Stepped

Stepped

Mason knew he was not equipped to have a step-sister the day a stiletto sent him flying down the stairs. Truth be told, Jessica left a trail of girl wherever she went. Shoes, stockings, hair-ties, lip balm...feminine items appeared mysteriously in her wake as if she were intentionally leaving a trail to find her way home. The absent-minded professor, his new step-mother said. She'd lose her head if it wasn't attached.

Mason stared grimly at the treacherous shoe. The only thing in danger of being lost was his temper.

The front door creaked open. Jessica appeared at the foot of the stairs, snow crystals melting in her blonde hair.

"Hi!" she chirped. She proceeded to strip off her winter clothes. A hat here. A mitten there. A pink scarf cast across the room. Was there no end to her layers?

"I'd appreciate you cleaning up after yourself," Mason growled. Jessica had spent all of winter break snowboarding with friends. And each day, Mason vacuumed up the mad mess she left behind. Well, he stuffed it into the closet. But still.

Jessica looked down at the snowpants pooled around her feet. She wore nothing now but spanks and a crop top.

"Sorry, friend!"

She blew Mason a kiss and slipped lithely past. He followed her bottom's progress up the stairs with a mirthless lust. Jessica had the softly fit form of an off-season gymnast. How could something so infuriating be so appealing?

He pursed his lips and kicked her forgotten heel out of sight.

*

Mason stayed up late that night chatting with a friend. Tyler had managed to swing a date in the third week of his first semester. Mason listened to him describe the exact texture of his girlfriend's tongue for three minutes before interrupting. For Mason, college was not the sex-fueled bender he'd been promised by TV. And it could not, it seemed, be enjoyed vicariously.

He stared up at his darkened ceiling. The only girl who'd speak to him was the one next door. Typical.

Wind whistled past Mason's window. He wondered what made wind "whistle" in the first place. Perhaps this was what sparked belief in the supernatural. Didn't horror stories all take place on dark and stormy nights? He thought he'd read somewhere that when people lived in closer quarters, children invented ghosts to explain their parents' quiet moans. Wind did sometimes sound like moaning.

In fact...Mason sat up. The trees outside his window had gone still. Even so, there was sound.

Oh. Mmmh. Ooh. Oh, yeah. Baby.

Alarm bells went off in Mason's head. It was coming from Jessica's room.

He sat still for several moments while deciding what to do. Common sense--and decency-- told him to shove in ear plugs and go to sleep. Or put on music. Or kill himself. Anything to escape the sound of what was obviously his step-sister enjoying masturbation.

He laid back down and closed his eyes. Focused on his breathing. In and out. Slowly. But he could still hear it. Jessica must have her bed pressed up against the wall. Chills whispered up and down Mason's skin.

Ooof. Oh, fuck. Mmmh. Yeah. Oooh.

Mason balled up his fists as his cock tented his pants. A picture had formed, unbidden, in his mind: Jessica, her petite nude body splayed across the bed. Soft, sweet-smelling porcelain skin. A beauty mark on her shoulder. Clouds of cornhusk hair fanned out around her. Round, rising breasts he could sink his fingers into. Her own between her legs, swirling her moistened vulva while her hips rolled in time. The tenderest of pleasures.

Mason's cock strained painfully. Urgent instinct told him to yank himself into oblivion. But his mind protested. Who was this presumptuous girl who swanned into his house, stole his father's affection, left a mess, and manipulated his body like a marionette?

He couldn't let her win. He shouldn't let her win.

Oof. Ohhh...

Mason dug his nails into his thighs. Cotton pulled against cock. His hips rocked. He needed to feel something. Anything. Even if it was just the whisper of shorts against his skin...

No.

He locked his arms across his chest and lay still. Pre-cum dewed at the tip of Mason's cock as her moans grew more insistent. But he didn't touch himself. Even as she began to yelp. Even as her yelps melted into the sweet whimpers of a gentle orgasm.

He would not relent. He would not give her the satisfaction of his satisfaction.

Mason flopped onto his front, crushing his erection against his thigh. His rush of anger flung him into an exhausted sleep. He awoke the next morning with sticky thighs.

He could remember nothing of the dream.