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Deanna’s painting her nails.

Sam looks back and forth from his bio textbook to his sister’s feet, propped up on the coffee table, marshmallows between her painted toes.

“You going out tonight?” John asks from behind them in the kitchenette, where he’s drinking a beer and searching through a stack of newspapers.

“Yes sir,” Dee says. “Gonna go shoot some pool.”

“Good,” John says. “Sam could use some new shoes.”

Dee bumps his shoulder with hers, grinning. Baby needs a new pair of shoes, thinks Sam, and he can see Dee’s dark-nailed hands curling around dice, casting them onto green felt. Baby needs a new pair of shoes. He knows it’s not dice, but pool instead, her making eyes at her mark before nailing the shot. The cue sliding between her hands, short nails tipped with red polish so dark it’s almost black.

He watches her paint her pinkie nail, observes the color and the way it complements the bruised, scraped knuckles of her first two fingers. He wants to tell her it looks pretty. He feels kind of sick to his stomach, like he always does on the rare occasions when Dee gets dolled up to go out.

“Shit,” she says, and he looks own to see a splotch of dark red on the side of her knee, just beyond the fringe of her cut-offs. She rubs at it, smearing it around, and “Shit,” she says again.

“Here,” Sam says. There’s polish remover on the table next to his stack of books, and cotton balls and q-tips, because for all that Dee’s the best shot he’s ever seen, and better than Dad with a knife, she’s pretty smeary with polish and always has to redo a few.

With a soaked cotton ball he rubs at her leg, little bits of cotton pulling at her bristly leg hair. Another wet cotton ball does the trick, and he feels a little woozy when she holds out her hand, palm up, and he cups it carefully and swipes the bottoms of her fingers clean.

He has to stop paying attention to her after that, picking up where he’d left off in his book.

Mitochondria’s pretty interesting. Most of this stuff is. Better than physics.

Something soft whomps him on the head.

“Hey!” he complains, all whiney and he wishes he could take it back. Dee throws another toe-marshmallow at him, and “Gross!” he says, laughing. He pelts it back at her, and she gets off a few more rapid-fires before she’s up and jogging to the bathroom.

When he’s done with his homework he closes the book and sinks back into the couch. It’s Friday evening, and he’s already cleared up the rest of his weekend.

“Clean that stuff up,” John says, walking past him to the door. Sam frowns, and John frowns back. “I’m going out,” he says, and he’s gone.

It’s not like he really minds. Once he’s dumped the used cotton balls and marshmallows in the trash and put the rest of Dee’s stuff up in the empty, steamy bathroom, he heads to the bedroom to see if he’s still got a few comic books in his duffle.

Dee’s got on these battered, knee-high motorcycle boots and her legs are shiny, smooth. She’s wearing something black, but she’s bent over to dig through a pile of clothes and it’s bunched up at her hips and hanging down, barely covering the swell of her ass, and her pussy is naked and shaved bare, and it looks soft and round like a peach, and Sam’s popping a boner that already aches in his jeans.

When Deanna stands up holding a leather jacket, she gives a start, and her face reddens as her dress slips back down her body. Her mouth is hanging open, full lips glistening red with lipstick, and Sam knows his is too. She looks, Jesus, she looks... her hair is mussed like she just fell out of bed, but sexier, and her eyes look green, green outlined with dark smudgey makeup. He tries not to look below her neck, tries not to remember the soft pink of her cunt, the darker pink of her delicate-looking labia, just barely peeking out. Shy. Dee closes her mouth, composing herself, and Sam think’s he’ll die if he comes in his pants.

The smirk she levels at him does not help at all. “You getting hard for me, little brother?” she asks, and he reflexively covers himself. He’s close enough to one of the twin beds that he can take a step back and drop down on it. His face is burning, eyes watering in his mortification.

“Tell you what,” she says, nudging one of his legs open with her boot, and he looks up and she’s wearing a plainly pretty black dress, but oh, oh god she’s not wearing a bra. Her breasts sway gently as she nudges his other leg open. Her nipples are standing out hard, the dress clinging so intimately to the soft curves of her tits that she might as well be going naked. He grunts, can’t help it, and he feels vulnerable and freaked out with his legs spread, covering his boner and looking up at his sister.

“If you wanna jerk off after I leave, go ahead.” She cocks her head to the side, arrogant, like I'm hot. Of course you want to. “But if you can keep from coming, I’ll let you watch me undress when I get home.” She taps him on the nose with her pointer finger.

He huffs out a breath, irritated despite everything. This is another stupid game to her, Dee teasing her little brother. It’s a prank, it’s a game of chicken, just... upped uncomfortably to include sex. He sets his jaw.

“I’ll know if you came,” she says, her husky voice serious as she swings the leather jacket on. “I always do.”

With that she walks out, her hips swaying like they almost never do, and he grunts and falls over on his side, cupping his crotch and gritting his teeth.

It's a long night. He keeps thinking about her, about how tough she looks in her leather jacket and boots, and how she's practically naked in that dress. How distracting it'll be to watch her in it. And about how often she uses pool-hustling nights as a chance to get laid. Like if she likes some guy, she might bend over a little too far, give him a peek, give him wood like she gave Sam, then take him into the car and fuck him.

Because he can’t help it, he's groaning and humping against his musty-smelling bed by eleven. It's like he just can't stop. He's always had a good imagination and it's killing him now, and who is he kidding? He can never stop thinking about Dee, not since he was thirteen years old and he had to stop climbing in bed with her because he loved her so much and because the way she smelled and felt gave him night-long hard-ons.

He can see her. Green eyes gleaming in the low light, freckles sprayed across her nose and cheekbones. She’s got her tongue tucked into the corner of her mouth and her arm at an awkward angle like she does when she’s reeling them in, like she’s just some girl who’s won against her boyfriend enough times to feel cocky. She’s up on the toes of her boots, the hem of her skirt swishing against her upper thighs.

Dee’s jacket is off. Must be. She’s got it thrown over a nearby stool, and the light from the covered lamp over the table glows on her bare arms, and when she stands it catches her chest, turning her dress momentarily translucent. Her tits. Sam hasn’t seen them straight on for a few years now, but she doesn’t care for bras, so the shape of them is clear in Sam’s mind. On the small side and plump, maybe enough to fill Sam’s already big hands. Nipples a little puffy, the tips round fingertip-sized bumps, even when they’re soft. Just watching her walk around kills him sometimes, sends him to the bathroom to shoot his load into a handful of toilet paper.

He freezes.

I always know, she’d said, or something like it. The smell, so familiar to him he barely notices it anymore, but must be unmistakable to anyone who steps into the bathroom after him. She’s been smelling his spunk for years, in the bathroom, in the back seat when he furtively rubs one out under old blankets, in the middle of the night when they share a room and Sam tries so hard to keep the bed from squeaking he sometimes gets charlie horses. Those times, he might as well have just shoved the blankets down and let himself enjoy it, and suddenly he’s shaking so hard he has to squeeze down on his dick to keep himself under control.

The thought of beating off where Deanna could see him just about bends him in half, and he digs his teeth down on his lip thinking about it. He’s on his back now, and he shoves his jeans and undies down over his bony hips. His cock is dark pink and damp and it sways in the air, and he rubs his fingers down the top side of it, then gives his balls a tug.

He lets himself imagine it for only a few seconds. Deanna lifting her dress over her head, her naked body. Watching her with his cock in his hand, her watching him beat off, and fuck. He has to stop, or he’s gonna come all over himself, and he’s not sure if she was just messing with him or--

If she meant it.

As he digs a pair of sleep shorts out of his duffle, he feels a little sick. She’s his sister. His sister that he’s longed for and lusted over for years, his sister that he’s been in love with for even longer. She’s been like his mother, growing up; all the school lunches, school plays and dinners, all the times she took his fever and brought him cups of Sprite and soup, and the way she held him at night, her arms looped around him so gentle. She used to sing him to sleep. She probably took care of him better than most mothers did their sons, and he's twice as sick for wanting her because of it.

The front door squeaks open and he freezes, blood rushing in his ears. Then he recognizes the heavy, uneven tread of his dad coming home drunk, and for once, that’s a relief. He changes into his sleep clothes, and to keep busy he starts digging through the laundry strewn over the floor. Once he has them sorted into “clean enough” and “need to wash” piles against the wall, he gives John the customary check-up.

Peeking out the bedroom door, Sam sees that he isn’t in the kitchen or living room. Sam cat-foots out of his room and pauses at the bathroom, listening. Around the corner he finds John’s boots leaning against the wall beside his open bedroom door, and in the gloom he can make out his dad lying on the bed, with half his face and one arm dangling over the side. Pretty much the best outcome.

Back in his room he sighs and flips the light out. He peels his shirt off and climbs under his covers.


He doesn’t know how long he’s been drowsing, but at the sound of the door opening again he’s wide awake, heart beating rabbit-fast. As long as he’s thought about it, it’s impossible to decide what he wants, impossible to predict what Dee will do. Is she going to call his bluff and laugh at him? Does she want to undress for him? Does he want her to, to take that fork in the road that made his gut twist nauseating and hot? Her steps are much more even than Dad’s had been--never too drunk to shoot straight--and he senses her leaning against the doorway to the bedroom. Her jacket creaks as she pushes away, and her boots scrape on the cleared floor. The squeak of her bedsprings is loud as the slam of a door.

She sits still and he lies still, and in the silence a jagged snore from John’s bedroom rips through the walls.

Deanna laughs.

“Sammy Sam Sammy,” she says softly, sing-song. “Were you a good boy?”

Sam shifts in his bed, turning over onto his back. He can make out her outline, her messy hair and the bulk of the jacket. He doesn't say anything. His breathing is loud and ragged.

The silence stretches long; long enough that she’s calling it off by saying, in a softer voice, “You’re a good kid, Sam.”

“I didn’t,” Sam blurts, knowing what he wants as soon as she's about to take it away from him. “I didn’t come.”

Immediately the air is heavy, pressing down on him. He can hear her breathing now, the leather creaking with her. He can smell her, beer and cigarette smoke and someone else’s cologne, and sex, and his dick fattens up in his shorts.

“You... you jerk off?”

Sam shudders. “Yeah. But I stopped in time.”

“Good boy,” she says, drawling it out, and he’s a squirming mess of feelings. He swallows hard and clenches his eyes closed, lets his feelings writhe together like snakes in him, and unsurprisingly, desire rises up to the top. He lets out a sharp breath, just short of a moan.

“You wanna watch me undress?” she asks, voice lower and whiskey-rough.

“Yeah,” he whispers, whole body clenching tight.

His breath is loud through his mouth as she stands and walks to the light switch, quieter now. They’ve just had a very explicit reminder of how thin the walls are in this place. John, though passed out now, has a survivor’s instinct, sometimes waking from blackout if one of them has a bad dream.

The lights flick on and Deanna’s holding a finger to her mouth, shhh, her pink lips pursed against it. This is silent, this is a secret. Sam closes his eyes for a second, then looks at her.

She stands in the space he’s cleared for her, the clean wood floor under the one bare bulb of the room. Her eyes are in shadow, and the curve of shoulder and mouth is vulnerable, he thinks, terrified, and then she tilts her head and that small realignment makes everything right again and she’s bold and dauntless Dee, with her booted feet planted at shoulder width and her hair swooping up off of her smooth forehead.

The way she slides three knives free of the jacket and places them on their shared bedside table is the perfect beginning for this, he thinks, watching them flash in her hands. He’s panting when the leather clears her freckled shoulders and the light falls on the slopes of her breasts.

They swell and tremble as she takes a breath. “You can jack off,” she whispers. “I don’t mind. I... “ She slips her jacket lower down her arms, lets it catch around her elbows. Her neck is long, arms are trapped, nipples harder than earlier, swollen and pressing insistently against her dress front. Another deep breath, and it feels like his cock is swelling with her chest. “I kinda want you to,” she says, and he moans, scrambling up onto his elbows.

“Hush, Sammy,” she says with a crooked grin. “You wanna wake up Dad?”

He swings his head back and forth as he gingerly props himself up against the wall.

She slips free of the jacket and lays it on her mattress.

“If... you do jerk it,” she says, tugging her skirt up her thighs. The tease is back in her voice, and it wrings his insides tight as he curves his thumbs into the waistband of his shorts. “I still think you shouldn’t come, watching your sister get undressed.”

Fuck, fuck. He closes his eyes, mouth dry and sour, cock harder than ever.

“So you jerk off but you don’t come.” The swish of fabric draws his eyes back open. Her skirt is at her upper thigh, the hem fluttering just over her pussy. “If you can do that, you can watch me get off.”

His breath is punched out of him, and he sucks it back in as she turns around, dropping her skirt back where it goes. “Up to you, baby boy,” she says.

She leans over to unlace a boot, and her skirt slides up to mid-ass, and when the light hits her bare pussy it’s flushed. It’s... it’s swollen, the shy little cotton candy pink lips of earlier blooming open, now the dark, sultry color of her mouth after she’s come home from a date.

He’s shoving his shorts down and squeezing his cock, catching a quick spurt of precome so he can use it to wet himself up. He can’t stop staring at her pussy, swollen and used and lips spreading and moving when she shifts to unlace her other boot.

When she’s out of her boots she turns to face him, and her eyes slide down until they come to rest on his hand moving on his dick. “You like this, don’t you,” she asks with a crooked smile.

He nods silently, caught by her dark-rimmed green eyes. Her lips are swollen too, all the lipstick gone, just the bare, perfect dark pink color of them left.

“You want me to keep going?” Dee asks, reaching down for the hem of her dress. The movement presses her breasts together, nipples pushing out against the fabric.

“Y-yeah, please,” Sam whispers, and it feels so filthy and so good to admit it to her after all these years. If she takes her dress off, it’s not playing chicken any more, it’s more than that. If she takes her dress off, it’s her choice that he sees her, just like it’s his choice that he let her know how much he wants to.

He bites down on his lip when she begins inching the skirt up, showing him the swell of her strong thighs, the vulnerable folds of her pussy lips, the neatly trimmed triangle of pubic hair. He sucks in a breath, and the hem is rising, baring the smooth curve of her belly and the undersides of her breasts.

“Keep going?” she whispers, squeezing her breasts through the bunched fabric so that the bared undersides of them swell, sweet and full.

He holds back a whimper. “Please, Dee.”

When the dress slides up to bare his sister's pink nipples, Sam bits down hard on his lip. Her breasts are perfect, round and pale and freckled, the areola a delicate pink and the nipples the color of her lips. His cock twitches, and he has to slow the movement of his hand nearly to a stop. He sucks in air in harsh pants.

The dress musses her hair in its pass over her head, and finally she’s standing nude, all her curves and pale skin and secret places on display. Her shoulders are squared defiantly, and as naked as she is, Sam feels even more exposed, pulling slowly on his slippery-wet cock.

“Good boy,” she drawls in a whisper. “So hard for me.”

He does whimper this time, a soft, high sound.

“You want to watch me, don’t you. Watch me get myself off,” she says.

He nods, squeezing his eyes closed. He’s almost on overload, it’s just too much, his big sister naked for him, watching him touch himself.

“Watch,” she says, and she lowers herself onto her bed, facing him. She slides across the sheets until her back is against the wall, then draws her knees up and spreads her legs, painted toes curling on the sheets, showing him the center of her. She’s wet, Jesus, he can see her swollen pussy lips gleaming with wet and that means she’s turned on, turned on by him watching her, getting off to her.

He has to pull his hand away from his cock.

She slips her hand down to cover her sex, then presses her middle finger inside herself. She draws it out and it’s wet, her slick glistening on her short, dark nail.

“Watch,” she says again, parting her fingers to spread herself open to him, her pink inner lips glistening with her juices.

Sam keens softly, clutching hard at the base of his dick to keep from coming.

“You close, Sammy?” Dee asks quietly, her eyes heavy-lidded and dark and glittering. “Don’t you come, or this will stop.”

This gives Sam a short pause in which to catch his breath, and he watches in awe as Dee slides her fingers up, slipping the hood of her clit back to expose her swollen pink bud, then massaging it, her head rolling to the side.

If he comes, this will stop. He begins stroking himself slowly again, eyes roaming her whole body, and he hopes against hope that if he doesn’t come, this will continue. More of these furtive, dirty late nights, more of Dee’s body, more of her voice telling him what to do.

“I’m close too, Sammy,” she says, giving him a crooked grin. She slides two fingers into herself, bites her lip, and says, “I took a boy out to the car and let him fuck me. But I didn’t let him make me come. I saved that for you.”

Oh,” Sam moans. She was thinking about him while she was fucking someone else, and that in itself is almost enough to make him blow it. He reaches under his dick to pull on his tight balls as he watches her finger herself, can’t help but imagine her in the back seat of the car, straddling some stranger, his cock stretching her open wider than her fingers could.

Can’t help but imagine his own cock there, diving into the pink, hot wetness of her.

His dick twitches, jerking without a hand on it, and he’s desperate. “Dee, I think I’m gonna--”

“No you’re not,” she whispers. "Don't touch yourself. Just watch.”

Slumping against the wall, Dee brings her free hand up to her chest, squeezing on breast and then the other, and Sam licks his lips as he watches her pinch and then pull on her hard nipple, her lips falling open.

His dick is hard and aching and freely leaking precum, and he needs to come like he's never needed to in his life, but in that moment, all he wants to do it touch her. His hands ache to touch her skin, to feel the softness of her breasts, the hardness of her nipples, to slip inside and feel the hot slick of her. He can smell her, a smell he’d never recognized for exactly what it was, sex and arousal and hot, wet cunt.

He groans softly. Her fingers are flicking back and forth over her clit, her wet pussy lips sliding together, and she's pulling harder on her nipple. Her head's thrown back and her face is soft and open, all challenge gone. She meets Sam's eyes and he aches for her, hopelessly mired in love and lust and worship.

She's beautiful when she comes. Her mouth is open, eyes narrowed to slits, color high in her cheeks and across the slopes of her breasts. Her toes curl in the sheets and she cries out softly, shaking, and he cries out with her, hopeless against it.

A hush falls over the room then. It's punctuated only by their heavy breathing and the sounds of the old house settling around them. Dee lifts her lids to stare at him and her eyes are hazy and dark, and after a tense few seconds of eye contact, during which Sam is shaking with embarrassment and shame, she finally smiles.

"Good boy," she says once more, but this time, it's almost playful. Sam feels a flush of dread steal through him.

"You're so good," she says then, voice softer with affection, and that makes him relax against the wall, makes his fists unclench, makes him want to climb into bed with her and let her wrap her arms around him.

Thank you, he wants to say. I love you, he wants to say, but all he can do is breathe and follow her with his eyes as she climbs to her feet and goes to pick through the "clean enough" pile. She finds an old, oversized band t-shirt and tugs it on.

"Night, Sammy," she says, as if none of this had happened.

She flicks off the light and he can hear fabric rustling as she beds down. He does the same, pulling his underwear back up and trying to ignore the way they rub against his uncomfortable erection.

He's finally got his racing heart under control when she says into the darkness, "Maybe if you're this good tomorrow, I'll let you get off."

Sam makes a soft, helpless sound in his throat and in the gloom he watches her turn onto her side, her back to him. Sleep takes hours to come.


the end