Loyalty

My parents had changed. I really felt like I had battered down the doors and they were never rebuilt for my little brother. While I had rules and regulations, my brother had negligence and solitude. Now, I’m not saying that either is better or worse than the other, I’m just saying it is what it is.

Yup. I broke down the doors.

I had the screaming fights for my independence. I fought the peasant rebellion against our parental lords. I wore them down until we met some form of neutral, war-worn status quo, and when I could, I left; to start my own life.

My life?

Worked. Paid for college. Did well. Got a job. Lived alone.

I got through the hard times and the late nights. I inspired myself and carried my own weight, and never once stepped out of line. I couldn’t afford to.

So there I was, moderately happy, fully independent, well-educated and mature. I dressed well, kept myself healthy and fit, read books and voted, kept a circle of companions and even went on a date or two.

But I was missing something. I had a hole inside me. Terribly cliché.

My brother had it different. By the time I had left, our parents were aloof and placated. Dad was into miniature trains. Mom was into marijuana. Neither of them were ‘there’ anymore.

So one day I get a call. My brother was going to go to college in my town. If my parents had asked me to host him, I’d have said no. But it wasn’t. On the other line, my brother was sheepishly asking me if he could stay, “just until I find my own place.”

I took a road-trip back to our old home to pick him up. My parents and I had barely spoken since I’d left, but we didn’t have anything to say. My brother had his things and soon we were on our way.

Even though I felt like he had it easier than I did, I didn’t blame him. It wasn’t his fault. Just like my own life hadn’t been mine.

As we drove I realized just how alienated from my family I had become. We talked, but I felt bad that my little brother had been alone for the most part, even if he hadn’t had to fight our parents like I had. I didn’t know him very well at this point. Now he was an adult, off to college, and I felt like I had missed out on being his big sister.

But I learned.

And I learned quickly.

I learned how shy he was, how weak-willed he was, how quiet and nervous he was; I saw it with every mannerism and every thing he said, more-over, the things I had to pry out of his mouth in conversation.

And I felt bad for him. Pity. Through my struggled upbringing I had picked up confidence, but through none of his own he had picked up the opposite.

We got home. I showed him to his new little room. We got pizza and then I left him be, and I prepped myself for bed and looked into the mirror.

I know what I wanted.

I had something to fill the hole in my life.

I wanted to be a good big sister. I wanted to be there for my little brother now.

A little rush of excitement spiked the drink of my thoughts.

I wanted to care for him, to give him my attention. I wanted to give him what I always wished I had. I wanted to be something good in his life. I wanted all that and even more.

It felt so good to make him breakfast.

It felt so good to see him eat.

It felt so good to watch him blush and shy away when he saw me eyeing him with a big, genuine, sisterly smile.

He went to the bathroom to take a shower. I almost sprinted to my room. Fulfillment I never had burst through my body and got me all confused. I kneaded my own breasts and held back my shaken moan. It felt so hot. I guess I got my wires crossed. My face flushed up, my muscles tightened, and my breathing felt electric. I clutched onto the side of my desk and tried to get a handle on myself, but there was no way I could.

This was what I had always wanted. But something was wrong.

I was fetishizing it.

My whole life changed.

I would wake up in the morning and get dressed up, an erotic thrill running through me; ‘dressing up pretty’ for my brother. I let him sleep in and waited with an ear to the hallway, making sure that I’d start cooking breakfast just at the right time for him to come down. Spoiling him stupid was making my heart jump. He’d come down and see it… and me… and his face would go red and his voice would go all shaky.

I ate it all up. I swear it was like a drug.

I did everything I could to tease and spoil him, to get him just as confused and twisted up inside as I was, through a bent lens that warped us both.

I wanted to be inescapable.

Every night I clutched my bedsheets and breasts, and I writhed. My mind would spin in lucid mantras. “Loyal to him. Spoil him. Mother him. Sister him. Worship him. Love him. Confuse him. Tease him. Please him silly!”

Fuck.

I burned.

My choices changed.

I didn’t read the same literature I used to. I consumed more erotica, and peeked at more pornography. Thoughts of corruption licked the back of my brain.

Subtle encouragement is how it started. Making sure my brother could look down the front of my top as I presented his dinner to him. I talked to him… like a fancy air-hostess on a private plane. I told him it was okay to skip a lecture to stay home if he didn’t feel like he was up to it, hoping he’d spend the day fucking his own hand and looking through my Instagram.

And he was slipping.

Slipping down a terribly naughty rabbit hole.

And I was at the bottom of it.

Everything was slowly falling into place. A month after he had moved in, I found a pair of my panties splattered in cum.

I put on my lightest, softest, coziest voice, and took up the most heavenly and motherly demeanor I could possibly craft. We sat on his bed together, and I confronted him about my cum-ruined panties. He almost died from embarrassment.

But I told him it was okay. I told him it was okay to masturbate with my underwear. As much as he wanted. As much as he needed. Sister-panties for his throbbing penis. I could have drowned in the taboo of it all.

At night I twitched. I was high on my own life and what I was doing to my brother. I barely had to touch myself. I just laid there and ached; my body loyal to incest.

One day I came home and my brother was crying. He was getting kicked out of college for lack of attendance. His life was coming down around him. He was distraught.

My heart started pounding. My mind kicked into 10th gear. He couldn’t cry… if he was cumming…

…right?

He looked like he was choking when I tugged his cock up and down. Both of us had our mouths open. Sister-hand on Brother-penis. Up and down, and up… and down… He was so extremely stiff, cheeks still teared up a little and face tomato red. The intensity of the experience was fucking us both up. It was everything. Emotional. Distraught. Erotic. Taboo…

I moaned like I was being fucked as I watch my brother cum.

And with all that sticky mess, I just kept going.

I started to talk to him.

“It’s… okay. Don’t worry… about Uni… just cum… Let me… let sister… take care of you.”

I was jerking off my brother with his cum acting as a messy lubricant. In a way, I think I was destroying both of our lives with that act. He’d never be the same again. He’d only want this, and he’d only want me.

A sticky, fucked-up handjob. At right the wrong time. Brain chemicals getting us all messed up inside but also making us addicted with every little kick.

I must have made him cum four times in that brief, fleeting little moment. It was kind of hard to tell, it was such a fucking mess, and we were both spinning in our heads.

I was able to let him go, and I just left him there… near-broken.

I went back to my room, almost stumbling, and just stood there, wiping my hands on my clothes in disbelief.

It was like heroin. My whole body was ignited. My whole body was cumming.

Over the next few days my brother barely left his room. I did my things, the whole time I spoke to myself in my own mind. “Jerked out his cum. Ruined his life. Now he needs me. Now I’m all he’s got. Jerked out his stickies. Sister-sex. Incest-cum. Loyal to my brother.”

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