Chapter Text
But so it started getting more serious on a Saturday morning early into Summer break. Claire had just finished first grade, I had just finished third. I was drawing at my desk, trying to ignore the world. I had just gotten to the good part of my picture - the part where everything starts to look like what I wanted it to - when she came into my room without knocking. She didn't say anything. She just stood there, watching me. I didn't look up.
"Okay. What do you want?" I asked after a minute.
"Nothing," she said. She was fidgeting with the hem of her t-shirt, twisting it between her fingers. "I'm just bored."
"So go be bored somewhere else," I said.
She didn't leave. "Make something interesting happen."
I sighed, closing my sketchbook. "I'm not your babysitter, Claire. Go find a hobby."
"You're my brother," she said. "It's your job to entertain me."
"It's really not," I said.
"Well, it should be," she said. "I'm putting it in the rules. Right under 'must be willing to share snacks' and 'has to let me win sometimes'."
I looked at her then. She was seven, two years younger than me, but she was already distractingly attractive - even to me, and other close family. Some girls are just ‘whoa’ to look at, you know? Her hair was messy today, tied back in a hasty ponytail. She got Dad's darker complexion, so her bare legs looked like polished mahogany. She was wearing a faded blue t-shirt with a cartoon dinosaur on it and a pair of denim shorts. She had a scrape on her left knee, a half-healed scab that was peeling at the edges.
"What do you want me to do?" I asked. "Jump through a hoop? Balance a ball on my nose?"
"Something hard," she said. "Something I can't do."
I considered this for a moment. I thought about making her stand on one foot for as long as she could, or making her try to say the alphabet backwards, but those were boring. Those were things anybody could do. I wanted something more. Something that would require her to really focus. Something that would test her.
"Okay," I said. "I've got an idea."
Her eyes lit up. "What is it?"
"You have to stand right here," I said, pointing to a spot on the floor in front of my desk. "And you can't move. You can't bend your knees or your waist. You can't lean on anything. You just have to stand there, perfectly still, until I say you can move."
"That's it?" she asked, her face falling. "That's not hard."
"Oh, it'll be hard," I said. "Especially for you."
"Why especially for me?"
"Because," I said. "While you're standing there, you have to keep this between your legs." I pulled a vibrating massage wand out of my drawer. Why did I have one? Because I'd pilfered it from Mom and Dad's closet earlier this year, after discovering just how incredibly good it could make me feel. They'd bought a replacement without saying a word to me, so I figured it was good as mine now - and as such, I felt like the brotherly thing to do in this moment was show Claire how it worked.
"What is that?" she frowned, but her eyes were alight with curiosity. That was Claire. Unafraid. She'd never met a situation she couldn't talk her way into, or out of, with enough stubborn will.
"It's a massager. It buzzes," I explained. "You hold it against yourself. It feels... good. Intense."
She looked at the wand, then at me, then back at the wand. I could see the wheels turning in her head. She was trying to figure out the angle, trying to see the trick. But there wasn't one. Not really.
"What do I get if I do it?" she asked.
"What do you want?"
"I want to use your colored pencils for a week," she said.
"Deal," I said.
She took off her shorts and underwear and put them on my bed, folding them neatly. She stood where I told her to stand, her feet shoulder-width apart, her shoulders back, her chin held high. She was naked from the waist down, her shirt hanging down to her mid-thigh. She looked like a little soldier.
I turned on the wand. It hummed to life, a low, steady thrum that I could feel in my teeth. I handed it to her.
"Here," I said. "Put it right here." I pointed to the spot between her legs, the spot where I knew it would feel the best. It might disappoint you to know I was unmoved by the sight of my sister's vulva. In a different story you might get a vivid description of her precious, creamy-soft cleft, or some obsessive comparison of her labia's slightly darker brownness to the rest of her. In this story, you get me telling you she had a vagina - the same one she'd always had, and that had never much intrigued me. Claire sensed this indifference, too, which is why she probably felt relatively okay about letting me poke around down there on this morning. She knew I wasn't a creep. I wasn't one of those. I was just... her brother. Her weird brother with weird ideas about games.
She took the wand and pressed it against herself. Her body went rigid. A gasp escaped her lips. She had a look on her face, a look of pure, unadulterated shock. She hadn't been expecting that. The intensity of it. The sheer, overwhelming pleasure.
"Okay," I said. "Now you just have to stand there. You can't move. You can't bend your knees or your waist. You can't lean on anything. You just have to stand there, perfectly still, until I say you can move."
She nodded, her jaw clenched. I could see the muscles in her neck straining. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the wand. Her breathing was shallow, ragged. She was trying to hold it together, trying to maintain control. But I could see she was already starting to lose it.
The wand was doing its work. The vibrations were spreading through her, a relentless, pulsing current of pleasure. I could see it in the way her thighs were trembling, the way her toes were curling. She was fighting it, fighting the urge to move, to bend, to hunch and curl and tighten around the pleasure knotting up in her pudendum.
"C-can I make noise?" she whimpered through clenched teeth.
"Of course not," I scoffed.
"Hnnn," she whined.
"That's a noise."
She knitted her brow and glared at me, her tan cheeks cherry red with frustration. The whining had been more reflexive than anything; she was trying hard to follow the rules. I decided to help her along. I reached out and brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. My fingers lingered on her cheek, her skin hot and slick with sweat.
"You can do it," I said. "Just focus."
Her eyes fluttered closed. She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling. I could see the effort it was taking her, the sheer force of will required to keep her body still, to keep her from buckling under the weight of her own pleasure.
"I'll hold it," I told her, urging her to release her death grip. This enabled her to stand even straighter - much to her chagrin. I pushed lightly on her collar bone, prompting her to straighten her posture even more. She moaned indignantly at the sheer challenge of this simple demand. I could see her hips trying to cant forward, trying to press harder against the wand, but I kept it held steady, a constant, unyielding pressure that denied her the leverage she craved. Her eyes were still squeezed shut, her face a mask of concentration. I was starting to feel a little bit bad for her. This was harder than I thought it would be. But I was also impressed. She was tough. Tougher than I gave her credit for.
"Almost there," I said. "You're almost there."
She shook her head, a small, desperate gesture. She was right. She was still a long way from the finish line. But I wanted to give her hope, to give her something to hold on to.
"Just a little bit longer," I said. "You can do it."
Her breathing was coming in short, sharp pants now. Her whole body was shaking, a fine, high-frequency tremor that started in her legs and traveled up her spine. Her toes were gripping the floor, her arches lifting.
"It's... it's happening," she gasped, her eyes flying open. "Oh gosh, it's happening."
I could see it, too. The change in her face, the way her features softened and then tightened, the way her eyes went wide with a kind of terrified wonder. She was on the edge, the very precipice of release.
"Stay with me," I said, my voice low and steady. "Don't you dare move."
She whimpered, a high, thin sound that was almost a sob. Her whole body was locked, every muscle tensed and straining. Her hands were clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms.
"Look at me," I commanded.
She did. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused. She was lost in the sensation, lost in the pleasure that was consuming her from the inside out. But she was still there, still fighting, still trying to hold on.
"Good girl," I said. "Just a little bit longer."
She stifled a cry, emitting only a raw, tense sound in the fiercely constricted muscles of her throat. Her body convulsed. A single, violent shudder ran through her from head to toe. And she shoved the wand away from her crotch.
I pushed it back. I don't know why. I shoved it up into her groin. And she yelped like I'd zapped her with 10,000 volts of pure lightning. It was the most visceral reaction I'd ever gotten from her. She staggered back, her hands flying to her crotch, her face a twisted mask of pain and pleasure. She nearly fell to her knees before catching herself, her hands braced on my desk.
"You cheated," she panted, glaring at me. "You... you..."
"I don't know what you're talking about," I said, my face a picture of innocence. "You're the one who moved. You lost the game."
"Whatever," she said, still breathing hard. "That's not fair."
"All's fair in love and war," I said. "And in this game."
She scowled at me, but there was no real anger in her eyes. There was something else, something I couldn't quite place. A grudging respect, maybe. A newfound appreciation for my creativity, my cruelty. She saw me in a new light, and she liked what she saw.
"That was... intense," she said, her voice softer now.
"Yep," I said. "It's supposed to be."
"Can we do it again sometime?"
I smiled. "Maybe. If you're good."
"I'm always good," she said.
"We'll see about that," I said. "Now go clean this off. You got ... stuff all over it."
"Th-that's not my fault!" she flushed red, grimacing at the mess she'd made all over the head of the massage wand.
"Excuse me? This gunk didn't come out of MY vagina," I chortled. "Come on. Just go wash it off and bring it back. Hurry, before Dad gets home."
"You're so lazy," she harrumphed, taking the wand from me. "So then, what? I don't get your colored pencils even just today?"
"You are welcome to attempt the challenge a second time. If you think you can hack it."
Somewhat to my surprise, Claire shivered at the suggestion. The thought of subjecting herself to another electro-powered orgasm must have sent ripples of phantom pleasure through her. She had a far-off, dreamy look for a moment. Then she shook it off, her face hardening into a mask of determination. "Fine," she said. "Challenge accepted. Just wait. I'm gonna beat you."
"I'd like to see you try," I said.
"Can YOU even do it? Stand still and not make a single noise?"
"Of course I can. You've never heard me before, right?"
"You ... you do this a lot?"
I gave her a big brotherly look of unadulterated smugness. "Kid. You have no idea."
"I dare you to show me," she smirked.
"And get your crotch slobber all over my nice clean shorts? No thanks."
"You can take your shorts off."
"Go clean it," I ordered her. "And then I'll show you how it's done."
"Okay, FINE," she huffed. "But then YOU clean it next."
"I don't leak crotch slobber. I won't have to."
"UGH!" she groaned as she scampered off, still bottomless in her oversized shirt, toward the hallway bathroom we both shared. She returned a few minutes later, holding up the wand like a trophy. "Clean," she announced.
"Okay, stand back," I said, taking the wand from her. I unbuttoned my jeans and pushed them down to my knees, along with my underwear. I didn't bother taking them all the way off. I just stood there, my own bare crotch exposed to the cool air of my bedroom. I was a boy, so there was nothing to see but my little penis and my hairless balls, but Claire didn't seem to mind. She was curious. She was always curious.
I stood where she had stood, my feet shoulder-width apart, my shoulders back, my chin held high. I was ready.
"Okay," I said. "Turn it on."
She took the wand and switched it on. The low, steady thrum filled the room again. She handed it to me. I took it and pressed it against the underside of my penis, right at the base. The sensation was immediate, a jolt of pure, unadulterated pleasure that shot up my spine and made my whole body tense up. I could see the surprise on Claire's face. She hadn't been expecting that. She hadn't been expecting me to react so strongly, so quickly. I went from soft and flaccid to hard in the space of maybe ten seconds?
"Whoa," she breathed. "It got all big."
"It's called a boner, Claire," I said through gritted teeth. "You'll learn about it in health class."
"It looks like a little worm," she said.
"Shut up," I grunted.
"Do you just ... hold it there?"
"Yep. I mean, you can kind of ... " I rolled the head of the massager around a bit, unwittingly simulating the gyrating hips of a lover, and but had trouble really doing this without my musculoskeletal system overriding my self-restraint and sending me trembling into a half-bow.
"You're leaning forward!" she tutted, giddy to see me lapse.
"H-here, you hold it," I commanded.
"O-oh," she stammered, suddenly sheepish again. She held it gently against my shaft, tentative. It was an immediate downgrade in overwhelming pleasure, which was helpful in regaining my composure.
"Does it hurt?"
"No," I said. "It feels good."
"Why do you look like you're in pain?"
"Because I'm trying not to m-move," I grunted. "I'm trying to win the game."
"Oh, right," she said.
I closed my eyes, trying to focus, trying to hold on. The vibrations were relentless, a constant, pulsing current of pleasure that was threatening to overwhelm me. I could feel my legs starting to tremble, my toes starting to curl. I was fighting it, fighting the urge to move, to bend, to hunch and curl and tighten around the pleasure that was building in my groin. I could feel a pressure starting to build deep inside me, a pressure that was demanding to be released. I knew I was getting close.
"It's... it's happening," I gasped, my eyes flying open. "Ohhhh jeez, it's - it's -."
"Is it like mine?" Claire asked. "I mean, does it feel the same? The... the feeling?"
"I-I think," I shuddered. Clenched my jaw. Stiffened my shoulders. But I couldn't control it. The feeling was too intense. The pressure was too great. I was on the edge, the very precipice of release.
"Stay with me," Claire said, her voice a perfect imitation of mine. "Don't you dare move."
I looked at her. Her face was a mask of concentration, her brow furrowed, her jaw set. She was right there with me, right in the moment. She was seeing me, really seeing me, and it was the most intimate, the most vulnerable I had ever felt. And then, the pressure became too much. My whole body went rigid. I gasped, a sharp, ragged sound that was half pleasure, half pain. And then, I was coming. I was coming hard.
It wasn't a messy explosion. It was more like a slow, steady pulse, a wave of pleasure that washed over me, leaving me weak and shaking. My knees buckled, and I almost fell, but I caught myself, my hands braced on my desk. I was panting, my chest heaving, my body slick with sweat.
"You made a noise," Claire said, her voice smug.
"Shut up," I panted.
"You also moved."
She wasn't wrong. But I hadn't lied to her when I said I was normally able to do this without making a sound. Why had it felt so much more intense this time? Just because she was here? That didn't make sense to me. Not yet, anyway.
"Okay, me next," she said determinedly, and without even switching the massage wand off, put it right back under her shirt. "C-can you hold it for me?"
"Jeez, Sis," I winced, gingerly accepting the handle of the buzzing wand, which in my hypersensitive state sent a tremor up my shoulder and neck as I made contact with it. "You got a real problem."
"You're one to talk," she shot back. I took my position behind her, pressing the head of the wand into the familiar spot between her legs. She let out a soft gasp, her whole body tensing up.
"Okay," I said. "You know the rules. Stand still. Don't make a sound."
"I know," she said, her voice tight. "Just... don't push on me too hard. I can't bend."
"I won't," I said. "Just focus."
She closed her eyes, her jaw clenched. I could see the muscles in her neck straining, the tendons standing out like cords. Her knuckles were white where she gripped the hem of her shirt. Her breathing was shallow, ragged. She was trying to hold it together, trying to maintain control. But I could see she was already starting to lose it. The wand was doing its work. The vibrations were spreading through her, a relentless, pulsing current of pleasure that was building in her groin. I could see it in the way her thighs were trembling, the way her toes were curling.
"Almost there," I said. "You're almost there."
"S-sorry if it k-kind of smells," she murmured. "I've been sweating."
"Stop talking," I commanded her gently.
She obeyed, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Her whole body was shaking now, a fine, high-frequency tremor that started in her legs and traveled up her spine. Her toes were gripping the floor again, her arches lifting. It occurred to me, for the first time in our lives, that she had really pretty feet. I couldn't have told you what I meant by this. But there was just something about her little brown toes scrunching like that - the way they curled and uncurled with her pleasure - that was captivating to me. I realized I had an erection again. And this confused me. I didn't know what to do about it.
"It's... it's h-happening again," she gasped, her eyes flying open. "Oh gosh."
I could see it, too. The change in her face, the way her features softened and then tightened, the way her eyes went wide with that same terrified wonder. She was on the edge, the very precipice of release. And this time, I wanted to see her fall. I wanted to see her lose control. I wanted to see her break.
"Stayyy," I said, my voice low and steady. "Don't you dare move."
She whimpered, a high, thin sound that was almost a sob. Her whole body was locked, every muscle tensed and straining. Her hands were still clenched into fists at her sides, her nails digging into her palms. And then, she was there. She was coming. She was coming hard.
She didn't make a sound. Not a single one. She just stood there, her body convulsing, a series of violent shudders running through her from head to toe. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a twisted mask of pure, unadulterated pleasure. And then, it was over.
She sagged against me, her body limp and pliant. I wrapped my arms around her, holding her up, my own body responding to the proximity of hers. I could feel her heart hammering against her chest, her breath hot on my neck.
"I... I did it," she whispered, her voice hoarse.
"You did it," I said. "You won."
"Can I... can I have the colored pencils now?"
"Claire," I said.
"What?"
"I think you, uh, peed a little."
We both looked down between her feet. Sure enough, there was a dark puddle in the carpet.
"Oh my god," she said, her face turning a bright, blotchy red. "I'm so sorry."
"It's okay," I said. "But you're cleaning that up."
"Yeah," she grimaced. "I'm so sorry."
She left and came back with a roll of paper towels and the spray we used whenever the dog peed in the house. She got down on all fours and began to daub and spray and scrub the carpet. I didn't mean to stare, but she still hadn't put her shorts or underwear back on, and though normally the sight of her bare hindquarters would have had zero physiological impact on me other than maybe slight embarrassment and a natural impulse to politely look away, this time a - for lack of a more immediately obvious word - "naughty" impulse overrode that one. Instead, I stared. She was absorbed in her cleaning task, so I could look freely.
Her vulva was still plump and reddened from her orgasm, and the skin around it was still a little wet. A single, perfect bead of her arousal clung to the bottom of her opening, and I was mesmerized by the way it caught the light. I wanted to touch it. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to know what she smelled like, what she tasted like. The thoughts came to me unbidden, unwelcome, but undeniably there. I felt a flush of shame, hot and sharp. I finally looked away, my cheeks burning. I was a good brother. Not a creep.
What was wrong with me? This was my sister. My little sister. I wasn't supposed to be thinking about her like this. I wasn't supposed to be thinking about any girls her age like this. But I couldn't help it. Something had shifted, almost like the massage wand had inadvertently worked a knot out I hadn't known was there.
She finished cleaning the carpet and stood up, her face still flushed with embarrassment.
"I'm really sorry," she said again. "I tried to get it all up. You can still kind of smell it though."
"It's okay," I said. "Accidents happen."
"Yeah, but..." she trailed off, not sure how to finish the sentence.
"Don't sweat it. Next time we'll just make sure to put it a towel down or something."
"N-next time?" she brightened a little. "I-I mean, yeah. A towel. Just in case."
"Claire, have you ever ... done this before?"
"Peed?"
"No, I mean... made yourself, you know. Feel like how the massager made you feel?"
"Oh, um, I mean. Well. That's kind of ... secret."
"Secret? What do you mean? You know I don't care if it's gross or whatever. You're my sister. I see you pick your nose all the time. I cleaned up your puke that one time. And I swear you never remember to flush after you go poop."
"Mom told me not to tell."
"Mom's a dork. What'd she tell you not to tell?"
"About ... um. You know." She pointed to her crotch, which was back to being hidden beneath the hem of her shirt.
"Your vagina?"
Claire turned bright pink when I said that word.
"Martin!" she giggled. "Don't SAY it!"
"What? Vagina?"
She giggled again even harder. Gosh, but she was cute. And pretty. And when she bent over on all fours without underwear on, her butt looked strangely incredible, like something you just needed to grab and squeeze and play with. Even with how much she'd stunk up my carpet, it was like that odor was actually ... good somehow. Like, I kept sniffing at it. I don't think she could tell I was, but I was.
"... What?" she smiled, one eyebrow crinkled curiously.
"Hm, what?"
"Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I'm not."
"Oh, okay, DORK!" she scoffed, and then she gave me a playful little shove, and in a way we'd never really done before, I pulled her in close to me. She let out a little yelp. But she didn't fight me. She just kinda ... sank into me. And her hair smelled like our shampoo. Not great. Not bad. Just. Her. Familiar.
"Hey, Martin?" she said in a small voice, almost a whisper.
"What's up, kid?"
"I think the pee was mostly ... other stuff. Like, the ... the ... you know... the wetness."
"The wetness? Like from your vagina? But I saw it. It came out like pee."
"Duh," she said. "It comes from inside. But it isn't pee. Mom told me. It's just what comes out."
"I see. And you can't control it?"
"Not when I'm, you know," she got quiet again for a second.
"When you're masturbating?" I asked.
She looked up at me.
"Masturbating?"
"Uh-huh," I nodded. "That's the word for when you play with your penis or your vagina until it feels good."
"Oh," she blinked, processing this new piece of data. "Masturbating?"
"Masturbating. Like, as in, I masturbated today. I like masturbation."
She giggled a new, different kind of giggle at this, a snuggled-up-against-me-without-underwear-or-pants-on kind of giggle. "It's a weird word."
"It's a weird thing to do."
"Nuh-uh," she said immediately. "Mom says it's normal."
"So, okay wait," I pulled her away again so I could look at her straight-on. "Why exactly is Mom teaching you all this stuff?"
"Oh, sh-she - um. She ... she - " Claire looked embarrassed as much as lost for words. However Mom approached her, it must have been excruciatingly awkward. And now the poor first grader didn't know how to put it. "She found out because I ... I was making my bed dirty. M-my sheets. And she said it's okay but I need to do it someplace else, like the bathtub or the toilet instead of someplace where I make a mess."
"Oh," I blinked, as it was now my turn to process. Truth be told, I knew about girls' private matters only what I had gleaned from having a kid sister. That they were prone to making "messes" was puzzling new information to me. "Like, were you wetting the bed?" I pointed at the faint damp spot on the carpet where Claire had peed - or no, not peed. 'Made a mess.'
"Yeah, but. Not pee," she reiterated. She lifted up the hem of her shirt so we could both see her vulva, and then with a couple of dainty brown fingers spread her labia to show just how wet she still was down there. One of her labia even slipped out from under her finger and she had to sort of snatch it back to the side, it was that slippery. "See?" she said. "Us girls get kind of, like, messy."
"Weird," I gulped. What I didn't say was, 'Can I touch?' What I definitely didn't say was, 'Is it safe to taste?' Because neither of these questions came from anywhere I remotely understood. Some deep, dank, creepy place inside me. I didn't know the word 'primordial,' but it would have been right on the money. Some primordial aspect had awakened inside me, and it was barbarically curious about my little sister's private parts.
"You can touch," she said. "You'll see, it's like SUPER wet."
"Ew," I recoiled, more out of reflex than genuine revulsion. "No, kid, put that away."
Claire released her labia, dropped her shirt, and shrank practically one whole size right where she stood. "S-sorry, you're right. You're right."
"Is that what smells?" I asked her. Probably not the best timing. I had meant it out of curiosity. But right on the heels of completely humiliating her, it probably felt pretty personal.
She shrugged and nodded, looking like she was definitely about to start crying.
"Aw, Cici," I sighed. I held my arms out again. "Hey, I didn't mean to - "
"I can't HELP it!" she burst, and declining my hug, bolted from the room.
I stood there a second with my arms still outstretched as if she might come back in a moment. She did not. So I sat back down at my desk. I looked at my sketchbook, which was still shut. I looked at my colored pencils. In the mirror above my desk I noticed something somewhat alarming - something that made that new, creepy part of me instantly perk up and start flooding the old, familiar, non-creepy part of me with not-okay suggestions: Claire had left her shorts and panties on my bed. Neatly folded.
I turned around and looked right at them. What was I thinking? Was I even thinking? It was more just like a feeling. An impulse. Had anyone been there to stop me, I wouldn't even have risen from my chair. But Mom and Dad were gone for at least five or six more hours, and if I closed and locked my door, then my sister knew better than to hassle me. So I got up, closed my bedroom door, and locked it. The next time I turned to countenance the forgotten garments on my bed, it was with purpose. A definite goal.
I took the panties. They were a simple pair of white cotton briefs with a little pink bow on the front waistband. They were slightly damp, and they carried a faint, sweet, musky scent that was like ... what was it like? I kept sniffing and sniffing them. I sniffed around different parts of the gusset of her panties, like a dog tracing a scent. There was a pee-like odor. There was the laundry detergent smell. And then there was this ... warm, strangely nostalgic, almost honey-like smell. I was only nine. I had no map for this corner of thought space. And it was this third, ineffable smell that was equal parts odor and aroma - like one of those pictures where it looks like both a duck and a rabbit at the same time - that somehow got its hooks in my brain and made me ultimately make the inexplicable choice to grab the massage wand again.
I reclined back on my bed, holding my sister's dirty panties to my nose and sniffing them while I turned on the massager again. That smell. God, that smell. For me, a kid's life is mostly an olfactory assault. Stinky socks and farts and the weird chemical smell of a swimming pool and the coppery tang of blood when you scrape your knee and the acrid sting of bug spray and the cloying smell of those plug-in things that old people think make their bathrooms smell good. It was an endless battery of bad, and at best neutral smells. So this smell. This "third smell," which I could only describe later as an olfactory memory of a place I'd never actually been to - it was a new and powerful kind of data. I could feel it, you know? Like the smell itself was an object. Something with volume and texture that was being introduced into my nose and then diffused into my brain. It felt physically good, like eating something delicious, and I just could not get over how it felt to keep it there on my mental palate, working it over and over with my mental tongue, savoring it.
I closed my eyes and there she was in my head. Claire. My little sister. I thought about her standing there, her body convulsing with pleasure. I thought about her bent over on all fours, her bare bottom in the air. I thought about the way her toes curled, the way her knuckles turned white, the way her face twisted in that mix of pain and pleasure. How she'd lifted up her shirt, spread her little lips - dropped one, spread it again - and then ... invited me to touch.
"Ohhhgosh," I stammered as an orgasm I had not remotely expected took my breath away. I didn't even need to move the wand or apply pressure. The buzzing against my boner was more than enough. I came so hard I saw stars. I couldn't believe it, except that it was happening. And it didn't just do that thing most orgasms do where they sort of toss you up in the air and then let you fall back down however. This one sent me soaring like I was a perfectly folded paper plane. My toes curled. My body curled. My thoughts curled. And at the center of all of this were my sister's dirty panties, stinking up my brain - probably literally stinking up my nose - and it wasn't until however many seconds had elapsed that I finally, grimly, sullenly, realized what I was doing. What I was clutching to my face. What I was becoming.
I threw Claire's panties away in a cold panic. Literally, into the trash. I put the massage wand away, all the way back in its hiding spot in my desk drawer. I was going to need to charge it again, probably, but right this second my priority was complete and utter compartmentalization. I opened my bedroom door just long enough to toss Claire's shorts across the hallway into our shared bathroom, where it was not at all uncommon for bits of her discarded laundry to wind up here and there and everywhere about the floor, then closed and locked it again.
I considered unlocking it. Locking it was suspicious. But unlocking it felt dangerous. This creepiness rapidly building power inside me could not be trusted to roam my house untethered. I needed a minute to myself to recoup. I needed to figure out what the heck I had unleashed. And I needed to fish my sister's panties out of the little waste bin under my desk again so I could have one more quick sniff of that mind-emptying, heart-filling musk she had imbued them with. This fucking SMELL. My SISTER created this? It was just THERE, all the TIME, between her LEGS?
I caught myself in the mirror, looking like I was about to blow my nose into a pair of little girl's panties. The self-to-self eye contact helped. I lowered the garment from my nostrils. I took one long clean whiff of nothing-flavored air. That was good. That was wholesome. I stood, went to my door, and lobbed the panties across the hall into the bathroom. There. Out of sight, out of nose.
But then I caught that whiff again, and realized if I curled my upper lip toward my nostrils - making, yes, a truly silly face - I could still smell her on me. Well, shoot. I got the massage wand back out. I had another quick go of it. I soared like a paper plane. And this time when I landed my poor penis was so tingly and sore I knew I was probably going to have stop for the day. And STILL the odor of her lingered on my lip. I could have gone and washed it off, but I didn't.
Instead, I opened my sketchbook back up. I stared vacantly at the drawing I'd nearly completed earlier. It felt like someone else drew it. I had no interest in completing someone else's work. I turned to the next blank page. I visualized what I intended to draw. I think I could probably bang out something pretty compelling if I hurried, if I got it down while it was still fresh. I scanned through my colored pencil set and found Mahogany. I gently touched it to the page at a spot in my mind's eye that corresponded roughly to where my sister's knee might fall within the frame of the sketchpad. I traced up her inner thigh, then ended the line there. Back to the other side of her knee, and this time the line traveled up past her hip, to where it disappeared under her oversized shirt.
I put Mahogany down and got out Cerulean. I drew the parabolic rumples of her hiked-up shirt, how they arced toward the hand holding them, then fell back down to either hip. I grabbed Mahogany again and drew her hand as best I could remember it, holding up the shirt. I was used to drawing hands that looked like my hands. But Claire's hands were daintier than mine, prettier by an order of magnitude, and so I was frustrated with how clunky and inaccurate my version of this one was. But it only needed to hold up the shirt, and was not the focus of the illustration, so I let it go. I drew her other leg. I drew her other arm, the one that was reaching down across her hip and between her thighs. I found the approximate spot to insert her belly button.
And then, finally, there was just the task of drawing her other hand's fingers, and the vulva they were holding open to inspection.
I drew another disappointingly masculine little hand. But then I had to stop there. Not only was I feeling a little demoralized by the discrepancies between what was in my head and what was on the page, but I could not for the life of me begin to figure out how to draw my sister's little brown vagina with the shimmery pink middle. I couldn't even put a single line on the page. Mahogany was not the right color, but Sepia was too dark, and don't even get me started on how non-applicable the various available pinks all felt.
Alas, these were colored pencils, which demanded unerasable confidence. I needed confidence. But how on earth was I going to get it? Like, what, should I just go ask my sister if she can lift up her shirt again? Let me hold up a handful of different colored pencils to her crotch so I could see which browns and reds and pinks color-matched the best? It was one thing to show her how to use the massage wand. That was just dumb, naughty fun. This was veering past naughty into taboo. Something was wrong with me.
Shit. Something was WRONG with me. I looked at my reflection, and sure enough, I looked newly, hideously, and quite possibly irrevocably: creepy.
I liked to torture my kid sister by making her masturbate with Mom's massage wand while standing up. I had made up the rules so automatically it was like they had come to me in a dream. She wasn't allowed to bend at the knees or waist. She wasn't allowed to lean on anything. She had to stay perfectly upright, at full attention, feet shoulder-width apart, shoulders back, chin held high - and comport herself completely unphased all the way to climax. I didn't make her take her clothes off or anything (she could do that on her own). I told myself I wasn't trying to humiliate her or whatever. I told myself I’d never take pictures or videos, or tell anybody about what we were doing. It was just weird, naughty fun - like we were definitely breaking some rule or another, but neither of us was getting hurt, and both of us trusted the other not to tattle. She could pretend to hate it, but I knew she’d never decline the wager. It was a good game for us. A friendly competition that brought us together and, if anything, kind of helped us get over the weirdness of having different body parts.
I tried to convey all of this to my reflection with a long, worried look on my face. But he didn’t seem to know what to make of it, either.