Chapter Text
Bryer Park was the definition of a gentrified park. It was a wide space along a little creek, surrounded by suburbia. A clump of trees grew up on the slight hill, while the level area had been cleared and given over to grass and bushes. A little pathway had been paved through the park, and there was a small area set aside for picnics and barbecues.
That was what had brought Aston and his family down to Bryer Park on that summer day. It was the perfect place for them to host both branches of their diverse family.
Uncle Stefan, the brother of Aston’s mom, was standing by one of the barbecues, focusing on nothing else but the slabs of meat which were sizzling on the grill. These were being prepared by Aston’s paternal uncle, Hakim, who had marinated the chicken in signature Bengali spice blends. Nearby, their wives - Aunt Kendra and Maryam Chachi - were chatting it up with Aston’s mom by the picnic tables.
Meanwhile, the older cousins were in the grip of an intense football game. The younger kids were either watching and cheering, or making use of the playground nearby.
Meanwhile, Aston sat to the side. Even if his cousins had invited him to join them - and they hadn’t - he would have refused anyway. He’d quickly decided that sports weren’t for him when the other boys in gym class made him their punching-bag for the last four years of elementary school and his first two years of high school. It had been joke after joke at his expense, giving him zero room for error, mocking him incessantly whenever he failed. That mockery had carried on beyond gym class into recesses and in the hallways between classes.
The worst of his bullies was named John Nashby. Even though he was almost half a year younger than Aston, John was far taller and fitter. He and his friends had made Aston’s life hell; they could make anything look like an accident, whether it was knocking things out of Aston’s hands, staining his shirt with drinks in the cafeteria, tripping his feet in the hallway… it didn’t help that his father was a visible minority running for mayor as a progressive and his mother was an outspoken feminist author and a Women’s Studies professor at the university. Especially given that John’s uncle was the chief of police and his mother was the fiery head of the PTA which fought against everything that Aston’s parents stood for.
‘Stop it,’ Aston reminded himself. It was the start of summer, and he had two whole months without having to deal with John or his cronies. He was sixteen now, too, with only two years of high school left to go.
“Aston?”
Aston turned. “Yeah, Baba?”
His father was walking over to him, casually holding a water bottle in his hand. Arsalan Khan was a short, slender man with dark brown skin and greying black hair. He was easy-going, soft-spoken, intellectual, and highly cultured. Even in a t-shirt and shorts, there was an elegant dignity to him.
“Are you having fun?” He asked encouragingly.
“Sure,” Aston answered with a shrug. “I didn’t feel like playing soccer.” His whole family might call it ‘football’ but he still called it what it was on this continent.
“Well, maybe we can organize a game for later,” Arsalan suggested.
“Maybe,” Aston answered, privately knowing the truth; unless the game involved a computer, Aston was no good at it, nor did he want to be.
“Aston!”
Now it was his mother calling his name. Aston sighed and turned to face her as she approached. “Yes, Mom?”
Belinda Hoffman and her family had emigrated from Austria, and she still retained a trace of the accent. She had been an artist for years, though her studies had eventually taken precedence. Now she was an accomplished academic, with several papers to her name, as well as a number of books, fictional and non-fictional.
Of course, that’s not what most people noticed about her; even at 53 years old, she was one of the most stunningly beautiful women that Aston had ever seen. She was an exceptionally tall woman, just under six feet, with pale skin that was covered in freckles. Her curly dark-brown hair, streaked with a few silver strands, was cut in a bob hairstyle. She sported a very prominent bust, thick thighs, and a belly that protruded outward.
Nobody would have guessed that they were related. Aston and his older sister took far more after their Bengali father’s side than their Austrian mother’s. And now that he was sixteen, Aston felt especially self-conscious at still not being as tall as his own mother. He certainly didn’t know any other guy who had to deal with that.
“Did you remember to bring the fireworks?” Belinda asked as she stood in front of him.
“No, mom,” Aston admitted. He was feeling awkward again, not because he’d been called out - that was normal for his outspoken and authoritative mother - but because of his shorter height, his eyeline was matched perfectly with her considerable cleavage.
It had always been mortifying to see his classmates and even his few friends ogle his mother’s tits, especially because it had made him hyper-aware of them ever since. The sundress she was wearing now had a plunging neckline which Aston was certain had caught everyone’s attention, especially his Bengali uncles. Belinda was an outspoken feminist, and had proudly led the Slutwalk on her university campus for several years now, which certainly hadn’t helped Aston’s reputation at school. Aston, meanwhile, wished his mom wouldn’t have dressed so sluttily, but another part couldn’t help but appreciate the view. That made him feel even worse.
“I’ll get them later,” he answered, looking away from his mom’s freckled boobs.
“You always say that!” Belinda insisted, shaking her head. “Get it done now!”
“While you’re back at the house,” Arsalan told him, “go check on your sister. See if she’s feeling better.”
Aston nodded absent-mindedly. Hadia had been throwing up earlier that morning, sobbing up a storm that she felt sick. So she was staying back at their house while the families went down to the park.
“Sure, baba,” Aston called as he ambled up the grassy slope towards the parking lot. It was a twenty-minute walk back to the house, and he was relieved to spend as much time away from the others as possible.
Of course Hadia had to be the lucky one, he thought as he left the cars behind him. Hadia had always been the lucky one, the shining sibling, the one with so much promise.
Two years older than Aston, Hadia had been the golden child. She had always been an A-student, she had won awards for art, she had run for student council president and won. She had also graduated as the school valedictorian, and she was going to their mom’s university.
It was so galling, even now. It sometimes felt like she was perfect to spite him, so that he would look all the worse in their parents’ eyes. As if he wasn’t already the weirdo who spent too much time on the internet, who never seemed to have friends. But of course it was all his fault, right? He was the one who wasn’t opening himself up, who was always wasting his time on computer games, who was incurious about ideas and art and history and all that bullshit. Aston ground his teeth as he relived these angry emotions.
The sun was at its strongest now, and he felt his neck get slick with sweat. He took out his phone to distract himself, and became so absorbed that he walked right past his house. Luckily, he only passed three houses before he took notice.
In case Hadia was sleeping, Aston opened the door as slowly and quietly as he could. He sighed with relief as he entered the air-conditioned hallway.
Glancing into the living room, Aston saw the fireworks in a pile beside one of the couches. He was about to go and grab them when he noticed the faint sound coming from upstairs. It seemed as if Hadia was crying.
Aston gazed at the nearby staircase, where the sound was wafting down. He was in no mood to have to comfort Hadia, but he was still very curious. What did his perfect older sister have to cry about?
As he got closer to the stairs, he could hear the sounds much more clearly, and he realized with a jolt that Hadia wasn’t crying. She was moaning and whimpering a single word over and over again.
“Allah… Allah… Allah…”
“What the fuck,” Aston whispered. He felt his heart start to race in his chest; he recognized that tone of voice now. It was possibly his most shameful secret, but he had overheard his sister masturbating more than once, by accident at first, then by design.
It was wrong, he knew that. But there was something undeniably hot about his older sister, just like there was with his mother. The taboo element had always aroused him, and inspired many a masturbation session of his own. Even as he listened to his sister moaning, Aston felt his cock growing very stiff. Unzipping his fly, Aston slowly went up the carpeted stairs.
As he ascended, Aston also started hearing the springs of a bed squeaking loudly. ‘Holy shit,’ he thought, ‘she’s really into it this time.’ He unbuttoned his pants and wrapped one hand around his shaft, bracing himself to start tugging.
Then, he stopped mid-step, and it took all his efforts not to gasp in shock. Because someone else had spoken.
“That’s it, keep going!” This was followed by the sound of a hand slapping against bare skin, and Hadia squealing in response.
Aston thought he might faint. He hadn’t imagined that Hadia would play hookey to hook up with someone in their empty house while the family was out for the day. That alone was enough to shake him to his core, but what truly shocked him was the fact that he knew exactly who she was fucking.
“Tell me what you are,” John called out. More slapping sounds rang out. “What are you!?”
“I’m your slut,” Hadia whimpered, gasping with effort. “I’m your half-breed slut!”
Aston slowly moved up the stairs, his hand still wrapped around his exposed cock. He was shaking, both from the effort of not making a sound, and from containing all the emotions which raged inside of him.
Hadia was no wallflower; she’d had her share of boyfriends and dates. But she had always been so assertive and headstrong. She’d never taken shit from anyone, especially not him. Now she was meekly calling herself a half-breed slut for John goddamn Nashby?
When his head passed up over the second floor, he saw his sister’s bedroom wide open. Her bed was at the far end of her room, against the back wall, which meant Aston could see his sister in profile. She was on her knees, sitting on top of John while he lay on his back, gazing up at her. One of his pale hands was slapping her light brown buttocks, and the other was slapping her tits as they dangled and bounced over his face.
John was also in full view. He was only as tall as Aston’s mother, at around 5’11. Nor was he particularly brawny or broad. Instead, he was utterly lean; he’d won school awards for track & field, excelling at jumps and running. He’d also played ultimate frisby and baseball.
His outdoor hobbies had left him with ruddy skin. His whole torso was tanned, in fact, as were most of his legs. The only part of him that was still fully pale was a boxer outline around his buttocks and groin area. As he examined his bully’s body, Aston didn’t fail to note just how fit he looked, how toned his muscles were, corded around his sinewy frame. His dirty blond hair was turning golden from the sumer sun, giving him the look of some illustrations Aston had seen of Apollo in Greek mythology books. With all that and an aquiline nose going for him, it was no wonder that John was rumoured to have fucked half the cheerleading team, two of them at the same time.
“Allah,” Hadia cried out as she was struck again. She raised her arms up and ran her fingers through her hair.
“Fuck your fake god,” John rasped. “Pray to me!”
“Oh yes,” Hadia gasped. “Oh yes, Daddy!”
Aston was stunned. His sister had never even called their father “Daddy” before. Not even when she was a kid. She had only ever used that term when she’d masturbated, when she’d thought she was alone. Aston, who had eavesdropped on far more of his sister’s masturbation sessions than even he liked to think about, had overheard her say “Daddy” for the first time six months before. The term had surprised and excited him. For a brief period of time, he’d wondered if his sister was nursing the same naughty thoughts which inspired his own guilty self-pleasure.
Now he watched in horror as John laughed. “You’re fucking pathetic,” he snapped. “I’m two years younger than you!”
“I know, Daddy, I know,” Hadia whimpered. There was shame in her response, Aston could hear it clear as day. But that sure didn't stop her from riding John's dick like it was a mechanical bull.
“You’re a fucking pathetic desi skank,” John snarled, spanking her brown ass harder than ever. "You hear me?!"
"Yes, Daddy!"
"Say it then, you brown bitch!"
"I'm a pathetic desi skaaaank!"
The last word dragged out as a shrill whimper left Hadia’s mouth. Her bounces became more frenzied. She grabbed her own breasts and dug her fingers into her own flesh. John grabbed both her hips and rammed his own hips upward several times.
The whimper became a scream; not of pain or humiliation, but of unfettered ecstasy. It was the confident cry of a woman who knew that nobody would hear her, and so it embodied all of her animalistic passion.
Aston didn’t even think about it. He was stroking his cock now, staring at his older sister’s orgasm playing out in real time. Her brown breasts were slapping against her torso, her black hair hair was wild and unkempt, and her body was glistening with sweat.
Eventually, her exertions stopped, and she slumped forward, gasping for air. Her firm boobs hung down, two brown ovals ending in a cone shape with thick stubby black nipples, resting on John’s face, quivering and heaving with every breath Hadia took.
John didn’t let her stay like that for long. One of his hands swung out and slapped her ass so hard that she screamed again.
“You had your fun,” John declared. “Now it’s my turn.”
“Yes Daddy,” Hadia moaned. “I know, Daddy.”
And Aston, who was standing stock-still on the staircase, his cock in hand, continued to stare in guilty fascination.