Sisters, by Any Other Names

"Unbelievable," I muttered. "Simply unbelievable."

I wasn't just saying that. I honestly didn't know where the line between fantasy and reality was. What I did know was that my cock didn't care, my brain wasn't objecting all that much either, and Sam, over my knee, could absolutely feel that first traitor's response to her wicked designs. Meanwhile, the wet spot on my pants wasn't because I'd shot off early. Sam was soaked.

I let her whimper and sniffle for a bit. I felt like the game was ending, and that I was going to have to make a choice between a mood-ruining conversation and incredible sex that I might end up regretting later.

SMACK!

That one surprised her. She turned her head to find my eyes. I took my free hand and roughly shoved my thumb towards her mouth. She opened up and accepted it. The expression on my face overwhelmed her confusion. She realized I was completely invested, and she sank right back in.

"Pretend she's watching me spank you, you sneaky little slut," I said. "Two more. Say you're sorry to Maxine."

I withdrew my thumb and urged her head back down.

SMACK!

"OW! I'm sorry, Maxine! I'm sorry I got you drunk and high and seduced you! But you know you loved it!"

SMACK!

"AHHH! I'm sorry, Will! I'm sorry I didn't tell you about my plan sooner! I'm sorry I didn't tell you that I've been working on Maxine for weeks now!"

That ripped me out of the impromptu fantasy in a hurry. "What the fuck?" I said, more than asked. Then it hit me all at once: the look at dinner, the looks once she'd been tipsy, the whispered words, the 'accidental' hugs and kisses.

"It's not magic," she whimpered. "It takes planning and effort. I didn't want you to have to deal with anything unless there was a real chance. I think there might be now."

A lot of people know what it's like to reach a pivotal moment in their relationship while - by coincidence or design - they're also so horny that they could die. Bad choices get made. Condoms are foregone. Things go in the wrong hole. Breakups and difficult conversations are delayed in favor of angry, hateful, or mournful sex. We experience a wildly different -- and usually much worse -- version of ourselves, as though we're not even control of our bodies or minds. Then, eventually, most of us snap out of it, and we're left to figure out who in the fuck we actually are.

All of that is to say: go ahead and judge me. Judge us. It's okay. It was one of those pivotal moments, and I probably didn't make the right choice. I didn't call Sam out for not trusting me -- for practically lying to me. I didn't demand she clarify what, exactly, she was planning on doing to the real Maxine on Sunday. I didn't rein in my devious little pixie, even though a part of me was screaming that she'd finally gone too far.

Instead, I manhandled Sam until I was standing and she was practically dangling. I had a hand around her neck, and I was squeezing enough so that she could feel it. My other hand was pushing up on her drenched, throbbing, fiery pussy, providing enough support so that she wouldn't suffer any real damage from the faux-choking.

I pulled her in close. Our gazes didn't merely meet; they practically fucked. I waited for her deep brown eyes to betray something else besides unbridled lust -- some hint of fear. I didn't care if it was my physical strength or my intense expression that caused it. I just needed to see it.

It took longer than it should have. I had to squeeze harder.

"We're having a real conversation about this, Sam," I finally told her.

"Okay," she squeaked out. I heard the submission -- the real kind, not just the sexy kind -- and that was all my distant, fading conscience required.

"Tomorrow," I said.

Her fear vanished. Her lust redoubled. She was an animal in heat. She was a sheep that needed to be fucked so badly that she didn't care if it was a wolf that did it, or what might happen afterwards.

I played that wolf gladly. I kissed her violently. My tongue and teeth didn't give her a chance to kiss back; she simply had to take whatever I gave her. I roughly massaged her pussy with the palm of my hand, sliding it around so I could push on her clit and penetrate her with my middle finger at the same time. In between hungry bites -- because that's what my kisses were -- I looked down pointedly to her tiny breasts and protruding nipples. I wanted her to know that they were going to get ravaged very soon. She got the message, and it set up another feedback loop of sexual insanity between our gazes.

I carried her to the bedroom like that. I withdrew my middle finger before tossing her on the bed like a ragdoll. She'd barely gotten her bearings before I was naked, and I was glad she hadn't had a chance to slide off her panties. I pounced on her and tore them off -- not literally, but almost. I put all of my weight on her body, not bothering to try to line anything up down below. What was important was that my lips could find her ear, and that she felt completely helpless.

"It's going to be a rough night for you, Sam," I warned her with a low, rumbling whisper. It was a chance for her to back down, back out, or even just change the script.

If she'd chosen the latter, I wasn't sure we would've fucked at all. I think she knew that. "I submit," she whispered. "Punish me. Do anything you want to me."

I started to lift up, but she wrapped her arms and legs around me, begging me to stay where I was.

"But pretend I'm Maxine."

It was all I could do not to devour her whole, but I held off for one more moment. It was beyond obvious to me that, notwithstanding my physical superiority and all the rough sex soon to follow, Sam was in charge. I couldn't abide that. I also didn't think I could beat her at her own game. The best I could do, I supposed, was to insist upon a full partnership.

"Only if you pretend that Sam is lying right next to you - collared, plugged, gagged, hands tied behind her back, forced to watch me cuck her with her own sister. The gag only comes out when it's time for her to eat the creampie. If she's lucky, I'll sodomize her while she does it."

The moan that came out of Sam's mouth practically stole the seed from my balls.

By the time we finished fucking that night, I was bone dry, and she was blackout cum drunk. Neither of us possessed the strength or stamina to get up to go to the bathroom one last time. We couldn't even shift or roll around to cuddle one another, and I'm not sure it would've felt right if we'd tried. We simply passed out in bed, letting fate decide whether or not we'd die in our sleep.

***********

The sleep of the sated and the sleep of the innocent shouldn't be so similar... but they are.

Sam was probably sore as anything, though she hid it well. After a single bottle of water, I was on top of the world. I was tender and loving with my girlfriend, but I made it clear that I was still in charge. We cuddled in bed for as long as I wanted; I kissed and fondled her, and she accepted the attention with meek passivity. We went into the bathroom together, and she knew right away that she wasn't going to have any privacy. Once we took care of that business, we showered together. I pushed her down to her knees and made it clear she needed to worship my asshole before sucking my cock. During her second course, I held her head with both hands and languidly fucked her mouth. I didn't cum, though. I knew I only had one load in me, and I knew where it needed to go.

Back in the bedroom, I didn't give her a chance to pick out clothes. I urged her back to the bed, completely naked, and had her splay out on her back. I fetched some lube from the drawer and settled in beside her, then took my time coating her pussy and clit with the thick gel.

The worry and concern for her sore pussy faded from her face as I massaged her. I leaned in and kissed her forehead, her cheeks, and then her lips. When she was more relaxed, I coated my fingers and slowly penetrated her. I withdrew, added more lube, then entered her again. After about four or five healthy doses, I could tell she was ready. I added even more lube to my cock as I stroked it to its full hardness.

After ditching the bottle and wiping my hands, I carefully mounted Sam in missionary. I made sure to maintain eye contact while lining up my cock with her entrance. We didn't speak; she didn't beg me to be gentle, and I didn't promise her I would. We both just knew.

After almost two years of practice, I didn't need her hands or mine; my cock found its way home, and I got to see one of Sam's most special faces. I made slow, sensual love to her for several minutes with our gazes locked. Our kisses were soft and quick so that the connection didn't break. Eventually, my strength began to fail, and I lowered myself fully on top of her.

"Sam," I whispered in her ear.

She nodded, and huffed out a small, mousy, "Mm-hmm" in response. That's all I needed. I needed us both to know that we weren't playing a game or pretending anymore. I was making love to Sam, my girlfriend.

The orgasms for both of us were more emotional than physical. I felt a shuddering deep inside myself, and not so much sensation at the tip of my cock. I felt a true release into her depths, rather than a firing-off. I didn't get to see her face when she came, but it sounded halfway between the usual "O" and something like an "Awwww" -- the kind you'd spare for a puppy or kitten.

I stayed on top and inside of her. She stroked my back; I nuzzled and kissed her neck and collarbone. We recovered together, as one. Neither of us spoke. Neither of us broached, or even mentioned, the conversation to come.

When it was time to part, I let her know with an "I love you, Sam."

"I love you, Will," she replied.

I still didn't know if we were going to be okay, but I knew that both of us had told the truth.

*******************

For the rest of Saturday, Sam was on a leash. I'm sure she would've loved a literal one, but we had shopping to do, and I wasn't ready to dive headfirst into public displays of weird fetish shit. As we hit the various shops on our list, she was careful not to stray too far from me. When she got too excited, I was there to calm her down. There was a lot of surreptitious fondling. I'm sure we disgusted a few attentive people. We also probably gave a few perverts down at the sex shop a cheap thrill.

We agreed that marijuana edibles would be on offer the next day, but that that, plus alcohol, was the line. We weren't going to slip Maxine anything without her knowledge and consent, either. I told Sam that she needed to nut up and accept the challenge. If she couldn't persuade her older sister to get a little buzzed and high on a weekend, that didn't bode well for the rest of her grand plan.

We busted the budget on those, wine for mimosas, sex toys -- including a full suite dedicated to giving enemas at home -- extra lube, and then all manner of spa accessories: scented candles, lotions, massage oils, some fresh towels and pillows, and even some of those specialized support wedges. I drew the line at relaxation CDs. They were charging twenty dollars for them. My girlfriend knows how to drive me crazy, but not that crazy.

For our last stop, we went clothes shopping -- and not for either of us. Sam argued that converting Maxine to Max involved getting her into comfy, homebody clothes while she wasn't at her own apartment; the best way to make that happen would be to have stuff in her size at our condo. She got me very hot and bothered by telling me that we also needed to make sure some of my T-shirts were "rich" with my "scent," and that made me helpless to resist when she picked out all manner of sweatpants, yoga pants, flimsy tanks and camis, silky little shorts, socks, and even panties in Maxine's size.

"One outfit," she said, just when I'd been about to put my foot down.

"Uh, this is more like seven already," I countered. It wasn't even my money, and I was making myself sick thinking about the day's final tally.

She shook her head. "No, silly. One 'Max' outfit. You pick it out. Think about it. I know you already have."

I glanced around -- something I'd done dozens of times during our shopping trip - trying to see just how much trouble I might get into if our latest conversation took a turn. Sam got frustrated and moved in close, trying to recapture my attention. I finally relented and looked down at her. The shameless sneak was giving me the puppy dog eyes.

"Think about it," she said, lowering her voice as a concession to my paranoia. "She loses the heavy makeup. The tan fades a little. Maybe she goes natural with the hair color; I don't know. You see her walking down the street, or at a coffee shop -- no, at the library. Maybe she even has glasses on; I know you like that. What is she wearing? What makes you sit up and say 'wow?'"

I didn't like that she'd used that phrase. "Don't you want that to be just for you, babe?" I asked.

She radiated sympathy. "That's really sweet, babe," she said. "I love that you think that way."

"But?" I didn't give her a chance to reply; I'd thought of something better to ask. "What is this really all about, Sam? Is it... you know... is it really a cuck thing for you?" I whispered the offending word like a scared schoolgirl, or a perpetually-shocked midwestern housewife. It was embarrassing, but I was caught between a rock and a hard place. I didn't want to have the conversation in the middle of a department store, but time was a factor, as was momentum. At that moment, both were favoring whatever my girlfriend was actually up to.

She shook her head, then disavowed the head-shake with a head-tilt. "Okay, that was really hot when you brought that up," she said, "but no. It isn't that. It's just..."

"For fuck's sake, Sam," I whispered, "we're apparently doing this in public, in the real world, so can we skip some of the theatrical pauses at least?"

"Okay," she said. "Okay. Listen, I know Maxine -- Max, whatever -- is still probably going to flit around the world for another ten or twenty years, have other boyfriends - maybe even some girlfriends once we loosen her up - and that's fine. We're probably not going to be able to, like, deprogram and reprogram her into our third, who loves staying home all day and fucking like we do."

"But that's what you want," I said, suddenly getting it. "If you had your way, that's how it would be: all three of us, together, permanently."

She shrugged guiltily. "Well, yeah," she said. "Is that so wrong?"

The laugh crept up on me, but once it was out, it was pretty loud. "Jesus," I said. "What a question. Compared to what? Relative to what -- pun intended?"

That got her to smile -- one of her scheming, rodent-like smiles that conceded she was what she was. Then she got serious again, but the guilt, upset, and frustration were gone. She was almost serene. "Well, that's the answer to your question. I want all three of us to sit up and say 'wow' to each other. I don't know if I want you to love her like you love me, but I definitely want you to want to fuck her like you do me -- and to love her enough to not kick her out of the condo when we're not fucking."

"And you want her to love me, love you, and want to fuck us both."

"Yeah."

"And if somehow, magically, she wanted to do that full-time, you'd want that too?"

"Well," she said, "if she were Max. But yeah."

"That's a lot, Sam."

"I know. I know!" She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. It occurred to me, randomly, that we were obliterating the token economy with a flood of stark, filthy honesty -- and doing it in the middle of a department store on a Saturday.

She opened her eyes again. Her frustration was fuel. She was revving up a challenge at the stoplight. "Tell me you've never fantasized about it."

"Not until very recently."

She rolled her eyes. "Technicalities. Fair enough. Tell me you've never fantasized about having two hot, bisexual girls servicing you, and each other. Maybe even sisters."

I took another look around. We were still safe. "Fine," I said. "Yes -- I mean, I have."

"You and billions of others," she said, "and that's not me being a judgmental bitch. It's nature. It's evolution. I'd like to think that even if I weren't weirdly into it, I'd understand it. And Will, you're closer to it than most men ever get. One of the two hot, bisexual sisters in your orbit is already in love with you, and one hundred percent on board. She's not even really doing it for you. She's doing it for herself. She's asking you to come along for the ride. She wants you to be the man in the trio."

"Sam," I said, "Fantasies and real life-"

"Fuck," she said, interrupting me. I could tell she wanted to start pacing, too, but she was restraining herself. "Fuck! I wish we could just... go down to the courthouse and fill out some forms and you'd fucking own me. I'd be your slave -- your property - and then you'd finally realize I'm never going to leave you over this, no matter what happens. I'm your girl. You're my man. You're my one and only man. I want you to own Max, too, and I want her to be my girl -- well, my main girl, at least."

"Okay," I said, clearly meaning the opposite. "Sam, what the fuck?"

"Would you ever dump me over this?" she asked, completely ignoring the fact that she'd just brought up literal slavery. "Assuming I didn't go completely nuts and slip you guys drugs or anything like that. If it just, like... didn't work out, or got a little messy because Maxine freaked out. Would you?"

"No," I said. "I'd do everything I could to keep you. I love you. But let's-"

"And I'm a total slut for you," she added, interrupting me yet again. "Don't pretend that isn't important. It is."

"Okay," I sighed.

"And I believe you," she said triumphantly. "I one hundred percent believe that you wouldn't dump me over this. That's also why I'm not..." She paused, searching for exactly the right words. "... preemptively, hypothetically jealous about you finding Max super hot. I'm yours, and I know it."

I put my head on my hands like a terrible actor would. I took a deep breath and sighed it out, just like the same. "Jesus Christ, Sam," I muttered. "I seriously feel like you could get a job as a crossroads demon. Honestly."

"One outfit," she repeated, the triumph still lingering in her voice.

"Okay," I said. "Okay. Let me think."

"Think out loud," she suggested.

"Well," I said, "you brought up the library, so obviously I'm thinking about her dressed up like a librarian, or a college student."

Sam's face soured. "'College student' could mean literally anything. Sexy librarian?"

"No," I said. "That's not what we're going for. Too formal, and trying too hard to be... well, sexy."

She smiled and nodded. "Right, exactly. You get it. So think tomboy. Think sporty girl -- the real kind, that are putting in the work. Stuff like that. We already have the basic-bitch-at-home angle covered."

"Yes we do," I said pointedly, looking down at our cart. "Okay. Well... shit. Oh, shit."

Sam started bouncing in place. "Oh, you have something. Oh my god, why am I so excited about this? But I am."

"I do, yeah," I said, "but that's not... Life Is Strange."

Her eyes widened. "No fucking way! Wow. The first one? Oh my god, tell me it's her."

She was referring to Max Caulfield, the main character of the video game in question. I nodded my head.

"Oh, that is awesome!" she said. "It's freaky! So, which one? Which outfit?"

"Guess."

She pretended to think about it for two whole seconds, which, strangely, didn't annoy me. I was a very inconsistent policeman when it came to her antics. "The grunge outfit," she said. "Rachel's clothes -- the dead girl."

"You're an actual witch," I said. "You know that, right?"