Tapes in the Attic Pt. 01 by PanWhoWrites

Tapes in the Attic Pt. 01 by PanWhoWrites

Explore the thrilling world of passion and desire in 'Tapes in the Attic Pt. 01.' This captivating adult sex story unfolds hidden secrets, steamy encounters, and unforgettable moments. Dive into a tale that will ignite your imagination and awaken your senses.<br/>

Note: All characters depicted in sexual situations are over 18.

Chapter 1

The house was weird.

My grandparents are Japanese. I mean, duh. I’m Japanese, so you could probably have worked out that yes, it’s hereditary.

But I mean, like, my grandparents *live* in Japan. They’re Japanese, whereas me and my sister are Japanese-American. And believe me, it’s very different.

Kim and I were raised here – first generation American. It means some Americans will never see us as American (I swear, some of them are still holding Pearl Harbor against us)…and *no* Japanese will ever see us as Japanese.

Like my grandparents. Don’t get me wrong, they love us…but they’ve never even left Japan. We visited them twice as kids, and both trips were completely miserable. I didn’t realize it at the time, but our accents must have made us stick out like a sore thumb. Even our cousins kept their distance, treating us like total outsiders.

The architecture is the main thing I remember enjoying. Most people say the food, but…I dunno, it was just the same as what Mom and Dad made at home, so it didn’t really leave an impact.

But for me, it was the houses. I’m not a design nut or anything like that, but they just looked so different. I found the different buildings fascinating.

So when we moved, that was the first thing I noticed about the new house. It was weird; every other house nearby looked normal, and…well, I guess this one did too, for the most part. But as soon as I laid eyes on it, I couldn’t help but notice the slight curve to the roof, and that it was made of more wood than the neighboring houses.

And when we entered, sure enough, it even had a *genkan* of sorts – a small mudroom, slightly lower than the rest of the ground floor. I glanced at my mother; I don’t think she’d even noticed, consciously.

It’s not that Mom is dumb, or anything like that. She’s just…not always the most observant woman. She gets tunnel vision, y’know?

Especially since Dad’s death.

I’m not trying to make this a boo-hoo, woe is me story, but…yeah, it’s pretty relevant. About six months ago, Dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I didn’t know anything about it at the time (other than that it sounded scary). Now, as you can imagine, I know a lot.

Turns out it sounds scary for a reason: it’s the fastest-killing cancer, if it’s not found early.

Dad’s wasn’t found early.

Less than two months later, he was gone. I literally didn’t know things could happen that fast – it seriously felt like one minute, he was sitting on the couch, complaining about the latest season of *Better Call Saul*…and the next, he was in a hospital bed, barely responsive.

He’d never see the final season of *Better Call Saul*. He’d never see us grow up. He’d never see whether we became doctors, as he hoped (and pressured us to), or…

Yeah. I don’t know if I’ve dealt with it, really. There was some talk about Kim and I seeing therapists, but Mom is very conservative, and I don’t think she really believes in that kind of thing. It’s not like Dad and I were super close – he was more open than Mom, but not by much. As a kid, I’d see my friends’ parents give them these big hugs and tell them how proud they were of them, but it was never like that with my parents.

I used to wonder what was wrong with me. Then I learned…we’re Japanese. That’s just sort of what we’re like.

Well, that’s what my parents are like.

Were. *Were* like. I don’t have “parents” any more, just one. Singular: parent.

When Dad’s life insurance came in, Mom decided that we were moving. I think the old place had too many memories of Dad, so she picked us up and whisked us to the other side of town.

Like I said, I don’t think she was consciously aware that she’d picked a place with Japanese influence. My guess is that she found it comforting, subconsciously, to be in a place that reminded her of home.

I didn’t say anything. I glanced at my sister, Kim; she definitely didn’t notice. She’s completely clueless – again, not dumb. Just pretty self-absorbed.

As we stepped into the house, her eyes were glued to her phone. Playing that new *Harry Potter* version of *Pokemon Go*. She’s completely obsessed with *Harry Potter*; has been her whole life.

“Yess,” she said, a wide grin on her face. “This house is an inn!”

Mom and I just ignored her. Kim is two and a half years older than me, but people often say that I’m the mature one. My sister is a bit…I dunno, frivolous? And no, it has nothing to do with Dad dying. She’s always been like that.

Although, yeah, it definitely got a little worse when we were orphaned. Half-orphaned?

I guess it was just Kim’s way of coping, sinking deep into the world of *United Wizards*, (or whatever it’s called).

“Come on,” Mom said. It was there – it was always there. That slight catch in her voice, like she was right on the edge of breaking down.

She cried at least once a day. That might not sound like one, but you’ve got to understand – for a Japanese woman, that’s a *lot*. Mom probably cried like, once or twice in her adult life before Dad’s diagnosis.

She never cries in front of us, of course. She’ll mumble an excuse to leave the room, then practically tip-toe out. By the time she reappears, her face is clear, her smile bright.

But we knew what she was doing. Her eyes were till slightly red, her smile a little too forced, her body tense.

Mom led us through the house, pointing out the different rooms. Kim and I pretended to care. I mean, it wasn’t like we *didn’t* care, but we had an unspoken agreement to stay positive, to make sure that we weren’t being a burden.

I should mention; the new house didn’t have, like, sliding doors or anything like that. It wasn’t like my grandparents’ house had been transplanted to the middle of Milwaukee.

But yeah, there were traces all over the place. I don’t know who built the place, but they were either Japanese or a total weebo.

When the tour was done, Kim and I picked our rooms, and the next two weeks were spent setting everything up.

Like I said, my sister is almost three years older than me. She’s in her second year of college…well, she was. She deferred, after Dad passed. Six months off, with a promise to Mom that she’d go back.

After the move. After some time to…y’know, process.

Mom hadn’t argued too hard. Our entire lives, she’d been the hard ass, and Dad had been the soft one. I mean, by comparison. We still had all the pressures that come with first-generation immigrants. Even Dad was insistent that we do well in school, stay away from bad influences, eat right, keep the house spotless.

Other kids got allowances. We got summer classes.

Dad loved us, and he wanted us to succeed – but he didn’t micromanage us every step of the way. If Mom had her way, we would’ve had bedrooms with no doors. Dad let us sleep in on weekends, and even have friends over on a weeknight.

It might not sound like much, but trust me – some of my other friends were Japanese-American too. Even those small concessions were a *lot*.

But since Dad had passed, it was like Mom had…not “given up”, that’s not fair. But she’d definitely disconnected.

She hadn’t even asked me what schools I was applying to, something I’d been pressured to think about since *elementary* school.

Kim is almost twenty-one, and way too cool to hang out with her dorky younger brother.

Not that I’m a dork. I’m the tallest in my family, and I play enough basketball to keep myself pretty fit. I like video games, but so does pretty much everyone on the varsity team, so I don’t think that counts.

But I was still surprised when my sister knocked on my door one Saturday morning and asked if I wanted to hang out.

“Me?” I responded sleepily – I’d been up late the previous night, playing *Overwatch*. Like I said, I’m a bit of a gamer, but it’s not my entire life. It’s just stress relief.

And a great distraction when I don’t want to think about Dad.

“Yeah, you,” she said, rolling her eyes.

I shot her a confused look. I don’t think my sister has ever approached me to hang out. Maybe she realized how unusual this was, because she looked at her feet.

“I don’t want to be alone,” she said quietly, and I nodded.

Kim and I hadn’t really talked about Dad. I mean, we’d talked, but just about…y’know, superficial stuff. When something reminded us of him, or what he would’ve said about a particular situation.

But that was it. We hadn’t gone deeper.

We didn’t talk about the fact that he was gone.

When Mom came home (she’d started going on these long walks every day) she found me and Kim in the kitchen, making pancakes. It was, like, the first American food that Dad had learned how to cook, so he’d made it for us all the time.

Like I said, Kim and I didn’t talk about Dad, but we remembered him in our own way.

“Look at you two, getting along,” she said with a smile. I shifted uncomfortably. We were, of course, but…I dunno. It felt weird that Mom was pointing it out. Like it was fine as long as no one drew attention to it.

“Barely,” my sister said, apparently sharing my discomfort.

“Yeah,” I grumbled. “There’s just nothing else to do around here.”

It was true. We’d moved what felt like half a world away from everyone we knew.

Mom raised one eyebrow, and a gleam appeared in her eyes.

Uh-oh. It was a look I’d seen on her face many times…although not for a while. Maybe it was a good sign that she was feeling bossy again.

Not good for *us*, of course, but good in general.

“Well if you’re so bored,” she said, her accent thick (as it always was when she went into ‘Mom mode’), “maybe you want to clean out the attic?”

“No thanks,” I said, trying to sound casual. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kim shaking her head as well.

“No no,” Mom said. “Not asking.”

Kim and I shot each other a glance.

Great. This is what we got for refusing to admit that we were enjoying other’s company.

***

I hadn’t been up to the attic yet. The stairs leading up there were the kind where you had to pull a string to get them down, and…it’s not that I’m *afraid* of heights, exactly. I just don’t see any reason to climb a set of flimsy stairs without a reason.