Ingrid (Act 1 of 2)

"Sorry about the smell," he lies as the door slams shut in his face. A second later, there is the high-pressure sound of his sister's pee spraying into the toilet bowl, and a dramatic and contented moan.

Ingrid had always been most comfortable wearing as little as she could, but was she just straight-up not wearing clothes anymore? This was going to need to be dealt with.

But what was a brother to do? Mention it, like some kind of pervert? What if he weirds her out, and then he's stuck with a weirded-out little sister in his apartment? Or worse, what if she is secretly doing this on purpose to prove some kind of creepy point, and by bringing it up he is giving her a strategic advantage? She could be that way. Even just playing Smash as kids, she could be that way.

Will massages his temple, glaring at a faraway point in space. His little sister needs to get a job and move out. Then she can go be naked wherever she wants.

The Ghost of Topless Women Present sneaks up and wraps her slender arms around Will from behind. She gibbers in French with subtitles, "Let's just wait and see how this plays out, no?" Will nods, hypnotized, and takes her with him back to his empty spartan bedroom. He is going to need to learn to masturbate in there eventually.

"Maybe the panties'll help," the Ghost of Gussets proffers.

Chapter Four, Part One

"So, what have you been up to?" Ingrid asks one night as they pass a bowl back and forth in her room.

The siblings lay side by side, backs against the wall, bare feet dangling off the edge of the mattress. Their feet could not look more different. Hers sun-kissed and intelligent, his pasty and dumb.

His little sister is in panties and a cami again, a look that Will is not exactly acclimating to so much as getting better at desperately pretending to ignore. Her deeply tan tummy beams at him from between the snow white of her top and the pale yellow of her panties. These underwear are a favorite of hers from when she still lived at home. They're a favorite of her brother's, too.

"Brooo?"

Will is staring at his little sister's crotch when she says this. His bell makes a clonking sound.

He coughs.

"M-me?" He whoops out a thick, stinky cloud. "School, work, m-music ..."

"School going okay?"

"I guess. I've been taking it easy on that front. Had to switch to part-time. Actually, taking this semester off."

"Right. Sooo, you're not in school."

"Yeah. I don't know why I said school."

"But you're still doing music?"

"Yeah," he lies. He hasn't been able to produce anything worth anything in months.

"Good. And still working at that restaurant you hate?"

Will nods grimly.

"Ooo! What about that little hottie you were banging, the bartender?"

"Mai-Lee?"

"Mai-Lee! She was, um," Ingrid pauses to take a hit. "She was fun." The smoke billowing up through her throat softly warps her voice, gives it a fabric-like quality.

"Yeah," Will smiles wanly. "But we're done. She left the restaurant a few months ago, back in February."

"Ha. 'Everyone leaves in February,'" she nods. An industry truism Will taught her. It isn't much of a truism. It was more like something he had sort of noticed on his own and but then told her was a truism. Ingrid had hosted once at Will's same restaurant.

"And me, I'm managing now. So. You know."

"Shit that's right! You're the big guy in charge now! How the hell did that happen?"

"Eh, I'm just a manager," Will shrugs. "And it's not a very interesting story."

"You know," Ingrid says, taking another hit and exhaling little plumes of smoke as she talks, "I've learned that when people say that, they're usually telling the truth. So, please forget I asked."

"Appreciate it," Will smiles. "Anyway. It's not the nightmare job everyone makes it out to be."

"You know, I've always wondered, what the fuck does the manager do? It never looked like much."

"A question for the ages," Will sighs profoundly. "We do a lot you wouldn't see. Payroll, scheduling, reservations, phone calls, menu changes, um, oh, wine stuff. Staff training. Hiring. I'm probably forgetting something."

Ingrid rolls her camisole further up her abdomen and palms her soft brown tummy. She begins to rub it in a sort of self-soothing way.

Will likes looking at his sister's belly button. It literally looks sewn on, the way the soft, thin cushion of her bends in toward it. It's a cute little innie.

"Then there's all the daily random problem-solving we have to do." Will takes a hit and lets it simply roll out of his open mouth, unfurling in the air in front of his face. "That's where I kind of stand out, I think. I like that part. I like feeling needed." He blows out the rest.

Ingrid stops rubbing herself to pluck idly at some peach fuzz. Each little plucked strand is shimmery and twisty with sunlight.

"Sounds like you found your calling," Ingrid muses.

"Ha. I hope not. But I do seem to be ... unique?" He hands the pipe back to her. "In that I am not a terrible asshole? I kind of learned how to do something by watching everyone else suck at it."

"Like how you taught me to play Smash!"

"Hey now."

"You were such a good teacher."

"It's like--hey now."

"Buck up." Ingrid shoulders herself into him. "It's okay to suck."

"I'm good at Smash."

"But at least you don't suck at your job!"

"Right, well," he lets it go. "Honestly, it still blows my mind."

They both sit there quietly a moment after Ingrid takes her hit. It's kind of hazy in the room. The curtains are open, and the sunlight through the blinds cuts slices of light into the smoke.

"Yo Bro?"

"Yeah Sis?"

"Proud of you, Bro." She hands him the pipe. How much have they smoked today?

"... thanks Sis."

"But, sooo ... Guess you're not dating your coworkers anymore, huh?"

"What? No."

"And? How's that going for you?"

"I don't know. Could be better? Not that I mind the, you know, the uh, strictures." He takes a smaller hit than before. He's starting to feel pretty high. "Strictures? Is that the word?"

"You mean how managers can't date staff?"

"Right. I'm okay with the strictures. But I have to admit it's kind of lonely. Like ever since I took the promotion."

"Wait, so there's no--um," Ingrid smiles glazy-eyed as she picks a word, "temptations? Among your staff?"

"No. Or well, I mean, yes, but they look at me differently now, and I look at them differently too. It's a different vibe all around. Not sexy."

"Aw, Bro. That's actually kind of sweet."

"How so?"

"You respect them!"

"Sure, I guess. But it's mutual, you know? Kind of easy. It's like my whole schtick."

"But it's not a schtick."

"It's not a schtick."

"It's just who you are. You're good. You're a--" her brother hands her back the pipe and she takes it and rubs the mouthpiece dry before putting it to her lips. "You're a good person," she says dreamily, almost more to herself than him.

Will watches his kid sister take another hit. She goes a little cross-eyed focusing on the bowl. She flicks the lighter. She inhales, tugging at the flame until it dips a fiery toe into the pulpy orange-green bit nearest the spent bit. She holds it there precisely long enough to cook herself a just-right baby-bear amount.

"I guess I'm alright," her brother concedes.

He can sort of see the contours of her, um--he looks helplessly to the Ghost of Gussets: labia--through the soft yellow crotch of her underwear.

Chapter Four, Part Two

Ingrid murmurs.

"What?" Will asks.

"I said 'you high?'"

"I believe so," Will sighs contentedly. "Want to play a game or something?" He points at the Nintendo.

Ingrid just looks at him with her big pink and hazel eyes. The siblings have shifted ninety degrees and are both now laying lengthwise on the mattress, their heads somewhat crookedly sharing Ingrid's sweatshirt pillow. Ingrid is laying too closely for him to hold her gaze comfortably. He looks down at her body instead.

Through the thin fabric of her camisole, he can see his little sister's nipples poking cheerily up toward the haze overhead. They look like they might be sort of mauvy brown like his. He hasn't seen her naked since they were kids, and he doesn't remember her nipples from back then. Back then, her nipples had just been nipples.

"Hey Bro, I want to ask, in case it might, like, bother you--"

"Ask me what?"

"Are you okay if I do some acid?"

"If you do some what?"

"Acid? I brought it from France. It doesn't stay good for very long so I have to use it."

"You mean like ... acid acid?"

"Lysergic acid. LSD."

"Whoa."

"You ever try it?" she asks, grazing her fingernails down his arm.

"No?"

"Dooo ... you want to?"

"Um," Will's head starts to spin a little just thinking about the invitation.

"It's safe, I promise. It's fun."

"Is this like a French thing you do now?"

"Um, I'm pretty sure it's an everywhere thing? Acid is splendid."

"I don't know. My head hasn't exactly been in the best place recently."

"Hm," Ingrid frowns. "I am sorry. But ... you might love it anyway? Even now? Maybe especially now! And hey, I'll be here with you. Your little sister can take care of you."

"Yeah?"

"Honestly, Bro, I was surprised how much I loved it when I tried it. It was a very," she chuckles, looking at him, "a very thinky experience. Totally your thing. LSD was made by scientists, you know. So, it's not like shrooms or DMT or whatever, all loosie-goosy."

"I haven't tried shrooms or--the three-letter one you said."

"Well, take it from a blood relative, they're not for us."

"Huh."

Her brother makes a face that Ingrid instantly recognizes as his caving-in face.

"Maybe I'll try just a little. Is that an option?"

"Yes!" Ingrid giddily scrambles onto her hands and knees, scrabbles over her brother, and wrangles with the hot pink duffle on the floor.

She stays like this, basically on top of him, as she unzips first one pocket and then another, rifling around in the chaos she brings with her everywhere she goes. Finally, she makes a small noise of success and pulls out a small bottle of hand lotion. She pats his belly as she unclambers back to her side of the mattress.

She sits cross-legged (the Ghost of Gussets sighs fondly) beside her laid out brother, unscrews the lotion's cap entirely, dips in one long slender digit, and fishes out a tiny plastic phial smeared in lotion, its contents fully obscured. Her finger, meanwhile, is slathered.

"Um," Ingrid regards her finger. "Have you got a tissue or something?"

"Uhh," Will stammers, realizing tissues aren't something he owns. "Can I get you toilet paper?"

"You know what, it's fine," Ingrid says, and starts rubbing the gobs of lotion off into her palms and then onto her wrists and arms. "I hate your cheap, crusty toilet paper. Here, you take some," she says, and smears the front and back of her hand on his cheek. "It's eucalyptus," she tells him.

"It smells," he sniffs. He rubs the lotion into his cheeks and chin and nose. The vapors tingle in his eyes.

Ingrid wipes the phial clean on her hairy thighs and starts to rub that in, too.

After all the excess lotion is dealt with and both siblings are properly moisturized, Ingrid holds the phial up for both of them to see its contents: several itsy-bitsy strips of off-yellow paper.

"That's acid?" He sits up on his elbows, squinting nervously.

"That's acid."

"How do you ... do it?"

"Like this," she says. She unscrews the phial's tiny red cap, withdraws a single slip, and places it on her tongue. It sticks there to her tastebuds. "Then you jutht kinda hold it theh."

She hands the phial and its itty-bitty cap to her brother. It's greasy. He removes one tiny strip. He replaces the phial's cap. He hands the phial back to Ingrid and she chucks it in the duffle.

Will holds the eerie little paper in his moist, perfumy fingers, eyeing it uncertainly.

"Is this going to be too much? Should I do half a strip, maybe?"

"Nah, you thould be okay. Eath one ith juth a thingle drop."

"Are you going to do just one?"

"I'm gonna thtart with one, and maybe do a thecond later. We'll thee how I feel."

Will plops the paper on his tongue before his brain can muster a retort. He closes his mouth.

He can't help moving the strip around. Its sharp little corners tickle the roof of his mouth. He half-expects to taste a chemical reaction on his tongue, something sour maybe. He kind of does but can't be sure it isn't lotion residue.

"How long doeth it take to kick in?"

"A little while. Fifteen, twenty minuteth? Thometimeth longer."

"Do we have to keep it on our tongueth the whole time?"

"No," she giggles, "we can take it out afteh a while."

She does a giddy little scritchy-scratch on her brother's stomach. It zaps him through the t-shirt he is wearing.

"Thith ith tho exthiting!" she shivers.

Chapter Four, Part Three, Subpart One

Will first notices he's feeling something when he goes to wash his hands.

He goes to wash his hands because he has told his little sister he is going to wash his hands.

He has explained to his little sister that he doesn't want to start tripping with his hands dirty.

His little sister had clutched at his ankle, and whined that she liiikes him dirty.

He insists, as he stands there with his fingers under the water, waiting for it to get nice and warm, that he is going to have a good trip.

Every time he looks up, his reflection is watching him like a concerned manager. A good manager, he thinks. The manager looks like he has a sec, and so Will asks:

"Hey boss, why am I washing my hands?"

"Because it's safe," answers the manager. "It's smart."

"Right," Will smiles. The tap reaches that perfect temperature. He cups his hands underneath. They fill and run over. "Feels nice," he says. His brain is sort of temporarily in his hands, bathing and warm.

"Feels great," chuckles the manager. "Hey, can I ask you a question, Will?"

"Yeah. Hit me."

"Why do YOU think you're washing your hands?"

"Oh, to get away from Ingrid."

"Oh?"

"She's killing me, man."

"How's that?"

"Come on. You see how she's dressed in there."

"Like she usually is?"

"Like she'd almost rather be naked."

"Oh. Are you sure?"

"Just about. She's ... she's good at conveying 'meaning' through action."

"I see."

"You say you see. But I'm serious."

"You don't want to be around your sister because you feel like she wants to be naked?"

Will doesn't answer.

"Is that right?"

"I don't know. Listen, I just don't want to be in there lying next to my little sister with a boner."

"Maybe you should just go hop on your computer and deal with that boner the usual way? Is your computer still in her room?"

"Shh! She's in there high as balls right now! I don't want to make her skin crawl!"

"Alright, Will, alright. I get it. I can tell you care about her."

"I do. I do, boss."

"And that's why I hired you. Because you're a good person."

The manager reaches up to the mirror and touches it in the same spot where Will touches it. Their palms connect.

"High-five," the manager says. The mirror's chilly-feeling glass fogs up around their hands.

And for a second, Will is sober enough to realize that he is feeling what he is pretty sure is something.

Chapter Four, Part Three, Subpart Two

Will is still in the bathroom. He shuts off the brain jacuzzi. How long has it been?

He checks his phone. His phone tells him the current time. It does not tell him the time he entered the bathroom. He sets the phone on the edge of the sink.

It falls in a second later, slides to a halt under the tap. He watches it gather little splatters on its screen, mesmerized by the way the shiny pixels kaleidoscope underneath the water.

He wonders if Ingrid knows how long he has been in here. She has a good internal clock. She has a good internal everything.

Will exits the bathroom. It is still daytime. He takes this as a good sign.

He feels good. He feels like he could walk for miles. He could probably walk across the Atlantic, he feels like. He could certainly walk to the bedroom.

He bops barefoot down the hallway floor to his sister's open door.

Suddenly he gets a nasty, stupefying pit in his stomach. Like someone has filled his belly with coarse sand, poked a hole in the bottom, and then just let the sand pour out. He stops dead, sick to his stomach with the feeling.

Can he still retreat to the bathroom again? He has been quiet.

He checks his emotional state. He feels: complexly.

"About what?" his manager asks.

"I can't look at her in those skimpy clothes, boss. I know how she's going to look in there and I'm not ready to handle it, man. This is basically a truth serum, right? I cannot go in there."

"Now wait, I think there's another way to look at this," the Ghost of Gussets chimes in.

"You're late, GG," chides the manager.

"Sorry."

"Don't be sorry to me. Be sorry to Will."

"Will, I'm sorry."

Will asks GG to explain what he means by 'another way to look at it.'

"Right, so it's like, the way I see it, Will: why not just go in there?"

Will looks at the Ghost as if expecting there to be more.

"Is that it?"

"Yeah! I mean: really stop and think about it: what if you just went in there?"

The manager frowns a moment, but then nods thoughtfully.

"He's kind of got a point."

"Thank you, boss. I really think you're over-thinking this, Willy. That room is the happiest place on earth right now. It's what you need right now. You said you wanted to have a good trip? Well, get in there and have the best damn trip."

The Ghosts of Topless Women and Butt Sex hear-hear in agreement. Butt Sex appears to be recording all this. The manager chuckles then shushes the team. He turns the spotlight back to Will.

"It's your trip, Will. You do what feels right."

Chapter Four, Part Four

Ingrid is lying there in her yellow and white, right where he left her, looking half-asleep but for the one hand inside her underwear, and the other inside her cami. Will lays down beside her, reclaiming his half of the pillow.

He happens to notice his sister's hands. The one hand has what seems to be a squeezy, twisty grip on her left nipple. The other hand is further down and, to his pleasant surprise, fairly visible inside her yellow underwear from this angle. The light inside the space inside her undies is warm and cheery. He's glad he came back to the bedroom.

The manager gives him a thumbs up from the doorway, then disappears.

Will likes his little sister's new shapes. The way her pelvis kind of rounds upward before it bevels down. He likes how she kind of humps at nothing, her cute little ass cheeks clenching beside him. She arches her back a little off the mattress. He likes that, too.

He feels his cock stir inside his pajama bottoms.

And his sister simply says out loud, quietly:

"Sorry, I'm just kind of riding the groove."

"Yeah," he says.

"That okay?"

He gestures with childlike fascination at her lower half. "You shave."

"Yep," she giggles. "It's worth it."

What had he ever been worried about?

"Since when do you shave?"

"Since none of your business."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Ha. It's fine."

"..."

"Isn't acid great?"

"Is that what this is?"

"It's thinky," his sister giggle-gasps.

She's really going at it. Will slips a very clean hand into his pajama bottoms and adjusts his aching junk.