[M4F] Man of the House
“What are we watching tonight? It’s your turn to pick.” You asked, adjusting the drawstring of your pajamas as the popcorn finished in the microwave with a ding.
“Eh, you can choose again tonight. Nothing too scary, bloody or violent though okay?” Your sister answered back disinterestedly as she picked up her vibrating phone. Her cheeks flushed, her teeth bit her bottom lip and her eyes glowed as her feet shuffled slightly. You shook your head in dismay, sensing the impending storm like how birds take flight before an earthquake. That telltale reaction was the first sign. The rush upstairs was the second.
The third was the outfit she came down in: stilettos darker than sin, white angel stockings dripping with faux-innocence, schoolgirl skirt so short it would’ve sent her immediately to the principal’s office, a blouse so tight that visible nipples was no longer a mistake but a feature, and finally topped with pigtails suited only for teenage girls.
The fourth happened after the doorbell rang. She greeted me with a ‘hey honey’ and a kiss on the cheek. I greeted her by sucking her neck harder than you probably ever sucked her nipple and two sets of fingers dug into her ass deeper than a World War 2 trench. You hated me for doing it. You hated her for liking it. And you hated yourself for wanting it.
You ground your teeth, retreating to the kitchen to get it away from it all temporarily. When you returned to the living room couch you discovered there’s assigned seats: you on the left cushion. Me on the right. Amy on my lap. The remote to the TV in my hands. “So… what are we watching?” You asked in a forced casual voice, trying to install some normality into the room as Amy nuzzled her head into the crook of my neck, raking her painted fingernails across my chest.
John Wick. You rolled your eyes. Sis hated these kinds movies. ”Mindless garbage. Only ‘alpha’ male shitheads could enjoy that much violence and explosions. Basically the male ego on heroin”, she called them, but soon it was evident that Clifford the Big Red Dog could’ve been playing on goddamn screen and she wouldn’t have noticed. Oh, and nipples poking through the blouse? That was now in the rearview mirror, so fucking far in fact that you couldn’t even see it anymore. How the fuck did I fit my hand, let alone my forearm up her blouse, the outline of my hand directly over her breast? You turned away, inhaling deeply in an attempt to calm yourself.
Click-clack-clack-clack-clack. You blinked, confused when there was no evidence of gunshots or weapons on the screen, only to realize that I’d tossed Amy’s heels across the floor haphazardly as a squeal exclusively reserved for teenage girls fawning over the Jonas Brothers escaped from your older sister’s mouth. You opened your mouth to say something, but no words fell out. It was as though the elephant had become tangible, swallowing your sister’s presence and squashing yours against the walls, suffocating the room with some perverse, toxic fumes. You turned away, pretending that you hadn’t seen my hand slide underneath the waistband of Amy’s skirt as both women’s thighs rubbed together, certain of what was to come.
If the characters on screen were saying anything, you certainly couldn’t hear them. Or rather, you could hear them but Amy’s gentle gasps and moans slithered into your ears just like how my fingertips had snaked into her sex, curling upwards with a ‘come hither’ motion that you were all too familiar with.
Amy cleared her throat. First quietly, then once again but louder. It was the second time she’d paid any attention to you since I’d arrived, “Uh sis, could you uh, go up to your room.” She stammered in a quaky voice, as if that somehow allowed her to retain her dignity. Your eyes flickered to my face. That was the worst thing about me: the complete, utter lack of shame. It was a look that skipped that of a child caught with his hand in a cookie jar, past ”Well, what are you going to do about it?” and culminated in ”Did you really think I’d do anything else?”. You stood up from the couch in a jerky motion, walked upstairs wordlessly, locking your bedroom door behind you. As you flopped down on your bed in complete darkness, you recalled your biology professor telling you that animals compensate for diminished senses in one area by heightening another, like how bats developed echolocation to balance their blindness. You wondered if that’s why you could imagine everything despite having a pillow over your head:
How close Amy was to orgasm based on the pitch of her cries following the repetitive sound of blows on her reddened ass.
How you could tell that I’d started using the leather end of my belt instead of my hand based on the difference in sound.
That I’d gagged Amy with my own shirt when her cries came out muffled.
That I’d collared her with my own belt and started dragging her towards the stairs based on the unevenness of the footsteps.
That I’d picked her up out of impatience, carrying her upstairs like a sack of flour when only one set of thunderous footsteps came up instead of two lighter sets.
How I’d left the door open when you didn’t hear it slam shut.
How Amy was reaching her breaking point when she started begging me to slow down before her pleas faded into nothingness.
And the ensuing silence that followed after the deed was done. Then, footsteps toward your door.
And finally, the sound of your locked doorknob rattling.
In the morning, you slipped out of bed, tiptoed downstairs, brewed a pot of coffee and began to make breakfast. With any luck, you’d be finished eating and could lock yourself in your room until I left. You’d barely taken a bite of your English muffin and egg combo when I stepped down, wearing a maroon bathrobe that Amy had gifted me a week ago. Without even so much as a ‘good morning’, i walked over to the coffee machine and poured myself a mug.
You hated that. How I simply just took what was there as if it was mine already. You hated how I stood besides your chair, leaning against the edge of the kitchen table as I sipped from the mug, studying you with a mixture of condescension and appraisal, as if deciding whether to fuck you or not, not even whether I could or whether you even wanted me to.
“Your tits look good enough to wrap around my cock.” I stated in the most matter-of-fact voice you’ve ever heard.
Not “You look good in that top”. Not even ”Your tits look good in that top”. Before you could even think of a retort, my hand landed on your breast and squeezed it lightly. “Feel just as good as they look too. Not bad.” When you pushed my hand away, I laughed playfully, like a pet owner who had his disobedient bitch yank a frisbee out of his hand, only to run face first into a wooden fence.
“Well, this was fun. I’ll see you tonight.” I said, smiling down at you before I patted you on the head endearingly and disappeared upstairs, whistling all the while for I had become-
The Man of the House.
My Profile. Let’s talk first before jumping in.
Posted Feb 14, 2019, 6:06 PM UTC