stuck in his dark place right now. Ingrid’s humor does not land.

The woman who has just helped him cum is family. Her voice is his sister’s. Everything about her is mundanely familiar. She is naked, granted, but the big brother in him suddenly sees her as she is.

“You okay?” she asks, actual concern seeping into her voice. She snuggles up to him. Her hairy leg is still draped over his. She does a slow tickle-tickle on his calf with her toe.

He nods woozily at her, not wanting to disturb her, lest this get even uglier somehow.

She blinks at the string of cum on her wrist. She looks at him. He looks at her.

“I kind of want to taste it. Is that weird?”

“Sis, don’t.”

“I like how it smells. I want to lick it.”

“Ingrid–”

“Shush,” she warns him. “My wrist, my cum.”

Still holding his gaze, she licks his cum all the way up off her arm in one long, time-bending motion. She holds it in her mouth a moment, a thoughtful look on her face, then shows it to him–it’s a foggy white puddle on her tongue–before closing her mouth and swallowing. Why must it be so quiet in here?

She has, for the moment anyway, ceased masturbating, but left her raunchy odor hanging heavy in the air between them. It mingles with the stench of his cum. Both of which smells are also, of course, smeared all over his face. She seems to be making up her mind about something as she stares him down.

She suddenly leans over and kisses him on the cheek. Then she kisses him again, this time with tongue, still on the cheek.

“Here,” she says. “I clean you up.”

She grabs his cummy hand, the one he’d clutched at her with, and licks clean his palm, slurps down his fingers one at a time–each sort of rubbing down the center of her tongue and out the gentle scraping of her teeth–and finally sucks his thumb. She makes yummy snack-time noises as she tastes him. Will watches in acid-soaked delirium. When finished, his sister sets his hand down on the covers between them, laces her fingers between his, and holds it. It’s refreshingly nostalgic.

“Stay still,” she says affectionately. She keeps hold of his hand.

She scooches a bit closer to him, almost sort of onto him, and kisses his Big Bro nose with an open mouth smooch not unlike the kind she might once have used to gross him out as a kid, but instead she sips off his cum, swallows it, and then moves onto the globules staining his cheek. She kisses, sips, and swallows these as well. Each time she swallows, she kind of squeezes his hand to let him know she loves him. She lays back a little on one elbow, licks her lips, and then grabs his face. Studies it. Turns his head, first one way then the other, looking for any that she missed.

“All gone,” she says, and kisses him cummily on the corner of his mouth. She rests her head on his spit-damp cheek as she regards his chest and stomach. “Well, except for that cumpocalypse.”

Will lays there dissociating from the salty flavor on the corner of his lips.

His sister meanwhile disentangles herself from him and rises up all the way onto her knees, stretches way, way up, cracks her hips and back and shoulders. This brings her pussy to within a foot of her brother’s nose.

As her brother, he can’t help but stare in dismay. His little sister’s vulva is glistening and enflamed, her labia red and engorged. There are little razor bumps, a pimple or two, and a few missed pubes. It all looks painful to the touch. The odor is almost gagging. Will looks on his sister’s vagina and despairs.

“Yeahhh so,” she says, gesturing at the pearly white Jackson Pollock slathering his body, “This is a bit much for just one girl.”

“Yeah,” he gulps drily. “I’ll go clean up.”

“No, no,” she says. “I mean it’s a bit much just me.”

“What?”

“But the two of us together? Bro, we can do anything we put our minds to! What do you say, lend me a–mouth?” She grins, amused with herself.

“N-no? How about we just–let me–” his terrified hand gropes around for the leggings she had offered him earlier. “Where’d they go?”

“You look troubled, big brother. What’s on your mind?”

He can’t remember if she had really handed him her leggings or not.

“I feel kind of–strange right now, Sis.” He dips a finger into the lake of cum pooling around his belly button. It’s a lot.

“I’m sure you do.” She takes his finger and brings it to her lips to suckle on it. She laps up the length of his finger, pops it in her mouth, and sucks the whole thing out again. She grins at him. “But give it a minute. I have an effect on people. You’ll be back to that old sporting mindset in no time.”

She sucks his finger into and out of her mouth very, very suggestively.

“Inge … Why are you doing this?”

Ingrid cackles.

“Que voulez-vous dire, Bro?”

She drops his finger. She puts her hands on her hips and leans over him. With the sunlight at her back, her face is dark and cloying.

“I just–I can’t. I don’t know what to make of this anymore. I really need to get up.”

“Poor baaaby,” she says, her voice like cold syrup. She throws a leg over her brother’s hips. Almost straddles him, but doesn’t sit. He is drenched in cum.

“I’m sorry, I just–I need to get up,” he grunts, and starts to sit up.

“Nonono,” Ingrid panics. She plops herself down on her brother’s lower stomach, hard. Will snorts as the wind crushes out of him unexpectedly.

His little sister looks down at the mess she’s just sat in. Already he can see her pussy sort of burbling in it. She frowns at him.

“Awww, NOW look. You just made this that much harder for us!”

Chapter Five

“Now, I was originally just going to do this,” Ingrid says, and lays down onto her brother’s chest until his nipples and hers are practically aligned. Her hot sweat and his cum make a wild sandwich filling between them. Her scorching pussy grinds into his hairy pelvis. His cock, only halfway to flaccid, stirs as her ass crack backs up onto its base and parks there.

He can smell cum on his little sister’s breath. Her dreamy little face is inches from his own. She looks almost infatuated.

“We could have simply cleaned each other’s bellies and been done. Would have been about as PG-13 as it got. But nooo. Big Bro had to go and make it Rated-R.”

“Ingrid,” Will wheezes, “I don’t know what–R-rated movies–you’ve been watching–but you can’t expect me t-to clean you with–how you cleaned me?”

“Oh, but I do expect it,” she smiles. “You made this mess. You can at least help clean it up.”

“Ingrid, please get off. I mean it. I’m crying uncle, here. We have got to stop!”

“Will,” she says, and grinds her pussy and ass back a little bit further, soaking the base of his shaft. Again, she grabs his face. She is always grabbing his face. This time, she clamps a stinking hand over his mouth.

Her frown is deadly serious.

“Will, listen to me.”

“?”

“I am going to ask you something.”

“…”

“And I need you to tell me the truth.”

Will can’t speak with her hand over his mouth. This is her dominant hand. Her wanking hand. The smell of her, brutally rich in his nostrils, is … getting to him?

He notices, with faint relief, that his misgivings are already beginning to depopulate again. Acid to the rescue. Sort of.

“Do you have a secret folder on your computer full of pictures of me?”

The bottom of Will’s mind drops out altogether.

Chapter Five, Part Two

Something like actual electricity surges underneath his skin, hurting him, and he has a painful, pragmatic realization: right now, he would fail a polygraph test. With his little sister’s LSD still rowing merrily down his stream, the notion of lying right now seems futile bordering on dangerous.

His sister has him by the face and has asked him a question–THE question–that he has never ever everever wanted to be asked (again).

“Do you or do you not have a secret, hidden folder on your computer full of pictures of ME wearing swimsuits, skimpy outfits, tight-fitting dresses, et cetera? Lick my hand once for no, twice for yes.”

The stench of his little sister’s hand is Wizard of Ozzing from disgusting to technicolor-treat-like in real time as he panics through his nose.

He wants to lick much more of her than one yes’s worth, to take her whole hand into his throat if she is amenable, and to throw her off of him, yank her ass over teakettle up into his face, and plunge his whole creepy soul into the wet scalding source of the problem itself.

Why had he despaired earlier? He forgets. His little sister’s cutely pasty cunt had looked and smelled like her. Her outer labia were young and puffy and exuberant. Her clitoris, her secret sensitivity, kind of shy and protected, angsty and darling. Her inner labia, well, he hadn’t seen them yet, but he loved that air of mystery about her. And how her cunt had smelled. Apish but addictive, ferocious but familial: he needed to get closer, to smell harder, to–

“WILL.”

His last few misgivings hop lemminglike off the cliff at the back of his mind. He licks twice.

“Yes?” Ingrid cracks a disconcerting smirk, loosens her clamp on his mouth so he can speak through her little cage of fingers. “Yes what?”

“I do.”

“You do what?”

“I do have a folder. With pictures. Of you,” he mumbles through her hand.

Ingrid snorts with smug satisfaction.

“Good. That was a test, and you passed. Next question: Why?”

“?”

“Why do you have a folder full of nasty pictures of your little sister? What for?”

“I … you …”

“If you lie to me right now, Will? Then I am getting off you, I am taking a cold shower, and I am leaving this place for good. We are never talking again. And you live alone for the rest of your sad, creepy life.”

She raises one knifelike eyebrow at him.

“… Sis–”

“I’ll do it,” she threatens. “Tell me the truth: why do you have a bunch of fucked up photos of me on your computer?”

“Because–” he barely has time to think before the truth comes rambling out of him, “I love you. I love you, Ingrid. I can’t help it.”

“Of course you can’t,” she blushes, “but you’re dodging the question.”

She wrenches her lower half on him, grinding and squishing and squeezing ever further down his cock, all while studying his face with indignant glee.

“The sooner you get through these questions the sooner we can get back to the task at hand. This stuff creeping up my ass isn’t exactly getting fresher by the minute.”

“Sis, are you seriously ex–”

“Answer the fucking question, creep.”

“Okay,” he groans. “I have a folder! It’s all just pictures of you. That you’ve sent me or posted online. I use the ones where you look … I mean–I masturbate to them because–because–I don’t know, because I’m sick? Because fuck me, Sis, that photo of you with your underwear model-looking friends at the beach, the one where you’re all sort of laying back with your–well, it’s a favorite. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

All of this comes geisering up out of him through his sister’s fingers. It’s maybe too much. Sadly, more is on the way.

“And I used to steal your underwear! Out of the laundry! Okay? I would take them to the bathroom and I would sniff them. I would lick them. I would put them in my mouth. But I–but I never came in them or anything. I always just slipped them back into your laundry after I was done. I don’t think anyone ever noticed. And I feel genuinely gross every time I remember that I actually did that. You were just a kid.”

“Wow. My brother, the panty-sniffer. Honestly? Not surprised.” Ingrid nods, her face inscrutable. “But … hey, you came clean. Plus a bonus confession.”

“I’m sorry. Sis, I’ve hated myself all these years over you. Are you, are you …?”

“Am I what? Disgusted? Uhh, yeah? But am I angry?” She thinks about this for a second. “Not really.” She unclamps his mouth and pats his cheek. “I still love you, Bro. I still think you’re a good person. Thank you for coming clean.”

“Oh God,” he heaves, his heart suddenly beating again, “Oh God. I don’t even know where to begin. INGRID. How did you find OUT?”

“How do you think, dummy?”

“… Mai-Lee,” of course. Her name makes his skin crawl.

“I was so sorry to hear it didn’t work out between you two,” Ingrid frowns sarcastically.

“She told you.”

“Well, to be fair, she and I were sort of,” and now suddenly Ingrid looks almost bashful, “close.”

“Excuse me what? What is ‘close’? Close how?”

“We might have … texted here and there.”

“About what?”

“About … you. Me. Her. You know, stuff.”

“What stuff do you and my girlfriend have to text about?”

“FINE. We sexted, dude. We sexted. She came onto me and I liked it. We sent each other dirty messages and, like, pictures. I’m sorry but it was awesome. She was hot, and she was dating you. I wanted to tell you eventually, somehow. I just couldn’t figure out how. I didn’t want you to blow up. But well, whatever. Obviously that whole situation just kind of fell apart on its own.”

“She cheated on me?! With you?!”

“Uhh,” Ingrid scoffs indignantly, “need I remind you of what is sitting on your computer right this moment?”

Her photos. His shame. Her discarded yellow panties.

Will squirms underneath his little sister. She has him pinned in a humpy, full-body sandwich hug, and his turncoat cock has, as of a few luxurious, butt-crack intensive pulverizations ago, allied itself with the enemy, would right now proudly die for her.

“You KNEW. You’ve KNOWN. The whole time. The WHOLE TIME? Since–fuck, since FEBRUARY?”

She sighs, her cummy breath tempting his nostrils. “It’s kind of nice to have it out in the open, right?”

“And then you–” he stammers as she rises up just enough to lets his cock flip up onto his belly, before planting herself back down onto it and resuming her slow, torturous grinding, “–so you gave me ACID?!”

Will is dizzy. Angry. Horny.

“Yeah,” she makes a ‘whoopsie’ face. “I thought it might help us with this conversation.”

“FuckSisplease–can you–OH God. Sorry,” he laughs a little, hates himself for it, hates his sister’s naked strength, “Was this premeditated? Sis? Mmmohgod–?”

“Premeditated? Bro, I didn’t plan this,” his sister quiets, letting them both just savor the slowly building wonderful feeling gathering between them. “I really–mmm-meant what I said, about just riding the groove today. I only ‘planned’ the part where I asked you to confess. I also hoped to tell you some secrets of my own, too, if you told me yours first. Even then, I didn’t really–God, fuck, your cock feels good, fuck–hm, sorry, hoo, sorry. I just got carried away, okay? So sue me. You seem to be having fun, too!”

“I can’t. I can’t breathe. I need you to get off me.”

Ingrid lifts herself off of her brother just enough to let him draw a few deep breaths, holding herself in a kind of half-push-up above him. “Heyhey, calm down. I’m with you, Bro. We’re okay here.”

“I don’t understand what’s happening, Inge. Am I dreaming? Is this the acid trip?”

“Maybe,” she says, and lowers her face to his again. She kisses him on the lips, serenely, and then lets go and holds her face just millimeters above his. All he can see is her.

“Will,” she gives him a soft, sisterly kiss. “Close your eyes. Breathe in. Hold it for four seconds. Breathe out.”

Will breathes in.

Four seconds go by.

Will breathes out.

“Do it again.”

He does.

Little sister just lays on big brother and feels him breathe for a minute or two. She breathes, too. She can feel his heartbeat. It goes from faster to slower than hers.

After a moment, she whispers, “Hey, you relaxed?”

He nods. She scooches up a little and kisses him. This time, her lips stay connected to his. He parts her lips with his tongue. She opens her mouth. They taste each other. He finds he doesn’t mind his sister’s cummy breath. There are other flavors too. Flavors he grew up smelling and never thinking much about. She separates, gives him another peck, then lets heaves a curious sigh.

She hoists herself forward a bit further, kisses him on the temple, lowers herself back down again and nips at his earlobe, the soft skin behind his ear, the nape of his neck. She shifts again and lifts herself off of him onto her hands and knees, their cummy bellies unsmooching, most of his cum dripping off her and back onto him, and she shimmies still further down.

She licks cum up out of the trough of his collarbone. Will gets a whiff of his little sister’s dry silky hair as she does this. He swoons.

She scooches down further still, until her face is even with his nipple. She sticks out her tongue and with the tip, flicks at his soft sweat- and cum-damp bud. She presses her tongue flat onto it, licks it. Then sucks it gently for a few moments. Kisses it. Moves on.

From here a crooked tributary of cum leads her suckling and angling toward her brother’s stomach. When she gets to the deep silvery lake of cum gathered at her brother’s navel, she sits up. The scope of the mess is such that she has to sit back on her haunches and glower at it for a minute.

She lowers her nose to its ominous, shimmery surface. She sniffs.

“Woo boy,” she exhales, a little intimidated.

“Sis, you don’t–”

“Shut up.”

His little sister parts her lips, says something only she can hear, and begins to suck up the lake.

The noise is profane. Will is oddly and dizzily reminded of Little Inge slurping noodles at the dinner table. Blowing bubbles in her milk.

Ingrid slurps noodles off her big brother’s belly, sucks up large milky globs until she can’t hold any more in her mouth without it leaking back out. She tilts her head back and swallows, laboriously, what must be kind of an awful amount of cum.

“Fuck,” she says, smacking her lips, and then gazing back down at the vast amount still waiting for her. “It’s a lot.”

Will watches, almost unblinking, as she slowly drains the lakebed, gulp by gulp.

At last, she presses the blade of her tongue against his belly button and scrapes out the biggest, scariest dollop, but it slides halfway off her tongue before she can get it into her mouth. She slurps at it, but it escapes, dangling comically between her chin and his belly.

“Fine,” she says, and rubs her face in it. It sticks garishly to her cheek. She looks up and smiles at him. “That bit can be for you.”

Ingrid sits all the way up. She pats her tummy, burps softly into her fist.

She proceeds to spot clean the rest of her brother’s soft, burly(-ish) chest. A thousand and one little slurps, licks, gulps. She kisses him all over, too, apparently just feeling sisterly.

Although his own mauvy brown nipples have been mostly spared in the cumpocalypse, she revisits them anyway, a minute or two each, just enough to get them hard and happy. She likes his nipples. They’re just cute.

Some of Will’s cum has trickled down his sides, dampened his ribs, and soaked the bedsheets. This, his sister can do nothing about. She kisses the ticklish skin down there anyway, for little actual reason other than to make her big brother twist and tickle-snort out his nostrils.

Finally, there is the matter of her brother’s dick. It has come to rest, half-hard, in his bushy pubic hair, which in turn is thickly matted with both his juices and her own.

Ingrid lifts her brother’s wobbly dick and touches a piece of cummy pubic hair underneath, rubs the slime around between her thumb and forefinger and smells it. She looks at her brother with a face he cannot interpret. He laughs, despite himself.

“Glad you’re having fun,” she sighs. She sticks her fingers in her mouth and grimaces. She shakes her head. “This is what love looks like.”

She lifts up his dick–it’s just a dick when it’s only half-hard–holds it with one small warm hand as she rakes her fingers through his pubic hair with the other, squeezes them together, and squeegees her and her brother’s cum up and out, gathering it into her fingers and palm. Naturally, a number of stray pubes come with it, trapped between her fingers. She sighs and sets down his dick so she can pick these out one by one, flicking them off onto the bed or else picking out and wiping off the ones too sticky to flick.

Ingrid laps at the goo in her palm. This apparently strikes her as inefficient, and so she attempts to pour the smelly liquid out of her hand and into her mouth. She winds up chasing half of it down her arm. A few drops escape onto the covers. She licks herself clean again. She rakes through Will’s bush once more, getting most of the worst of it out, and goes through the whole tedious pube-removal process again. Finally, she slurps the mess from her hands and fingers, this time doing it the careful way.

By the time she grabs his cock–it is most definitely a cock again–with purposeful intent, Will is fully spellbound. She has to pry it downward toward his legs for one semi-painful moment in order to lick clean the side that has been resting in his pubic hair. There is no non-awkward way to do this from her angle. She picks another pube out of her mouth afterward.

She then suckles up the length of each side of her brother’s cock, sort of like she’s enjoying an ear of corn. When she gets to the rim of the head on one side, she stops, tilts his cock a little the other way, cranes her head all the way around, and starts nibble-smooching again from the base.

Finally, she lays her big brother’s cock down and licks all the way up the base of his shaft, once to clean it, twice to clean it, and thrice to make him make a sexy noise. Also, she finds she just likes licking his cock. So sue her.

Then she notices her brother’s hairy, saggy balls are cummy, too. She heaves a sigh.

“Do I have to do your balls?” she asks. “They smell straight-up bad.”

“Sorry. This is–this is all you, Sis. I am just, uh, riding the groove.”

She blinks at him. She looks down at his balls. She scrunches up her face.

“I want to meet your balls. I do. Buuut,” she shrugs apologetically, “maybe after a shower.”

At last, there is just the head of his cock to contend with.

“Ok. Buckle up,” she grins. “This is when your sister sucks your cock.”

She gives him a quick lick, a little lovely to meet you lick, and then pops him wholesale into her mouth.

She locks her lips around the head of his cock and sucks powerfully hard, her cheeks folding inward from the vacuum. She grips the base of his shaft in one tight fist. There is enough spit on his cock for her to do what she does next with splendid ease.

Will moans, confused, as his sister starts pumping furiously up and down, her mouth vacuum-sealed about the head of his cock and her tongue doing some sort of maniacal swirling thing around and around what he can only think of right now as his cum-hole.

“UHHhhhmm-hm, Sis?”

She pops him out of her mouth with an actual, audible pop, but doesn’t stop jerking him off. The spit, the slipperiness, the noise, her naked frame at this extreme angle, it’s a lot for just one brother.

“Yeah?”

“Are you going to–I thought we were–Is this happening?”

“I’m cleaning you off, weirdo. Don’t look if it bothers you.”

This time she sucks him with emphatic vigor, moaning in her throat as she does, humming on his cock, taking in deeper and deeper lengths of him until she’s practically choking on him. She can’t quite get the full length of him. She gets past halfway, and then there is a minor struggle in her throat, and she has to retreat. But Ingrid doesn’t let up, now or ever. She pushes harder. Gets a little further. Gags. Pulls back, only frustrated, not disheartened.

“S-Sis!”

“Mmmnnnghhh?” she replies, her tongue licking up the base of his shaft again while she gives her throat a few seconds to catch its breath. She resumes jerking him relentlessly.

“Sis, I’m going to cum!”

“Mm-hmm,” she says, nodding as she bobs her head up and down on his cock again and makes silly moaning sounds, playfully mimicking a porn star.

“Sis, I mean for real, if you keep–”

She opens her mouth. She withdraws his cock, gives it a parting kiss, licks her lips, and massages her jaw with one free hand. With the other hand she still gently jerks him, but gradually slows until she’s simply holding and caressing his soaking cock. She makes oo-wah, oo-wah faces, stretching her tired cheek muscles.

“Whew,” she says. “Close one?”

“That was–” he tries to speak. “That was–”

“Bet you wish you had a shot of me doing that in your creepy little folder, huh?”

“Can we–can we please not bring that up right now? Or ever again?”

“I will bring those photos up whenever I want. They are my photos.” She rises up and appraises the smelly mess still stuck to her. “You want to know something? If it weren’t already apparent from the muck I just ate out of your pubes, your little sister also has a dirty secret of her own. About her big brother. Does that … does that sound like something you might like me to share with you?”

“You? Really?”

“Me really.”

“… about me?”

“You surprised? Bro, I have-urrrp,” she looses a strange, painful-looking burp, her throat in peculiar shape at the moment, “pardonnez-moi–I have a lot of you coating my insides right now. And honestly…” She gives his cock a ravenous squint. “I could go for more?” But then she frowns slightly and cracks her jaw to one side, kneads the gristle. “Just maybe not right this second.”

He gazes down where she’s gazing, at his cock in her hand. His cum slicking her abdomen. Her pussy salivating in that bright gap between her thighs. She looks good messy.

God, now that she mentions it, it would be a hell of a photo.

“So, what is it?” he asks her.

“My secret?” she says, suddenly a little nervous.

“Did you steal my underwear too?”

“No, ew, gross. That’s all you. But…” she hesitates. She has to summon some psychic energy to lift the lid off of this one. “But I did used to do something … sort of naughty.”

“Shit,” he gasps. His little sister settles her hot, squishy pussy squarely back down onto his half-frenzied cock. “What did–what did you-uu do?”

“You remember–mm–you remember that electric toothbrush you used to have?”

“Oh shit,” Will sputters, only half to what she’s saying.

Ingrid calmly, intently presses herself up the length of his cock, leaving a trail of rapid-cooling heat up his freshly “cleaned” shaft.

“Welllll, my big, big brother,” she quivers, “I might um… ohh, how should I put this?”

“You–you didn’t…” Will’s eyes bug out for a moment.

“Yeahhhhha-ha,” she says as she slides rapturously back down the length of him. “I really kind of did.”

“With my toothbrush?”

“Well, it’s not like I could have just asked Mom and Dad for a vibrator!”

“You could have asked for your own toothbrush!”

“Nahhh,” she says again, sliding back up now. “I don’t like how the electric ones feel. Ironic, I know. But they tickle my–oo–my braaain. Oh my god I love how your cock feels. Holy shit. Plus, using your toothbrush was half the f-fun!”

Will isn’t angry. He is horny. “I always thought that thing smelled off! God, I just–hey, hey, whoa, slow down, slow down–I just thought it was germs or something. From my mmmouth.”

“Germs, yes. Mouth, no,” she humps with syllabic emphasis. “You want to see how I did it?”

He looks at her. They make utterly, dangerously ravenous eye contact. “Yeah,” he says.

His sister rises up a little, grabs his long, slippery cock from underneath her, and aims it up toward her ass. She glides the head along her juicy slit. She’s so slick and he’s so slick that he can’t feel her stubble. When his cock head gets to her clit, however, she begins to hold it like a vibrator, grinding herself onto and onto it, and then not just grinding but aggressively abrading it.

This hurts the penis.

Her pussy’s stubble quickly scrapes through the pussy juice coating that had been protecting him, and burns like sandpaper on the soft, hyper-sensitive tissue at the tip of his cock. He tolerates it for as long as he can.

“Hnnngggh,” he whines. She doesn’t stop. “OkayokayIgetit.”

“Fine,” she says, disappointed, loosening her fist and lowering herself back down behind his cock, so that the poor, over-stimulated thing just kind of quivers there before her. “Well, shoot. I guess you’re ready then, huh?”

“For …?”

“It’s your turn!” she declares. She dismounts. She stands up.

She poses before him on the bare wooden floor, the runniest parts of his cum actively dripping down her body, the jammy bits staying mostly stuck in place.

“If I lay down right now, this cum all over my butt is going to end up in the sheets. We can’t have that. Right now it’s,” she looks down, “see, it’s running down my legs! Hurry!”

“You’re not going to lay down?”

“Ewww, it’s touching my feet, hurry Big Bro!”

Will doesn’t think. He bounces up off the mattress onto his hands and knees and catches his own wayfaring cum just as it threatens to summit his little sister’s bony right ankle. There isn’t much here, but he still feels heroic all the same.

Whoa, he realizes, here it is. His cum. On his tongue. In his closed mouth, stewing.

So, this is how he tastes? Huh.

He supposes he expected it to taste like salt-flavored spit. It doesn’t. It’s got a bitterness to it that he hadn’t anticipated. At the same time, it has a pronounced blandness. He smacks his lips a little. It even kind of has a sort of alkaline aspect to it, bleach-ish, although it’s very faint, phlegmy, throat-coating.

“You act like you’ve never tasted your own cum before,” she chortles.

“Actually, I have,” he declares. Her face lights up, very intrigued. Readers may recall he’d sucked his own mess out of Emily’s pussy and then spat it into her mouth. But he hadn’t really gotten a chance to taste it by itself. It hadn’t spent long on his tongue, and had tasted way more like her than him. He tells none of this to Ingrid. He wants the air of mystery. “But I haven’t ever tasted it on acid.”

“Oh,” she nods slyly. She will return to this someday. “So? What do you think of it?”

“It’s …. not bad. Blander than I expected. What do you think?”

“Ha! I–” she suddenly shivers, “I really like yours. Maybe it’s just the acid? But I blew a dude in Paris whose cum tasted like cigarette smoke, I swear to God. I thought cum was revolting until today. Bro, I like your cum. I want it.”

“You know, it’s funny. When we were undressing, you were the one who said this wasn’t going to be sexual.”

“Yeah. Wait, you think me eating your cum is sexual?”

“It’s literally the stuff I make babies with.”

“Not if you eat it.”

“Sis, come on. Doing anything with cum is sexual.”

“Sooo when you donate to a sperm bank, you’re doing something sexual?”

“Well, no. Maybe sort of. But that’s not–” but he has to admit, or let’s be honest he’s just eager to admit, that she has a point.

“Are you saying I’m just donating my cum to you?”

“I’m saying it’s just cum. It’s not that big a deal.”

“You’re kidding yourself, Sis.”

Ingrid sighs emphatically.

“It’s like I keep saying,” Ingrid furrows her eyebrows, looking a little fiery all of a sudden. “Everything we’re doing? It’s just hanging out. Now you know I did the toothbrush thing, and I know you did the panty thing, and it’s all out there on the table, and look! We’re still here, we still like each other.

“No matter what we do, we’re family. So, you like to think about me naked. Whatever. You’re still Will to me, Bro. I’m the one who should mind, and I don’t. Or so what if we just have to go on living, growing up, getting old, knowing that I like eating your cum? Does that make family gatherings worse, or better?

“Or let’s say I call you and tell you I had a bad day. Are you really going to hang up on me because once upon a time I made you taste my pussy on my fingers? Probably not. Probably, you’re going to hear me out and be there for me just like you always are. I love you, Will. And you love me, too. So. I figure let’s just give into the fact that we are hot, and get naked, and touch each other, and you know, maybe see if we like how we taste. Green eggs and ham, am I right?”

Will’s manager and all the Ghosts peek around the door, a cartoon stack of heads, swooning over Will’s sister’s epic treatise on incest. Most of them are teary-eyed. The Ghost of Topless Women Past gets Will’s attention and mouths the words, ‘She’s a keeper’ in French with subtitles.

“Sorry if I’m boring you,” Ingrid blushes at her mesmerized brother. “Let’s just get on with this. I feel like I’m starting to dry. And I want to know what happens when you get to the cum in my butt!”

Will nods, feeling stupid and in love.

His sister steps back and goes statuesque, parting her legs just so in a pose that probably has some sort of name or number in French.

How does she even live a normal human life? If he looked like this, he would just stay at home and masturbate all the time.

Well, now that he thinks about it, that is what he does.

“You may proceed,” she says. “Um, sorry about my hairy legs.”

There isn’t much of his cum on her right leg. And that’s a fortunate thing, as his sister’s wispy leg hair turns out to be an awkward thing to lick, especially upward against the grain. It softly prickles at his upper lip, too, just enough to makes it itch maniacally as he licks his way up her rock-hard calf, laps at her kneecap, and sets out up the steely tan slope of her thigh.

“Hey Sis?” he gently tries. “I don’t mean to, um, oppress? But if this is going to be a thing we do with any sort of regularity, could I please ask you to shave?”

“Ha,” she laughs self-consciously, “I was kind of having the same thought.”

“But … Sis?”

“Yeah?”

“You can keep the pit hair, if you want.”

This tickles her. She radiates affection at him. She strikes an arm’s up pose, vogues for her brother. Blows a little stream of air past her armpit that makes the hair twitter.

As he gains her upper thigh, her leg hair thins and at last gives way to bald, smoothly textured skin. He fastens his lips to a big wet streak on her hip bone, sucks at it. He kisses his way down along his sister’s pelvic crease. Her soft, stubbly pelvis meets his soft, stubbly cheek as a finger tap-taps at the top of his head.

“Okay, other leg.”

He appraises his little sister’s other leg. The cum is a little more intense on this one. Some amount or other has made its way to the bottom of her foot.

“Step,” he says, and she effortlessly and without wobble stands up on one leg. Her foot makes a small ungluing noise as it separates from the hardwood.

Will sits back on his heels so he can hold his sister’s bony foot in both hands. He’s glad he just scrubbed these floors not too long ago. He studies her foot for a moment, sniffs at it. It smells like a foot with cum on it. Right now, he is short on misgivings. He tilts his head to the side like he’s about to eat a taco and licks his own cum off the bottom of his little sister’s sweaty foot, this very sentence playing aloud in his head as he does.

“Oo, oh–tickles!” his sister laughs, breathless, her toes curling irrepressibly. Her ab muscles heave with nervous laughter, her balance stays impeccable. It takes a few more torturous licks. Will kind of likes this. His own brief taste of power. Will has never had a foot fetish, but his sister’s rough-hewn French-looking feet do stir something in him.