The Slumber Party Pt. 02

Just how long has she been watching?

No, I guess that's irrelevant. My cock's still buried inside my sister. Brooke just stubbed her toe; I swear! Nah. Ain't gonna fly.

I peek back down at Brooke, and--Oh!--my sister is so happy. Her teeth spread apart in a thousand watt smile. Her shoulders wiggle as she nestles her hips against mine. She's going to explode in joy.

I don't get it. This right here, this is the end of our world. Mom just caught us, her only two children, having sex.

So many implications.

Our lives are over.

So why is Sis smiling?

Wait...

Think about it.

Our current lives are over.

Something about Brooke's smile, it's infectious. I feel it spreading across my own cheeks, deep dimples. My heart flutters. It's so light all of a sudden. The sensation is so real, it manifests as a physical change in my posture. All my burdens come unshackled.

I peer back at Mom, and I guess the sight of her children locked together at the hip, both positively beaming in joy and ecstasy back at her, it must have been too much. She lets go of my arm and staggers back. Her foot catches and she falls onto her ass, just utterly horrified, soul-destroyed.

Seeing her down there, her grease and flour stained hands, her white apron draped between her legs, even the spatula tucked into her apron pocket--this was a normal morning for her. Her family was back for the holidays, every parent's joy, and she must have been so happy getting around to doing all the turkey fixings and Christmas presents and holiday cheer and all that Mom stuff.

Guilt that stabs my heart.

But then, she must have heard our screaming and raced upstairs to see what all the commotion was about, perhaps thinking one of us was hurt. But instead she finds this--this raw-dog sister-fucking. And she must have lingered in the corner of the room just watching us go at it, unsure how to react...

That's right. Mom stood meekly in the corner of the room, just watching, not saying a peep. That's her M.O. It's just like she did at the hospital after the Paylor High game, just like when Dad was wrenching on my swollen ankle, and I was biting down on my arm, muffling my screams, writhing around in unnecessary agony, all because of a fumble. And Mom just watched on from the corner, not a complaint nor protest on her lips.

The guilt fades.

Just like when Dad was waking me up at five every morning and making me run suicides in the driveway as she watched out the kitchen window, blending me up the kale and creatine that she knew I hated.

She was fine with all that. No complaints on her lips, just as long as the bad stuff doesn't affect her and her illusion of family, she's fine with it.

I glare down at Brooke with a wicked grin, and she beams back just as twisted.

"No, don't." Mom's whimpering, pleading from the floor. She says that, but her eyes are locked on my cock buried inside Brooke's cunt. She can't seem to believe or understand it.

I kneel back and grab Brooke by the knees, hiking her hips up and spreading her pussy as wide as it'll open. Her everything is revealed to me. It's also revealed to our Mother. My cock slides out of my sister. Her cunt grips the shaft, the muscles pulling out from between her pussy lips, as if it doesn't want to let me go. That's right. She doesn't want to let me go.

"Rub your cunt," I tell her.

For more reasons than I'm capable of understanding, those words get her so hot. It's written on her face, and I feel it even more so in the contractions of her pussy. She pinches her engorged clitoris, pulling and stretching and flicking it all about--surely painfully. I ram my cock into her until it bottoms out against her fist. She gasps. Her eyes sparkle. She loves it.

"Stop. You can't." More whimpering from the floor, and still, Mom stares at the raw fucking of her children.

Brooke's fist clenches around the base of my cock, her de-facto cock stopper. Even as lust fueled as I am right now, I still don't want to hurt her. Nah, the only person I want to hurt is the one whimpering on the floor. I just...I really want to return the favor for my raising, and now I have the power to do so.

My thrusts are slow and strong. They slide her body up the bed until the top of her noggin bangs into the wall. I draw back. Her vagina pooches out of her pussy. I slam forward. Her head slams against the house. Out, in. Out, in. My rhythm picks up.

Quickening wet splooshes, a nasty queef, pungent cunt musk. She punishes her clitoris, her mind certainly lost to some alternate dimension of pain and pleasure. I smash into her pussy. Faster, faster. Soon, my hips are a spasming jackhammer once again.

Brooke cries out into the air, screaming so loud that the neighbor's probably hear.

Her hips buck, her pussy clenches. This is a sensation I've come to know is her orgasm, but unlike her other orgasms, this one is fierce! Her stomach heaves in and out. Her thighs begin to quake. She screams at God, and it's like she's completely unshackled from everything in that moment, too.

A stream of piss and cum spray out of her urethra. It splashes into my stomach, drips down my balls, soaks the bed, and my knees slop through that burgeoning swamp, that pouring waterfall as I pound her pussy as hard and fast as my hips will shake.

The heavens open to me right after. I throw my head back and scream, "Fuck yeah!" I slam the head of my cock clear up against her cervix, pushing into it, almost trying to break through. My legs quake, balls swell, and an utterly transcendent orgasm rocks my world. Rope after rope of cum shoots straight into my sister's womb.

It bleeds out of her hole, creams around my cock. I work that slime in and out. Rotten wet slurpings.

Brooke is drenched in sweat, flushed, chest heaving, and I suppose I'm not better, with the exception that, I'm pretty sure she'd just peed on me.

Jesus Christ.

Our worlds just ended, and it was incredible.

Once I catch my breath, I ask her, "What happens now?"

She wrinkles her nose, so cute. "Got any tissues? I need to plug my pussy."

We both ignore Mom. That tired old lady drags herself out of the room, pretty much crawling and utterly defeated.

A twinge of post-nut guilt pangs my heart. I should feel awful for what we'd just done to our mother, but then again, Mother should feel worse for what she did to us--and I know she doesn't. Her only fear is the illusion of family lost.

Besides, me and Brooke, we're just the little monsters that her and Dad made. I've tried to be good, but for them, I was never good enough. They always wanted more, more, more.

I flop over beside Brooke, and curl into her as she holds me. I'm the little spoon, and right here, I'm completely safe. I might even be able to get a hard-on naturally if my dick wasn't spent, but that's probably just wishful thinking.

In a bit, we do need to take a shower and do some serious laundry, but for now, this is fine. Besides, Brooke laughs about how she can't walk right now.

I suckle on her breast. She rubs the back of my head, basking against me.

The pair of us are lost to our own little world--at least until Dad and Brain come home.

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

I try not to think about the future. But I do know that mine has changed. It's an unknown.

The washer beeps, and I fish out the entire comforter that was on Brooke's bed. It's wrapped around the actuator, so it takes some doing, then I stuff it into the dryer with a handful of fabric softener sheets.

It's noon, and I wander out to the kitchen.

Brooke's seated at the table, and I swear, since this morning, she's had a permanent grin plastered across her face, but it isn't her twisted one. It's just happy and innocent. Like the kind of smile you can't control when you're feeling good. I don't understand how she can appear so innocent considering the things that I did to her a few hours ago.

She's leaning back in her chair, feet kicking idly up in the air. Why, she might even be humming a tune.

As I walk by, I lean down. She leans up and puckers her lips. We linger against each other, but just as she opens her mouth for more, a sharp clank, clank, clank interrupts us.

Mom's standing by the stove heating up some turkey and gravy. She really made it a point to clank the spatula against the side of the pan. She hasn't said a word to us since this morning. Though, I really doubt my sister is helping with that. She's been following Mom around like a unwelcome shadow all morning, Brooke just so happening to need to be in the same room as Mom constantly. Huh. Go figure.

I can see that what happened is weighing heavily on Mom. Seemingly just over the course of a couple of hours, I swear she already has bags forming under her eyes.

Funny.

Mom never seemed to mind the bags under Brooke's eyes, but now the same thing has happened to her. It only seems right that me and Brooke pretend not to notice and just go about our lives without pause nor empathy.

Brooke gets an impish glean about her. "What's for lunch, Mom?"

Mom doesn't answer.

"Are you making turkey sandwiches?" Brooke keeps poking.

Mom scrapes the bottom of the pan and flicks an oven knob.

"Are you using that heavy wheat bread? 'Cause if you do, I don't really like the crust. Could you cut the crust off for me, Mommy?" Sis is just swinging her legs without a care in the world.

No reaction.

Brooke pokes me and nods over toward Mom. "You ask her," she whispers.

I...don't know. This seems to be taking it a little far. Brooke pokes me again. Fine, fine.

"I--I think I'd like some mashed potatoes on mine," I say. "A good open faced sandwich."

Mom doesn't reply.

I shug back to sis. Earlier, Brooke had reassured me a thousand times over that Mom would never say anything to Dad or Brian about what happened. And, oddly, I believe that. Mom's is a passive strength, to put it in the kindest terms. She'll carry burdens quietly as long as the appearance of normalcy is maintained.

Perhaps even more oddly, I'm kind of hoping that Mom does tell everyone. That would force me and Brooke's futures together, I think. That would be the easy path forward, close off all our other options like welp, nothing else we can do now, Brooke, guess we got to spend the rest of our lives together.

God, it feels good to be evil.

That naive thought lingers right up until I hear gravel crunching up the driveway. The Silverado is pulling in, Dad and Brian are here.

Oh fuck.

My breath hitches.

All that false bravado melts away. All of it gone, that quickly, that easily. Ha, how fragile of a resolve. What a useless partner am I.

Sis turns around in her chair and hugs my waist, just like she did back in her room when she was applying her make-up. "Hey, don't worry about it. There's nothing anyone can do that I can't undo."

I appreciate the sentiment, but the statement is stupid. What--is she a genie? "Alright," I mumble and kiss the top of her head. Vanilla and lavender scented now. She dwells on me.

Mom's clutching a dish rag, again just watching us. This time with a truly indecipherable expression on her face.

The truck door slams. Brian exists first. I don't care about him, but when Dad's bald head and stocky shoulders appear just over his open door, I just--I can't--

Brooke yelps.

Oh fuck. I'd been clenching her shoulder in a death grip. I clutch the back of her chair instead. I think she pats my hand, but it's a faint register.

Mom still pretends to wipe off her spatula, the same one she wore in her apron when she caught me and my sister having sex.

The weight of that last part really settles in. I understand what me and Brooke did now, how wrong it was. But it's beyond apology.

Clank, clank, clank. Mom turns her back and returns to her stovetop fixings.

We're on our own.

Happy voices outside. "Yeah, thirteen's an awkward one. Just a shade too far for a nine iron and then that deceptive slope back into the drink." "Well, hell, you were right to play it long, Dad. I should have listened." "Ah, no worries--" I can hear the back slap from in here. "--all in good fun, Son."

When had Dad ever told me that a sport was all in good fun?

Pretty sure the wooden chair back is cracking under my grip.

The doorknob turns. The pair enter, clubs rattling. Dad glances to the stove, sees the turkey, and nods approvingly.

Brian notices Brooke, takes off his hat, and uses it to dab some sweat off his neck. "Hey, babe. We all packed?"

My sister, ever so sweet, replies, "Yup, your suitcase is in the car. Mason loaded it up."

Brain tips his head to me. "Thanks, man."

And just that easily, Dad and Brain leave for the den. All that buildup in my mind for nothing.

Twenty minutes later, we're all gathered around the table, and Mom's serving us leftovers. Dad does have something to say about that. He notices the knife and fork set out before me and declares, "Holidays are over. About time to be getting back to your normal diet. Don't you think, Mason?"

He thinks I should be having a smoothie.

I can't think of anything to say back, but honest to goodness, Mom does it for me. She picks that moment to set down a plate of turkey in front of me. It's laid up on a bed of mashed potatoes, a slice of toast underneath, and absolutely smothered in gravy.

She really did make me an open face sandwich.

Brooke's got a sandwich, too. Mom cut the heavy wheat crust off. I think I want to cry. Even my devilish sister has a troubled expression.

Brooke reaches down to pick up a wedge, but her fiance is staring at her hand funny. She nibbles away, all the while he just stares at her. Something must've dawned on him. He cocks his head and asks, "Where's your ring?"

"Hmm?" Brooke's chewing down a mouthful.

"Your ring, dear." He holds up his own. "Where is it?"

She holds up her hand--just a minute--, chews some more, and swallows. "My ring? It was in the way, so I took it off."

This catches Dad's attention, Mom's, too, albeit for different reasons.

"Oh?" Brian's sure asking a lot with that word.

"I was doing some deep cleaning." Her eyes flash. "The kind you don't wear an engagement ring for."

Jesus Christ, Brooke!

Clank.

Brian sets his fork down. He folds his hands over the table, a perfect triangle under his chin, and he stares down at Brooke. We're all silent. He holds that pause. Credit where it's due, that man is not stupid.

Brooke tilts her head, bats her eyelashes--over-dramatic innocence. "I thought that was my job, the cleaning?"

It's Dad who replies. "I don't like your tone."

But Brain holds up his hand. "It's fine, Mr. Hedgewick." He scoots out his chair and stands to his feet, head locked on Brooke. "I believe me and my fiance need to have a private conversation in the other room." He holds out his hand, waiting for Brooke to take it.

She goes for the sandwich instead. "You know, Mom," Brooke says through her mouthful, "this heavy wheat bread really isn't all that bad once you get rid of that loathsome crust."

Mom's mouth opens like she wants to say something back, but it's Dad who replies, "Brooke, do not be a brat. Brian is asking very nicely to speak with you." His voice is stern; his eyes narrow.

Brooke glugs down a big swig of milk and wipes away the mustache.

We all hear Brian's sigh. He drops his hand and glances down at his watch. With a tsk, he tells Mom and Dad, "I'm sorry Mr. and Mrs. Hedgewick, but I think we're going to have to leave a little earlier than we expected today."

"Nonsense!" Dad replies. "There's an Aggie game on at one, and you are more than welcome to stay another night if you want, Son, and..."

"I have to be at Cooperville for a seminar at four on Monday, and I would really appreciate a day of downtime after our trip home, and--" Brian rubs his eyes, really trying to keep his patience. "--it seems me and your daughter have something to talk about. As to what, I do not know."

"Oh, it's fine," Brooke replies. "We can do that here."

"Come on, Brooke." Brian tugs at her arm. "We can talk on the trip home."

She just lets her arm flop back down onto the table.

Then Brian does this thing where he grabs her just under her armpit. His grip's not hard, but it looks to be just enough that she can't wiggle out of it. He starts to pull her to her feet. This time, she moves. And when she moves, a scene replays in my mind: Right after the slumber party, Brian was loading Brooke into the Escape, and he had that same grip under her arm. And me, I was doing burpees or something in the backyard, watching it all from afar. Him and her drove away, and I never even got to say goodbye.

Ever the lifelong bitch, Mason.

I see it this time, too. As soon as Brian grabs under her arm--and it's almost a physical thing--I see all of Brooke's moxie drain away. Her posture slumps. Her pallor whitens. She's like a cat who just got snatched up by the scruff of her neck.

But she did stand up to him. She made her intentions known, and everyone just ignored and steamrolled over her.

That really upsets me.

I push my chair out. I stand up--here, I'm a robot. I tuck my chair back in. Turn. Take three steps to my left until I'm right behind my sister, right at her back. I absolutely tower over Brian. He's athletic, certainly, and not a small guy, but I am fucking huge.

I reach out, slow and easy. My enormous fist fist clamps clear around Brian's wrist, and I begin to squeeze.

"It's fine, Brian. We can talk here," I say. Robots don't smile.

He tries to pull away, but his arm might as well be stuck in concrete. It doesn't even budge.

He withers and pales. His wrist must be the scruff of his neck, or perhaps when an average guy is staring up at a two-hundred and twenty pound lineman, everything about him is weak.

I can't recall ever having rebelled like this. It feels good--really good. It feels powerful. There's an intoxication about it, and I think I want to take things further. Maybe I'll--

"Mason, sit the fuck down." That's Dad. He doesn't even yell, doesn't ask, either. He just states my next actions.

And my body listens, too--just for a second. I did loosen my grip, almost let go entirely, but Brian's mouth pricks up into this smug grin, and there must have been some primal lizard brain thing that ticked off--like it's a challenge over a mate, something that goes even deeper than the conditioning to obey my father.

I crush his fucking wrist. Or, I try to. He's small to me, but he's not so weak that it turns to dust or anything that grandiose. There is a Pop! That's for certain. Then a squeal: His. He kneels, bows in front of my sister and far below me.

I'm still holding his arm. There's a clatter to my left. I ignore it. It's inconsequential to Brian below me, curling into himself, shock still, slack jawed in a twisted pain that he can't believe. I think I'll hurt him further.

And Brooke, she's looking up at me. I swear she smiles. Then her eyes go wide. She starts to yell something, but I don't hear it. All of the air wheezes out of my lungs. es from my lungs, and just as soon as I'd found my shred of power, I'm already doubled over.

Something hit me right in the solar plexus. Can't breathe. Gasping, gagging, tearing up, silent whimpering. When I can, I look up. Dad lords over me. His face is boiling fury. His fist is clenched. I think he's about to hit me again.

Yup.

A flash black. Pink static. He got me right on the cheek. That'll be a shiner.

The biggest damage he does isn't physical. His rage is radiant. It reaches out and grabs my heart. It feels like it's clenching it, trying to keep it from beating, but my heart fights back erratically. Patta-ta-ta-ta-patta-patta