The Slumber Party Pt. 01

She hugs me and just holds me there.

"Brooke, what are..."

"Shhhh."

I feel a throb of blood strain the veins of my cock. Her elastic waistband traps it there, letting blood in, but won't let it escape. One way entry. My cock grows. Inflating into her scratchy mons. Her waist wriggles against the pressure.

My dick is bent down at an awkward angle, wholly wrong in every way, but the pressure of her body smothers it there. Unable to grow up, it grows down.

I hear a floorboard creak out in the hall.

With her bare breasts, hard nipples, raw stomach, and arms hugging me tightly up above, my cock continues to grow into her nethers, snaking down below. Her panties tickle the underside. Her pubes scratch along the uppers. On one particularly sensitive patch, the contrasting sensations become too much, and I buck my hips into her hard and heavy.

My sister takes this reaction in stride. Her hands slide down and grasp my clenching ass cheeks; fingertip grip into my sinewy flesh. She spreads my ass apart so wide that I can feel the exposure. Then she smooshes my flesh together, rolling and rubbing the muscles; then she tugs them apart again, smooshes them together, kneading them, thrusting my hips in towards her sex in sharp spastic jerks.

I feel my long thick cock swell down and press into the cradle of her panties, then still having more to go, my growing erection begins to stretch the fabric downwards. It had been so long since I'd had an erection, I'd forgotten what a monster my thing is.

It's wet down in that cradle of hers. Drenched. Utterly soaked. It's not a piss puddle, either; I'm educated enough about sex to know that. Those are my sister's vaginal fluids.

Two pairs of shadow toes linger outside the door.

In my mind's eye, I can picture my little peehole wallowing in her puddle, sipping the juices up, and more than that, I feel her fleshy pussy lips wrap around the shaft, kissing it, lathering it in her slick lube, and in between those lips, a different kind of nub slathers along the front of my cock, one that makes her body quiver.

The hard point of Brooke's pelvic bone grinds against me with every jerk, every pulse, every kneading of my asscheeks as Sister debases me further.

There's muted whispers in the hall, just outside my door.

Brooke hums into my chest. I'm confused despite understanding exactly what is happening, feeling vaguely like her thrall. She's insurmountably tall right now. Her hips quiver, knees shake, and a gush of warm fluids wash over my cock—hers—Brooke's insides. She bites my chest, whimpering into me. The eroticism and, even more than that, sensual love of that is so much that I feel a spurt creep out of my balls, but I clench it back with everything I got. Her legs go weak. I feel her slipping down away from me.

As she slips down my body, no longer able to support her own, my cock slides up her scratchy mons, retreating from her panties. She quivers down toward the floor. As she pulls away from me, I see a pinch of her fat nipple erecting from her left breast. Surrounding it is an oversized areola, palm sized bullseyes disproportionately large for the fatty mound that they're attached to. Her shirt drapes over the right.

Another spurt of cum tries to escape. I clench it back as best I can, but as the head of my cock slips from her waistband, it smears a bead of precum across her bare stomach, then flips up and smacks her left breast so hard, her fatty tissue jiggles as she falls to her knees, thighs spread before me, huffing and puffing. My sister, just oozing debased desires for me! Seeing that I—I just can't help myself, and I release. The orgasm is instantaneous. Stars sparkle in the corner of my vision.

Thick globular spurts shoot over her head. One strikes the door. An afterpulse splashes into her long brunette hair, coagulating just in front of the scrunchie tying her ponytail back. Brooke tips her head back and laughs, taking it all in. Another wave of orgasm. Another spurt of cum. This one lands on her right cheek, smearing across the freckles. The next splashes between the crease in her lips. I whimper as the aftershocks dribble cum from my still erect cock. It dribbles into the folds of fabric above her tits. She pulls her shirt up, exposing them wholly, and leaning forward to target the drip.

The last bead of cum dangles down on a long thin string. With Brooke's aim, it drizzles onto her left breast. When the bead finally breaks off, it drapes across her long erect nipple like a droplet of sticky milk dripping from her bosom—mine; I did that to her; she loved it.

The doorknob rattles; it turns; the door begins to open. "Hello?" I hear through the parting crack.

Quickly, I sling on my onesie the rest of the way and zip up the front. My cock tents heavily against the fabric, stretching long past my belly button, but that's the most modesty I can muster in this moment.

Brooke, seemingly oblivious to the intrusion, is still kneeling before me, sweating, face flushed, panting but seemingly more out of dissipating lust than exhaustion. My semen stains her hair; fat globules dribble down her cheek, moisten her lips, mix with her saliva. A long bead drapes off her extended nipple, clear on down to her lap. With her thighs spread open, a giant wet patch of her own cum and vaginal fluids stain her crotch.

She lets her shirt drop over the cum string, hiding her tits but also, absorbing my cum into the fabric and her skin.

Her tainted pupils peer up at me. Her eyelashes flutter. That same twisted smile spreads across her lips. Brooke throws her head back, and in a perfectly sweet voice, says, "Just a minute, Sophie."

As her lips move, the cum slithers into her mouth so casually. She doesn't drink it in so much as, with every word she speaks, it naturally dribbles into her mouth. The tip of her glistening tongue dabs at the leftovers.

Through the crack in the door, I hear, "Oh, okay."

Then it closes.

Brooke peers up at me, demeanor having shifted more modestly to something that almost resembles the normal her. "Good." She nods once. "You're dressed. Come on."

She rises to her feet, and once in front of me, her finger squeegees the cum dripping off her cheek, collecting it on the tip. I can still see the white staining her lips as she says, "I'm just going to put this back," and wipes the cum on the tip of my cock as it tents against the fabric of my pajamas.

Truly, I have no words for what all that just was. This is Drunk Sister. Sloppy Sister.

Brooke doesn't seem to notice or doesn't care. She bundles up my T-Rex sleeping bag and Cooling Comfort pillow, and ignoring the wet stain between her thighs, eases open the door while cradling the load and steps out into the hall.

She turns to me, beams, and says, "Come on. The girls haven't seen you in so long, Mason." Her smile twists. She adds, "I wasn't asking."

Utterly enthralled and totally confused, I follow.

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

Brooke stumbles over her feet as I trail behind her in the hallway, but once we get to her bedroom door, she straightens her posture. For a second, I think she's going to enter the room, but instead, she puts down all my stuff, walks right up to me and wraps my hulking torso into a big hug. Her cheek nestles into me like an old tomcat marking its human. "Thanks," she tells me, and I don't think she's referring to the hug or me attending the sleepover. Much more softly, in a whisper just about the white noise of the A/C, I hear her mutter, "Love you."

My brain's reeling a million different ways at once. If Brooke wasn't here with me right now, I think my emotions might swirl into another panic attack. That's what's weird: The current cause and the cure are one in the same girl.

She scrapes the cum off our shirts as best she can, wipes it on the inside of her pocket, then gathers my stuff back up, and stands in front of her door. I get a soft smile from her. Then with a reckless confidence, she throws open her bedroom door and strides inside, not even a hint of a fumble, fully in control—or at least, the illusion of it.

I scamper along behind her, covering the remnants of the cum stain on my stomach.

Her two old high school buddies are sitting in the middle of the floor, munching on a cold platter of Bagel Bites. Truffle wrappers litter the rug around them. There's a half consumed bottle of Merlot and a couple dixie cups propped up between them, and several empty bottles of Chardonnay are tipped over on the floor all around; one's even half tucked under Brooke's bed.

I no more than enter when Sophie, all ninety-pounds of her, jumps—literally hops—to her feet. My mind's still scrambled, and I can barely react. All I know is that my vision fills with a head full of curly frizz. That girl jumps and throws herself into my arms. If she were any bigger, it definitely would have been a running tackle. Instead, her full momentum just knocks me a few steps back.

And like that, I suddenly have the cutest girl in the world, my first and perhaps last crush, wrapped against my chest. "Mason!" She chirps. Just over the top, happy, bubbly, wonderful girl.

I'd managed to catch her midair. My brain's dazed from the things Sister did to me earlier, but as my once-good-friend melts into me, the half-wit hamster in my brain catches on and begins spinning my cogs. The here and now clarifies.

There's a big dumb smile on my face. Her afro frizz tickles my nose, and in what was probably a faux-paux, I bury my face into her curls and kiss the top of her head. "Sophie."

Her legs wrap around my back. Her arms hug my neck, and she drapes off of me like an ornery little squirt. I don't mind.

Truly, she's several years older than me, twenty-three, my sister's age, and is now an art teacher down at the middle school over in Longdale, thirty miles east. And, Lord, is she just wonderful.

Oddly, I find myself sniffling. Hope I don't snot in her curls.

This is—this feels good. "I missed you, Sophie." Corny. She doesn't care.

Her cute face tips up at me. Dimpled cheeks. Dusky skin. "I"m an oreo, Mason!" She once told me, mostly just to get under my skin. "Don't say that about yourself, Sophie." "It's me, dude. I can call myself what I want!" "Please...I really don't like to hear it." For some reason, she took that seriously..

Small town Texas.

Tonight, her plump lips kiss me on the cheek. Pure white teeth grin. There's a bit of an ornery gap between her upper incisors; on her lower ones, the left tooth is crooked, and that all just suits her so well. She whispers in my ear, "don't freak out," and gives me a big smooch right on the lips. "That's our second kiss, you know."

The hamster inside me dies, sudden stroke; I'm sure. My remaining motor functions creak out a nod, at best.

I wasn't aware she remembered our first. I was in eighth grade at what very well might have been my first lakehouse party. And oh God, Brooke and all her friends were absolutely plastered. Especially Sophie. Actually, now that I think about it, everybody except little eighth grade me was. Paulson Jones, second string running back at the time, thought he'd check to see if Sophie actually had boobs under her shirt. Admittedly, hers are quite small which means something to people for some reason. He groped her from behind, pads around a bit, then throws up his hands—touchdown!—and I hear him holler out over the crowd, "I felt a nipple! I felt a nipple."

Sophie just grinned to bear it, kept on talking to Eugene Hamilton like the groping wasn't even happening.

I threw Paulson off the balcony that night. Meant to just dangle him, give him a scare, but his shoe slipped off and he fell. Snapped his collarbone in a lilac bush. He was second-string, nobody gave a fuck, and from then until he left town, he was the junior who got thrown off the balcony by an eighth grader.

And then, after I drove the girls home on my learner's permit, right as Sophie was crawling out of the car, she grabbed my neck—probably as much to steady her own self as much as to pull me close— and gave me a sloppy wet smooch. It wasn't right in so many ways, but it didn't feel wrong, either.

Later on, I learned what the term "white knight" meant. Even still, I wouldn't trade it.

From over Sophie's frizzy hair, I see Brooke's only other friend. She's got her legs brazenly curled underneath her plump bottom. The rest of her pooches back to accentuate what the sweet Lord gave her. That woman, she's alabaster heaven: Blair Rochester.

And what's more, she's wearing some kind of Tim Burton fever dream of a swimsuit—yes, a one piece swimsuit with a frilly skirt around the waist. I haven't a clue as to why, but I suppose to her, that's why enough.

Thick, voluptuous. Her breasts strain the fabric of her slumber party wetsuit; her flesh spills out over top. Big plush thighs, hourglass waist, and sweet Lord, she's in a swimsuit!

She bites her lips, which are a dark off-shade of maroon. Half a dozen piercings stud her ear. There's even a ring in her nose. Dear Lord Hades, that woman is an underworld goddess, and she hams it up just to piss people off. I know her. Goths hate her because she's "basic." Farmers hate her because she's odd, and it's hard to disagree with that. And Blair revels there, stradling between them.

I see her staring, but not at me. Her eyes are locked on my sister's crotch, right at the wet patch staining Brooke's Spongebob pajama bottoms. Then her eyes flick to me. Wide, understanding. Oh God, she knows. She knows.

Blair shakes her head. It's okay. Glides to her feet, otherworldly. Strides up to the little Sophie hanging off my chest. Her hand slaps Sophie's bottom; her lips peck the girl on her cheek and nibble—her bright green eyes finding mine as does so. They narrow. Eyelashes flutter.

Sophie hums and wraps one of her arms around Blair's face, pressing her closer. Blair grabs Sophie's butt and pulls the smaller girl off of me. As the duo back away, Blair sticks out her tongue and mouths, "Mine," as she sets our friend back down.

Coy. Teasing. Intelligent. Blair hasn't changed in the years since I've seen her. Haven't a clue what she's doing with her life now.

Still, seeing and feeling all that affection just now, I swear, if I could get an erection outside of my sister's panties, I'd be rock hard right now. Oh God, what am I even thinking?

I find Brooke. She's shaking a bottle of Chardonnay. It's mostly empty, but she shrugs and slings a lounge pillow in front of her bed and plops down right there on the floor. The back of her head leans against her mattress as she takes a swig of the remnants of that bottle.

Maybe sensing all the weird energy coming from my sister, Sophie claps her hands together and hollers, "Okay. So, how aboooouuut: Pillow Fort!"

I can't help but beam. Her bubbly is infectious.

We rob cushions off the couch downstairs, steal blankets from the guest room, duvets from the loveseat, and a whole mess of clothespins from the laundry room.

It's...fun.

I got my Patrick Star onesie on. Once, Sophie flipped up the hood that I didn't even know was fastened to the back.

Right when it's on my head, Blair gasps. "Mason!"

Sophie hisses. Crosses her fingers and backs away.

"What?" I feel the top of my head. Roll my eyes. "Oh, really, guys?" The hood is pointed like a cone, I guess to mimic the point on the top of a starfish? I don't know. Huge marketing fail, at any rate.

I'm teased as the "Grandmaster" for the rest of the time we're building our fort.

"I didn't even buy this! Brooke did!" I point to her, but she's still slouched against her bed. Hasn't moved an inch since we came in here, hugging her dollar store Chardonnay. To that, Brooke just shrugs, eh, and slurps another swig.

Above her, a poster of Steve Prefontaine smiles down—Go the distance!—and all her medals and trophies are stacked on the dresser in front, like a shrine; every one dated to high school.

In the background, there's a subtle techno beat playing from a bluetooth speaker that she drums her engagement ring in time to, tinking it against the bottle. Her head idly bobs to the groove.

I take that back, Sis moves once. Blaire has her duck her head down so she can stretch a blanket across and pin it to the poster of Brooke's headboard.

And like that, we've essentially built a circus tent in the middle of Brooke's room. To support the center, we'd dragged the vacuum cleaner out of the closet, which worked really well as a pillar because of the telescoping handle. So with that all the way extended, and a reasonably solid base, we were able to tent the comforters and duvet covers high up in the air, leaving just enough room down below to crawl around inside, even for a linebacker.

"Lord Hoover!" Sophie kow-tows before our support pillar. Her shorty shorts bunch into her buttcrack and her tank top drapes off her meager chest. "Grace us with light!"

Oh yeah, that other thing. At some point, Sophie decided the vacuum cleaner kind looked like it had eyes and a mouth. Then Blair said something about it looking like a totem pole. "Like that Indian god thing?" "Native American, you ditz, and I dunno, was it a god?" They squabbled on and on until, apparently, we all worship Lord Hoover now, our vacuum cleaner/totem pole/support pillar.

"Ta-da!" Blair plugs in a string of old Christmas lights we found in the attic, and our pillow fort ignites, glowing magically with every color of the rainbow—or at least, every color as long as they're red, green, or blue.

We've got a line of couch cushions holding up one wall, heaps and heaps of pillows strewn about—basically a plushy floor at this point, and right in the middle, I see our resident goddess, Blair, kow-tow before Lord Hoover, He-Who-Supports-Us.

Her thick butt points up into the air. The back of her swimsuit digs between her pasty cheeks. She reaches back, sticks her finger in, pries it out with a long black fingernail, except she pulls the butt strap out too far, and when she does, she scoots it off to the side as she "adjusts" herself. In the midst of all that, her face peeks back at me, and she winks. I know she's just fucking with me, but for one brief glorious moment, her butt is wholly bared to me, crack and all, and flesh so white, it basically glows in the dark.

She adjusts her suit back into place and goes back to her "worship."

Sold! I'm a believer. Praise Lord Hoover.

I crawl up and kow-tow before my new vacuum god right next to her. She bumps into my shoulder, a heck of a flirt, but I also notice that her eyes are creeping down the front of Sophie's draping top.

Really? Huh.

Yeah, I guess in the back of my mind, I always kind of figured that, close as those two have been all these years.

When she turns back, she realizes that I'd caught her checking Sophie's boobs out. Her head lurches with a start, totally uncharacteristic of Blair. I bump her shoulder back and exclaim, "Praise Lord Hoover and all his bountiful offerings."

Sophie repeats my words, and after hesitating a step, a warm smile curls up Blair's cheeks, and she does so as well.

While we're sharing our happy moment, a foot kicks my butt: Brooke's. And by some divine miracle, she's slid from her spot just enough to slouch down and kick me.

I mouth, "What?"

She scoots back up to her lounge pillow. I can see that she'd slung a second lounge pillow right next to her own. She pats that spot and curls her finger at me, come hither.

"Really?" I mouth.

Brooke tips her head over to Sophie and Blair. "Watch" is her reply.

Feeling another wave of bitchiness roll through me, I shake my head and roll my eyes. She purses her lips, nods—"Okay"—, and slumps back against her mattress.