Sophie does that for me. “You don’t sound right, Mason.” She’s silent for a moment, then adds in, “Did Brooke make it back?”
“Oh yeah, her and Brian got in yesterday.”
“Are you okay with that?”
My voice catches in my throat. I can’t reply.
The call timer ticks up in silence.
1:28…1:29…1:30…
But Sophie doesn’t hang up.
1:51…1:52…1:53…
Clear on up to two then three minutes, the timer counts. By this point, we’ve been silent longer than we’d actually talked on this call. Still, she’s right here, right on the other end of that line all the while. That really means a lot to me today.
Stop being a bitch, Mason. My lips are dry and stick together. Only a fool like me could turn a quick ‘Merry Christmas’ call into a whole ordeal. Still, I don’t think that I could make Sophie think any less of me than I already have.
I tell her, “No, I’m really not alright with that.”
“Talk to me,” she says.
I hesitate.
“I got your baby. We’re family now. Come on, Mason.”
I feel a brief but intense flicker of irritation when she says that. I don’t know what the hell she means by family, but those feelings are quickly smothered out by picturing her dusky belly with a tape measure wrapped around it and a revealing hint of nipple.
I talk to her. I really do.
At the end of the call, after we’ve said our goodbyes, Sophie slips in a half-frantic “Love you, Mason,” and then hangs up before I can even reply. Fuck. That feels good. I force myself not to dwell on the actual distance between us in real life.
I don’t even know when I redialled her number. “Sophie,” I say.
“Uh, yeah?”
“Love you, too.” I don’t hang up the phone, but I pull it from my ear. The timer counts upwards, and I cradle it between my knees, just watching the numbers climb. She doesn’t hang up, either. She’s right here, right now.
Neither of us speak, but then after three minutes, I realize that I’m being unreasonable. She’s got a husband and a girlfriend and they all live in one big happy pile, and here I am, keeping her on the line two days after Christmas, not even saying a word.
She’s got her real family to get back to.
I end the call.
*********************
It’s four o’clock in the afternoon again, and I’m in my room. The door is closed, but the lock is undone.
The lights are off, and the curtains are drawn. And while those curtains are the most prominent decor in here, they’re really nothing special, just some cheap nylon horseshit. But they are purple enough to stain the sun as it bleeds through, and I swear, I’m swimming in that fucking color.
It’s like they say, those people from the anti-drug posters. Maybe I have fried my brain on Molly after that one time I tried it. As I’m laying on my bed, my thoughts veer…odd, and an epiphany strikes me: Purple really is a horseshit color! Red and blue mixed together, no commitment to one’s passion nor the other’s indifference, and that really pisses me off for some reason.
“Why, hello! I’m Red!” “…hello, Red. I am Blue.” “Oh, aren’t you just precious! Let’s fuck!” “…I guess I don’t have anything better to do” “Oh, Blue! Look, we had a baby.” “…let’s name it Purple.” “Wonderful. Look! It’s got your chroma.” “…and it’s got your value.”
Red or Blue, just pick a side already, Purple, you indecisive fuck!
And Jesus fucking Christ! I hear a floorboard squeak out in the hall, and there’s another pair of those goddamn shadow toes lingering under the crack in the door. “In or out, figure it out,” I holler, just fucking done!
The handle turns, and Oh! what a surprise! There’s Brooke. She holds up her phone. It’s on call to Sophie. They’ve been talking for twenty-seven minutes, it says.
I really have to bite my tongue here to keep myself from cursing out the girl who I just said “I love you” to not even an hour ago.
“Hang up,” I say. Somehow, even Brooke realizes that I’m talking to Sophie, not her.
Sophie blares some “Mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah, mwah” Charlie Brown gibberish through the speaker.
I enunciate much clearer, raise my voice a little. “Hang up the phone, Sophie.”
It doesn’t even cross my mind to ask Brooke, but then again, why would I? She’s a fuck.
Call Ended. Blink. Blink. Blink.
Brooke’s standing there with the door open, completely awkward. She’s all but got her purse triangulated in front of her cunt again.
“In or out,” I tell her, “close the door.”
She wavers, eventually picks “in,” and closes the door softly. I notice her turn the knob so it doesn’t slap against the latch.
I eyeball her up and down as crassly as possible. “You look like a reformed whore about to preach her testimony from the pulpit.”
She takes a deep breath, holds up one finger. Wait a second. Gathers her thoughts and tells me, “Mason, listen. I really need to apologize to you. What happened…what I did…there’s no excuse for my actions. You’re a highschooler. I’m a grown woman.” The bitch even bows her head to me a touch. “Someday, I really hope we can just put that behind us.”
Something about that last line, like she was reciting a corporate statement. “Is that all?”
She nods.
I reach behind my pillow, pull out my Frankenstein-wrapped present. It’s illustrated with everything from Santa Claus to doodled Christmas Trees to Snoopy and that yellow twat on a doghouse, no artistic cohesion to any of it. I toss Brooke her gift.
I got good aim. It slaps her left tit. Can’t see any jiggle through that goddamn blouse/undershirt/padded bra combo but damned if it doesn’t stun her. The paper crunches as it plops onto the floor. A burst of dust wafts out. Fortunately, there’s nothing breakable inside.
She kneels–doesn’t reach over to pick it up–she fucking kneels on the ground, right before my gift like it’s the fucking holy chalice of St. Assprick or something. Even more than that, her knees might as well have been velcroed together, tight as she has them pressed–that chaste hussy.
I’m feeling super petty–scratch that–I’m feeling downright malicious, so I sit on the edge of my bed, tilt my head and just stare at the imaginary gap between Brooke’s smothered thighs, makes her really uncomfortable. She shifts, re-situates, swallows. Good. Fuck her.
Paper tears, neon inner-packing tissues glide to the floor, and Brooke’s at the heart of it. She pulls out my gift. With a flick, she uncoils the adult onesie that I gave her. It drapes across her hussy thighs, bulges around her knees. See that, bitch? This one’s Courage the Cowardly Dog themed. “I thought you could be Muriel,” I explain.
She wads the paper scraps into a pile and scrunches it all into a manageable ball. I see her stuff the litter into the side pocket of her knitted cardigan. Brooke stands up, whips her new Muriel onesie out in front of herself, then wraps the sleeves across the chest, doubles the length over and over again onto itself, and really does a downright professional job of folding that outfit. Like, just wow. She’s really going to make some lucky guy very happy one day.
Again, as if she’s reciting from some corporate HR script, she tells me, “I apologize if I’m misinterpreting, but it’s important that we set some boundaries going forward, and while I appreciate the pajamas, I feel as if the spirit behind this gift is inappropriate.”
I just want to slap her and get my crass sister back.
“Inappropriate?” I stand up. I lumber over to her. She takes two steps away, ends up backing into a wall.
“Mason…” She’s uneasy.
I dig two fingers into the waistband of her Puritan skirt.
She puts her hands on mine. “Mason, stop.” Oh? Sister sounds serious.
I start to pull the waistband out. It’s not elastic. A button pops and shoots off.
“Mason, please. Please, stop. I’m really uncomfortable right now.” That’s what HR bitch tells me.
I don’t peek at her privates. It isn’t about that. I let her waistband go. It doesn’t snap, and she clutches the fabric together to keep her skirt from falling; oh, her poor sweet modesty!
I leave her leaning against the wall and back away until my calves press against my mattress on the other side of the room. I hook my thumbs around the hem of my shirt then slide it up my torso and over my head, once again standing bare chested before my sister.
Brooke doesn’t move a muscle. She’s backed against the wall, clutching my present to her stomach with one arm, and with her free hand, she pinches the clasp of her skirt, holding the fabric up.
We hold eye contact as I reach down, unbutton my jeans, slip them and my briefs off all in one go. Then I sit there on the edge of the bed, nude as fuck, and absolutely reveling in just how uncomfortable this is making my sister.
I fall backwards onto the bed, all two-hundred plus pounds of me. The springs creak and groan, and while the bed is bobbing up and down, I scooch myself up to the pillow. My legs part slightly. My meaty fist wraps around my limp cock.
She likes this. I know she does. She watched me doing this at the slumber party. Brooke, my sister, wholly paid attention to me and only me despite the smut of her two friends.
My thumb and forefinger wrap around my uncircumcised foreskin and roll that frictionless joy up and down the head of my cock. I don’t know, maybe after twenty or so long slow strokes I peek back over at her.
“What?” I say to Sis. “You still here?” I shoo my hand at her. “Fuck off.”
“…Mason.” Finally, there’s a thread of emotion in her voice. She’s got the folded up onesie pressed deep into her stomach, hunched over around it, about ready to cry.
It pisses me off to even look at her like that. I close my eyes, and keep working my foreskin, masturbating completely unabashedly in front of my sister. “Figure your shit out,” I tell her. “I’m sick of all this lukewarm half-assed shit everywhere.”
As my voice gets more intense, so does my masturbating. Mmph, fk-yeah! I’m straight up humping my hips into my fist right now, just imagining Sophie’s pussy, the only one I’ve ever known, but instead of her cute little head, the one I imagine is Brooke’s, with her eyes and mouth smiling down at me, her tickle-scratches on the back of my neck. Her stubbled pubes grating my cock skin. Her thick protruding labia spread–yes, I did look up the female anatomy since the slumber party. And that clenching inhale she did, her slender gut shivering thin right before the cum spritzed from her urethra and oozed down into her gaped vagina, right where nearly her whole damn fist was shoved inside her sex. And all while, she was staring at my cock, at me stroking it rather than watching the two girl show in front of us.
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