Ingrid (Act 1 of 2)

Will can taste the sweat and ass and piss stains in his own underwear. Salty, uric, a little stale. For now, it is enough. He keeps one hand pumping furiously and brings the other to his scalp.

Aimee clamps down once and for all onto his ears and with her strangely strong little thighs squeezes so hard he worries his skull might pop, and he feels rather than hears her cum.

A sad little dribble of semen spurts out of Will's cock and runs onto his fist, drools over his thumb, and drips onto his stomach. He lets it cool there as he gazes up at the ceiling, remembering Aimee's twitches and aftershocks, her pinkened cheeks, her breathless little laugh and apologetic coo.

Will lay panting through his nose, gazing up at her past the sweet and sour underwear still crammed in his mouth, fully smitten.

He watches her stand back up in his memory, rise above him with her bare feet setting the mattress springs to hollering in his sweaty ears. She gazes down as Will stares up, and both take in the sight of her disheveled underwear, her soaking crotch, her inner thighs rubbed red. Then, as their eyes meet in the middle, she blushes and does a sexy little fuck-you-I'm-off-to-France number above him.

No wait. Aimee had simply stood up, set the mattress springs to hollering, and then, on seeing what she had done to Will's face, said, "Yikes." After that, she had dismounted from the mattress and gone off to the bathroom.

He feels the memory fade, float out of the room, and leave him alone in this bed that Ingrid needs ready by tomorrow.

Will takes the boxers out of his mouth, uses them to mop up the cum on his belly.

Chapter Two

Ingrid collapses onto her fresh clean covers and heaves a sigh of blissful exhaustion. Will humps the luggage in behind her. He flicks on the light. It's dark in here with the curtains drawn.

Her shoes and socks lay already strewn across his nice clean floor. Ingrid has somehow gotten these off in the two or three seconds between when she disappeared into the room ahead of him and when he got into the doorway.

His little sister's bare feet twist and flex off the edge of the mattress, her ankles pop, her toes splay.

Ingrid's feet are a distinctive part of who she is. Dexterous, bony things. Her toes, especially, are callused and bizarrely intelligent.

"Where do you want me to put your shit?" Will asks, patting Ingrid's twin monster suitcases and hot pink duffle bag.

"Closet's fine," she yawns serenely, just kind of blissing out for a moment.

"Oh. Um," Will goes to the closet door and opens it to show his sister the floor-to-ceiling wall of stowed away music equipment.

"Merde, what is all that?"

"My music stuff. This is my music room. Er, was."

"Oh," Ingrid furrows her eyebrows, suddenly wistful. "You didn't have to put it all away."

Will flashes back to Katyana pulling the slimy microphone out of his puffy pink asshole.

"Trust me," he promises. "It was a lot."

Ingrid pulls her sweatshirt off, sort of shimmies out from under it, then throws it onto the floor where it joins her footwear.

"I don't really mind a mess," she says. "And I definitely do not want you to stop making music just because I'm here."

Will nods, pretending to have heard.

Ingrid is wearing her favorite pale pink camisole with the soft built-in bra that sort of lets her nipples poke through. Ingrid stretches her arms--contorts them, really--and her little curls of underarm hair peek out at him for the first time in years. Gross, he thinks, and is overcome with fondness for his kid sister.

"Hey," Ingrid startles him. "I appreciate you letting me stay here."

"Yeah," Will says, scratching a spot at the back of his scalp that doesn't itch. "It's no biggie."

"Well, I promise I won't hang around too long. Give me awhile to catch up on sleep, get readjusted, you know, then I'll go find work. After a month or so I want to be able to afford my own place."

"Sounds doable."

"Speaking of which," she cracks her neck, "do you know any studios in town looking for talent?"

Will shrugs. "You'd know better than I would."

"Hm," Ingrid nods. She breaks into another yawn. And still yawning, she admonishes him, "Do you mean to tell me you haven't been patronizing your local dance community?"

She hooks her thumbs into the waistband of her leggings and peels them off.

Will had not for one tossing, turning night forgotten how comfortable his little sister was undressing around him, but certain skin-crawling events had transpired since the last time she had done so in person. She tosses her leggings onto the floor at his feet.

Her panties, which have come slightly loose, are a crazy hot pink zebra print affair that sort of matches her duffle. Ingrid sits back up and readjusts her underwear. Will looks on, somehow numb. She scratches at her newly liberated thighs.

"So," Will clears his throat. "It took me hours to clean up in here."

He stoops over, scoops up her socks and leggings and sweatshirt, and deposits them in the upright hamper by the door. He does this in a way that is, to him, nonchalant.

"And I put this here for a reason," he pats the lid like it's being a good little hamper.

Ingrid extends one long, strong leg--shaved only up to where the leggings had begun--and toes at her shoes on the floor, uprighting one and then the other and sliding them together, nice and neat.

"Pardon moi," she frowns at her host.

"You saw how much was in that closet, Inge. That was the easy part."

"Mhmmmm," she says, laying back and unfurling into maybe her third or fourth full body stretch.

"And those sheets you're lying on? Probably two or three years old, but I don't think I ever washed them until last night."

Ingrid grimaces and recoils from the bed she's laying on.

"Brooo," she groans. "Why even tell me?"

('Brooo' rings him like a bell.)

"Well--I mean, sorry, they should be fine now. I think. Point is, while you may 'like a good mess,' I would still appreciate it if you could just--uh, humor--um--"

Unfortunately, Ingrid has now rolled onto her back, stretched her sculpted legs up straight into the air, and then lowered them back toward her face, folding herself effortlessly in half. Her ass cheeks bulge inside her panties, her you-know-what bulges between those, and the soft puffy skin of her you-know-what's you-know-whats threatens to poke out either side of her stripy pink gusset.

The Ghost of Gussets Past comes elbowing into the room and casts a big chummy arm over Will's shoulder. An old mutual friend of him and Aimee's.

"I came as quick as I could," he pants. He gives his little sister's ass a hubba-hubba and, glancing suggestively at Will, points a big meaty thumb as if to say so is this what we're working with today?

Will had not known that he did not want to know that his little sister did in fact shave her--he winces and resists saying the word, but the Ghost provides it for him: pussy--until the knowledge was right there, razor burnt and framed in hot pink zebra. It seems to be the only part of her she does shave.

His sister's toes find purchase on the lightly textured wall and steady her. Something in her lower back pops, and then something else. She holds this pose for as long as she lets out a cathartic groan, and then for a few deep breaths after that.

"Sorry, I'm still listening," she grunts.

Will manages to remain stony-faced. He considers looking away, but his little sister is in such a flagrant pose that looking away seems to him almost as obvious as staring. He attempts a casual, brotherly gaze.

Inconveniently, the numbness he had felt earlier is fading, and the neurons in his loins are coming online with a message that he is not presently interested in hearing.

"Sis, do you have to do that right in my face?"

"What? Don't look if it bothers you, weirdo."

"Right. Let me just take a dump on the floor, then, while you do that."

"Like I said," she snorts, "I like a good mess."

"Right."

His sister's ass looks so completely and comprehensively inviting that he is dizzied standing so close to it.

"Well anyway," he says, rubbing his forehead. "Granted, it's your room while you're here, so do what you want. But like, for my sake, maybe keep it tidy for a day or two?"

"Can do," she says. "My bad."

Ingrid then parts her legs into a perfect middle split--Will's heart skips a beat, fumbles for a handhold, slips down a few more beats--and sits up still holding that split, then bends all the way forward and grabs the edge of the mattress, grips and pulls, stretches--basically tortures--her back.

"Gaaawd, fuck that fucking flight," she moans facedown into the covers.

Her back is long and pretty. A few freckles here and there, like him. Her spine is a rugged arrow pointing to her underwear. Her ass, again, doing its thing. Big brother now realizes these hot pink zebra underwear sort of disappearing into his sister's ass crack are occupying maybe more of his attention than is healthy.

The Ghost of Butt Sex Past appears out of nowhere, shoves a smelly, lubricated microphone in Will's face and asks him to share what he means by 'more ass than is healthy.' He ignores him.

But for real, since when are kid sisters allowed to wear sexy hot pink zebra underwear?

Ingrid sits back up. Will's re-bothered by her frontside. He tries to keep healthy sibling-like levels of eye contact. Couldn't she have done all this before she took off her leggings? The tendons in her groin form little hollows in her upper inner thighs that sort of fuck with the panties' grip around her legs.

And yet, she doesn't seem to care whether Will is looking or not.

She twists her torso, first all the way one way, bending and hugging her knee on that side, and then all the way the other, bending and hugging that knee too. As she does this, her spine rewards her with several shattering pops, while the puffy pinkish skin of her--Will looks meekly to the Ghost of Gussets again who gladly helps him out: labia--all but fully protrudes out either side opposite the way she leans.

She breathes slowly in and out.

"And fuck those fucking bullshit seats."

She sits upright, centers herself, still holding the splits and now in a kind of dancer's trance. She takes a deep introspective breath. His little sister is here, now, in this room. Her chest rises and falls.

Ingrid's little boobies--her big brother just automatically calls them this and always has--seem to have shrunken somewhat from her training. They are still nice little boobies, but now truly little. Her body is all strength. All economy. Little Ingrid had been slinky before she left for France, bony in places and soft in others. But now, hundreds of thousands of dollars later, she was like something factory made. Lithe, aerodynamic. Built for control.

Her brother's cock finally gets wise to the goings on outside his pants, and suddenly Will wishes his sister were wearing much more clothing.

Ingrid opens her eyes and in complete earnest tells her brother that there were moments of such prolonged and agonized discomfort on the plane that she wanted to scream bloody murder, that she wanted to kill the seemingly perfectly comfortable woman sitting next to her, and that she must have walked half the distance from France to here pacing the aisles.

"That steward even scolded me for it! I told him, I'm in too good of shape to be crammed into such a shitty seat for eleven hours. Onze heueres, Guillaume! My muscles, they have to move and to breathe or they start to die, right here on my bones."

His sister drifts in and out of a strange driving cadence that Will thinks sounds French.

He pictures her walking up and down the aisle of a commercial jet in those soft, stretchy--the Ghost of Butt Sex Past leans his mic in closer, gives Will an expectant look, but Will bats the mic away--gray leggings. He knows for certain that nearly every single man and probably a significant number of women on that flight did not mind his sister's pacing. So, what was the steward's problem?

Then, just like that, Ingrid snaps out of it. She seems to have noticed something off, and Will notices that she seems to have noticed. She unsplits her legs, crosses them in front of her in that fully pretzelized way she does, and folds her hands in her lap.

"Sorry," they both say simultaneously.

"For what?" his sister says, raising an eyebrow.

"I mean--I know what you mean. About tiny seats. Long flights. We're both long-legged creatures. You know?" He shifts his weight to his other foot. "Why did you apologize?"

"Because. I don't know."

Ingrid stares at her brother for one long, French moment, and then asks him point blank, "Do you know what I really think you're sorry for?"

A spider of panic crawls up Will's back.

"... what?"

"Viens ici," she says, patting a spot beside her on the mattress. She lays back on one elbow, crossing one leg over the other, and smirks at him.

Will is reminded, unfortunately, of Emily. Laying on that very same mattress in that very same pose. Curling and uncurling her finger at him. Her bright pink freshly fucked peach pouting at him from behind her. What had happened next is something that, presently, Will needs not to be thinking about.

"...what?" he asks again.

"Come here, damn it." His sister slaps the spot on the mattress beside her.

"Come suck your cum out of me," Emily had said, and then pointed to her tongue. "I'm hungry."

"How am I supposed to come--" Will approaches and begins clumsily lowering himself, "--here exactly? This is awkward, Sis. What, are we doing?"

"We are doing ... this," Ingrid says in a voice so unexpectedly seductive as to actually make the hairs on the back of her brother's neck stand up, and she presses him into the mattress, slowly, sensuously gets onto her hands and knees and swings her leg over his head, the little girl he grew up with's now achingly womanly ass inches from his nose. She squeezes out a short puffy fart.

"Now you're sorry!" she cackles and rolls off onto her stomach.

Will sniffs. There is maybe just a half a beat too long before he roars in disgust and spanks her hot pink ass stingingly hard. She lets out a yelp, abruptly stops laughing, and curses at him. He flees from the fart, from the bed, and from his sister's insane gravitational pull. He stumbles to the door.

"You spanked me!"

"You farted down my throat!"

Ingrid glares at her brother, boldly holds his gaze, then bursts out laughing.

"I did," she cries, literally tearing up, "And I'd do it again!"

She lets out a maniacal hoot, springs to her feet, and bows deeply to her audience of one. Then with a triumphant flourish, she spins on her heels, curtsies toward the wall, and squeaks out another nearly inaudible fart.

"Dang it," she guffaws. "Why are they so quiet tonight?"

Will is unimpressed. "Is that what they teach you in French dance school? How to le fart?"

"À péter," she corrects, her voice suddenly seductive again, and still with her back to him she runs her hands down her camisoled sides and over her exposed hips. She clutches two handfuls of hot pink zebra ass and holds her cheeks like this for a moment, before finally peering over her shoulder at him. The look on her face is ridiculous. She will crack up in T-minus three, two--

"Let me guess, you're farting?"

"Oui!" she replies with riotous pleasure. She flops onto the mattress in a spasm of self-satisfied giggles, practically hiccupping as she celebrates her amusement, "I didn't mean--for them all to be--so quiet! But it was so much better--so much better that way!"

She dies, right there in front of him.

"Well, I need to go throw up. And wash my face." Will starts to leave.

"No, wait! Don't go! I actually do have something for you!"

Will is half-certain it will be another fart, but he acts curious anyway.

"I brought it for you all the way from France."

"Okay. What."

A moment of silence passes as Ingrid gives him a hard, earnest look. And then at last, a noisy little toot.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Will laughs. He can't help it. It was funny.

"Alright, I'm sleepy. Vous pouvez y aller," she purrs and rolls over onto her pillow, luxuriating, "mon frère."

Will looks at her blankly.

"I said you may go throw up now," she sighs dreamily, already halfway to sleep. "But don't you wash your face. I've marked it with my scent. It's mine now."

"Oh sweet, flatulent sister. If you only knew the things I'd done to that pillow."

"Oh, sweet, fart-sniffing brother. If you only knew the things I plan to continue to do to it."

After Will leaves the room, Ingrid sniffs cautiously at the pillow. At first, all she smells is her brother's laundry detergent. She lets herself relax. She nods off.

Then something occurs to her, and she sniffs at the open end of the pillowcase. She curses aloud in French. She rolls tiredly to her feet--standing all the way up off a mattress on the floor is laborious in the best of times--and fishes her sweatshirt out of the hamper. She tugs it onto her pillow like a second, extra-thick pillowcase.

And then at last she lets the jetlag, and all those miles and miles of pacing across the Atlantic, have its way with her.

Chapter Three

Ingrid wakes up urgently needing to pee. She doesn't know what time it is. Will hung blackout curtains in here to help her sleep.

She trudges bleary-eyed to the door, cracks it open, and squints as sunlight shoves its way in. She glances down at her sunlit body and is reminded that she is naked.

She reaches frustratedly into the hamper beside the door, fishes out her leggings, and clambers into them. She almost pees a little. Time's up! She tip-toes topless down the hardwood hallway to the bathroom door. It's locked. She whimpers and pounds.

"Please don't tell me you're pooping," she pleads.

Will isn't pooping. He is seated on the closed lid of the toilet with his cock in one hand and his sister's hot pink zebra panties in the other. The dreamy bubble of eroticism he has drawn around himself pops almost audibly, and he suddenly feels exactly as gross as he looks.

"Just a minute," he tells her. He pulls up his pajama bottoms and shoves his sister's smelly panties in his pocket. The pocket bulges comically.

He makes a noisy show of fiddling with the toilet paper roll. He stands up, drops a crisp clean leaf of toilet paper into the perfectly clear water, and flushes.

He checks himself in the mirror. He doesn't love what he sees.

He checks his boner. Still a boner, and proudly pledging its allegiance to his sister inside his pajama bottoms. He clamps a hand around the base of himself and squeezes, trying to cut off the blood flow. He's not sure if this works. Between this and the bulging pocket, he is feeling a little fucked.

"Okay, you flushed. Please get out." Ingrid prances in place, one hand clamped to her crotch, the other covering her chest.

Will opens the door wearing a thick, smelly bath robe, and saunters out. He tries to distract his sister with a silly face and some hand-waving, lest she glimpse the unbrotherly bulge still perceptibly saluting her beneath the robe. He is so concerned with his own embarrassment that he almost doesn't register her toplessness. The flesh-tone tops she likes to wear have trained him not to fall for such illusions.

"Okaymovethankyougoodbye!" She jukes around him into the bathroom.