First Beer Rescue Ch. 01byDarkinside©
The sound of my cellphone woke me suddenly; disoriented I looked around the dark den, settling my surrounding and situation. The television flickered on mute, dancing irregular shadows around me in the changing lights. The phone called out again and I grabbed for it, looked at the face; no name, a number I didn't know, and 11:47. I thought of Andrea, felt a spur of panic, and answered.
"Tony, it's Britt," came the voice, and my heart clenched in my throat. Adrenaline rushed through me and I stood, ready to run. "You better come and get her." There was noise in the background, and she was shouting as though I couldn't hear her. My brain roiled with all the bad things that could happen, and I reached for reassurance.
"Is she okay?" I blurted. "Is she hurt? Did anyone..." I couldn't finish.
"She's really drunk, Tony," came the too-loud nervous words. "Too drunk, I'm worried."
"I'm on my way," I said, my jaw set in anger. "Ten minutes. Thanks, Britt,"
"Okay. Hurry, all right?"
I made it there in seven, clutching the steering wheel, my heart hammering in my chest and cursing myself for allowing it, cursing her friends for putting her in danger. Our parents had allowed Andrea to stay home with me as her eighteenth birthday present, instead of forcing her to go upstate to see her cousins. They only allowed it since I would be home to watch out for her. I knew her friends would have a party for her, and I knew I couldn't stop her from going, so I gave her all the best drinking and party advice I could, to keep herself safe; no opened drinks, nothing that wasn't closed when she got it, alternate with water. She had turned eighteen, and she was going to drink, even though the age was twenty-one. But I knew that first time drinkers could make mistakes, and I was supposed to take care of her, she was my little sister, for chrissake. I pulled up to the house and stormed inside.
Brittany was waiting for me at the door, a panicked expression of concern. They were close, those two; always had been, and I knew she looked out for Ange. She waved me inside.
"This way," she urged, "I tried to stop her, to slow her down, I swear, Tony, I tried, but the girls..." she trailed off as she led me through the party, still in full swing, oblivious to my sister's plight, or not caring. I followed down the hall.
The other girls. Her friends. That trash Alice was the ringleader; she was older, having been left back in sixth grade. She was trouble, and now Ange was suffering for it. Brittany led me into a bedroom in the back of the house where several laughing drunk girls were gathered around the bed. I pushed my way in, ignoring their drunken slurred objections, but they fell silent as the whispers spread of who I was.
At twenty-five I was seven years her senior, and various construction jobs had helped me fill out my once-lanky frame. My six-three height towered over them as they fell silent and I came to the bed, and saw my sister.
My head swam. She was almost completely out of it, and I felt rage and fear take hold of me. I turned to Brittany, who I knew I could trust.
"Did anyone hurt her? Touch her?"
"No, Tony, I don't think so. I think she had too much," she said worriedly.
"Oh, stop, no one touched the little thing," I heard from the other side of the bed, and turned to face Alice, that skank ringleader. She smirked over her drink. "We just wanted her to have fun, is all, she slurred, looking to he cronies for support, "can't help it if she's a lightweight." Her followers giggled.
"You stupid fat cow, Alice!" I barked, and the room fell silent. "She's not as old as you, and she weighs, what? A hundred pounds? If that!" I waved my hand dismissively in her direction. "She doesn't have your bulk. She can't handle what your fat ass can handle." Alice's eyes and mouth opened wide. "She could have alcohol poisoning, she could end up in the hospital!" I yelled, "they would call the police. And YOU gave her the drinks!"
Alice blanched then, but she made her exit with a tooth suck and a sneer in my direction, and her little group went with her, leaving me alone with Britt and my passed out little sister. She was lying on her stomach, face down, and I rolled her over to check her breathing and she moaned. A wave of relief swept through me; she wasn't passed out, just really drunk.
"Did she throw up?" I asked Britt.
"No, not that I saw," she replied meekly. I think she was as scared as I was angry.
"I'm gonna take her home. Do you need a ride?"
"Huh? No, I drove, I wasn't drinking. I have my car here. Tony, I'm really sorry."
"It's okay; you did the right thing, thank you. Is this her purse?" Britt nodded. "She have anything else here, a jacket?" She shook her head while Andrea moaned her delirium. "Listen, can you find me a plastic trash bag or something in case she gets sick on the way home?" She nodded and I added, "And see if you can find a couple of bottles of water, too. Bring them outside, out front." She nodded again, and scurried out of the room.
Alone now, I scooped up the purse and laid it on Andrea's belly, and pulled her to the edge of the bed so I could get my arms under her. I squatted next to the bed and lifted her to my chest and stood. She was light, but dead weight. She told people she was five foot, but she was really only four-ten, and if she was a hundred pounds it would be soaking wet, so I lifted her easily. Her eyes opened as I held her up and adjusted her in my arms; they were glassy and unfocused, and her mouth hung open. Then her head dropped to my shoulder.
"Oh, Tony, I'm sorry," she slurred softly.
"It's okay, Ange," I lied, thinking of how bad it could have been, what our parents would say if they found out. "I'm taking you home." I started for the open door, and she started crying. I carried her down the hallway, the music suddenly too loud, the people, the kids, having too much fun. I scowled at anyone who dared look my way and they turned their heads. Most of them were probably under age for drinking, but it wasn't my business. Andrea was my business, and I made for the door. Someone was decent enough to open it, and then we were outside. Britt was there, with a plastic trash bag and two bottles of water, and she put them in Andrea's lap. I thanked her again, told her to get home safe, and started down the driveway to the car.
I had to put her down to open the car, and she groaned loudly as I sat her on the ground, he back against the car. After opening the door I crouched down next to her, calling her name to get her attention.
"Ange. Andrea. Andrea." She just moaned and cried in response. I held her face in my hands, and pointed it at my own. "Andrea, are you gonna be sick? I need to know before I put you in the car."
"I don't know," she managed. "Yes. No. Oh, Tony, I'm sorry," she cried. "Oh, my god, I'll never drink again, I swear it, I'm sorry."
"You should throw up," I told her. I know, I've been there.
"I don't want to be sick," she wailed, "I'm sorry." Tears streaked her cheeks.
"Listen, andrea, I want you to make yourself throw up, so no more alcohol gets into your system, okay?" I searched her eyes for recognition, got none, and repeated myself. "You're going to feel like shit no matter what, but this might help you from feeling worse, trust me." I took her hand and held it to her face. "Just put your fingers down your throat, make yourself gag, and you'll puke." I bent her to the side, held her hair back. I manipulated her to her knees, and she groaned and cried. "Come on, do it," I urged, and at last she did, tentatively. She coughed once. Then tried again.
"I can't, I can't do it, Tony, oh, shit, I'm so fucked up," she bawled. I got her to try again, only this time I grabbed her hand and held it, pushed it a little deeper than she was. She gagged and coughed, and I felt her drool running down her fingers onto my hand. Fuck, the things you do for family. She tried to pull her hand out, but I pushed them back into her mouth, and she began to vomit.
And vomit she did. We were probably out there for ten more minutes while she heaved up her recent beers and everything she ate, and then bile, and spit and drool, while I held her hair and rubbed her back and tried to say soothing big-brother stuff and fighting my urge to join her. Seeing someone puke does that. Finally she stopped, and fell into my arms, exhausted. I struggled her back to sitting with her back against the car, and opened a water bottle. I rinsed my hand, then wiped her mouth, and I got her to wash her mouth out a little. She was thanking me and apologizing and crying the whole time.
I let her sit a few moments, then piled her in the car, and gave her the plastic bag. "If you feel like you're gonna puke again, use the bag, okay?" She nodded. "Try not to close your eyes, it'll help. A little."
And so we drove home. It took me a little longer because I wasn't trying to break the land speed record now, and I knew jostling her in the car would make it worse. So I took it slow, and by the time we pulled up on our block she was out. Sleeping, I guess. It's a tight neighrobhood and we don't have a driveway, and the parking spot I'd vacated was filled, so I cruised a little further until I found a parking space about a block away and parked, and checked her breathing before getting out. She seemed okay after her puke, but she'd be terrible in the morning. But she wasn't in any danger, I didn't think, so I got her out, and to her unsteady feet, and locked up the car.
"Can you walk?" I asked. She was leaning against the car, and started to slide down, he legs buckling under her.
"I guess not," I said as I caught her, and scooped her up into my arms again, one under her knees, the other under her back, and she draped her arms around my neck. I left the purse, shoving it under the seat, and locked the car up.
"Thank you, Tony." Her voice was soft and slurred, she was half asleep already.
"I'm your big brother."
"Thanks for being my big brother," she mumbled, and went still.
Despite my anger her words touched me, and I smiled to myself as I adjusted her weight and headed to our house. Like I said, she's tiny and weighs almost nothing, so the one block walk would be no problem. I held her closely and headed home.
But halfway to my door I felt something change. Warmth, then coolness. Then wet. I stumbled a step, and looked down at her. A dark stain was spreading in her jeans, emanated from her crotch. Oh, shit, she was pissing herself in her drunk sleep, right in my arms! I froze, looking hurriedly around me for a place to put her down, but my mind went blank, I found nothing, couldn't think, and I felt her piss wetting the front of my pants. My little sister was peeing her pants in my arms, and pissing on me! I smelled it then, the unmistakable scent of urine, and it made my head swim. I heard droplets, like rain hitting the pavement beneath me as her bladder released itself of its burden, and I grimaced and began walking again, faster now. I was frantic, practically running with her as her piss splashed under my feet, thinking we'd be seen, or something, I don't know what. All the while feeling her piss run down my legs, soaking me and her both.
She finished before I got to the door, I think, although I still heard and felt it dripping off me. With dismay I realized I hadn't held my keys out, and I slipped her from my arms, propping her against the door while I fumbled in my wet pocket for the key, hoping if there was a god in heaven that no one would see us, her piss soaking both of us, looking like we'd both pissed ourselves. I fumbled the key in and opened the door to the house, my other hand holding her up. I realized too late that it was firmly planted on her breast. I panicked again, Christ, she was soaked in piss and I looked like I was copping a feel from my little sister! I let us in, and she moaned as the door fell away from her; I barely kept her from falling backwards by grabbing her, I got a handful of shirt and bra, I think, and pulled her to me. I threw her arm over my head and I managed to get her inside the house and closed the door with my foot.
Once I had the door closed, with her hanging limply at my side, mumbling apologies again, half-awake, I didn't know what to do with her. I thought of putting her to bed in her piss-soaked clothes, but I couldn't, could I? As angry as I was, and thinking of me getting out of my wet clothes, I couldn't just let her lay in her bed soaked in piss.
She deserved it, for this stunt. It would serve her right, for sure. But I couldn't. The thought of her waking up hung over was bad enough; hung over in wet clothes, sleeping in her own piss, that was too much.
So what to do?
I couldn't very well sit her on any of the furniture. In a flash of brilliance I dragged her to the bathroom and worked her into the tub. I put a rolled up towel under her head; at least she couldn't fall down in there. I ran to my room and peeled off my wet clothes and threw a pair of workout shorts on; I'd have to wash everything in the morning. I went back to the bathroom.
She looked kind of peaceful there, curled up asleep in the tub. Her hair was a mess, and her mouth was a little open, the remnants of her makeup smeared and smudged, and I felt bad for her, how bad she would feel in the morning. Not just the hangover, which would be terrible, but the shame and embarrassment. Sure, she wasn't the first eighteen-year-old to mishandle their first time drinking, but she would still be mortified, especially having her brother come pull her out of the party. Oh, yeah, and pissing her pants. Well, the shame would do her some good, I thought. But for now I had to get her out of those wet clothes.
I knelt next to the tub and paused, hesitant to undress her. She couldn't sleep in the tub. I knew it was the right thing to do, to be able to put her into a bed where she wouldn't wake up sore as well. I looked at her, so vulnerable, so innocent and foolish with her youth. Her breathing was deep and steady, her lips slightly parted, eyes closed with a tranquil peace. Poor kid. I was still a little angry at getting pissed on, but I felt it slipping from me.
I reached for her waist and grabbed the bottom of her wet tee shirt and worked it up her, lifting her a little to free it from underneath her back. She was dead weight, and hard to maneuver in the tub, but like I said, not too heavy, and I managed to slip it up her back. I hesitated a little again as her tee bunched up over her little boobs. I rationalized, knowing she was wearing a bra, that it was like a bathing suit, and if it wasn't wet I could leave it on her. I arranged her arms in front of her and pulled it up to her neck. The motion drew her arms together in front of her, and I pulled the back over her head, feeling the damp cloth fighting me as slipped her head through, mussing her hair, and pulled her arms through and clear.
I tossed the tee shirt aside as she mumbled and settled back down. And I saw. Okay, that bra was a little different from any bathing suit I had ever seen her wear. A half cup, and almost completely sheer, it cupped her little boobs in her small chest, her pale skin showing over the top of the cups, and her dark pink nipples clearly visible through the fabric. I averted my eyes. It's not right to look, I told myself. I rationalized it in my mind; I wasn't stripping her for sex, she was my little sister! Still, a little glance couldn't hurt. So I gazed at them in their innocent perfection, just for a minute, watching her chest rise and fall with her steady breath. I felt a little guilty looking at them, then shook my head to clear it and resumed my task.
I looked at her jeans, fully soaked and tight to the skin. Tight jeans are hard to pull off, and wet ones harder, and I figured pulling them off someone who wasn't helping would be even harder. And there was the other thing, unspoken in the back of my mind until now. Her panties would have to come off, too. I'd see, there would be no avoiding it, and out of respect I pulled another towel from the rack, so I could cover her nakedness after removing her pissed pants. Bad enough I'd have to explain undressing her in the morning. I'd want to be able to defend my actions. Nerves steeled by rightousness, I reached for her waist. I got the snap undone and pulled the zipper down, the wet denim struggling against me. I rolled her hips to one side and worked the waist down as far as I could pull, then worked the other side, rolling her torso back and forth. She stirred a little with each movement, tiny grunts emerging from her mouth. Finally I was able to pull them past her butt, taking the soaked panties with the jeans; I didn't want to do this twice.
I took a deep breath. Her open pants were bunched below her waist, her pale skin exposed below the waistline. Her tummy bulged a little over the wet denim, and she smelled of perfume and beer and piss. Nothing to do but get it over with. After pulling her sneakers off I pulled her knees up and reached for the side of her jeans, gripping the panties with them, and started working them up her raised thighs.
I swear I tried to avert my eyes, but they turned of their own accord, and I inhaled sharply as the juncture of her legs was exposed. I turned away, struggling with the wet fabric as it bunched tightly on her thighs, fighting my efforts. I started exposing her legs one at a time, trying not to see what I had seen, trying not to look back and see it again. I was slowly defeating the wet denim. My eyes lost. My hands stopped their efforts as my head turned back.
Her shaved pussy was there, nestled deeply between her raised thighs, almost hidden from my view. My little sister shaved? The revelation stunned me. No pubic hair visible in her tiny vee, the important private area thankfully hidden below, only the hint of puffy labia appearing between her joined thighs. I felt my breath shorten at the vision of her hidden skin exposed to my view. Chiding myself after getting a good look, I turned my head and returned to my task.
With the wet fabric bunched almost at her knees it was harder than I had imagined. The dense fabric tightened around her legs, practically immovable. I struggled, unable to budge it, then pulling the waist down past her knees, turning the pants inside out over themselves. I was really tugging, and astounded that she wasn't waking up, and I momentarily panicked when she made a noise as I struggled with one leg. Frustrated with the lack of progress, I considered another tactic.
I sat back on my feet and looked at her, trying to avid seeing her dark nipples and the shaved crotch and failing. Hell, I thought, she'll never know, and I stole a good long look, wondering to myself if she shaved for comfort, for style, or for show. Damn, I thought, that was just wrong. She's your sister, I scolded, you shouldn't be looking, and you sure shouldn't be thinking of her like that! So why was I?
And worse, why was my dick getting hard?
Frightened by my reaction, I rejoined my efforts, determined to get this done and over with. I straightened her legs in the tub, extending and raising them, and trying to remove one leg at a time, pulling on the bottom cuff and trying to slide the wet fabric off her leg. They moved a little and I was encouraged, but my angle was bad. Getting to my feet I crouched over her and grabbed the bottom edge of one jeans leg and stood, pulling her leg straight up and tugging the soaked fabric. I felt it loosen and begin to move until the bunched fabric tightened at her knees, then switch to the other leg, easing the tension. The waist of her jeans slid past her knees, and I knew I was almost home. I switched back to the first leg, and pulled more, slowly, not jerking the fabric, trying not to wake her, panic stirring every time she grunted or moaned, imagining her eyes opening and seeing me pulling her pants off.