Shortly after turning eighteen, my littlest sister announced to all the world that not only was she madly in love, but also pregnant. For anyone who knew Lydie, this was hardly a shock, but it was a matter of concern. This new love-of-her-life was George, a photogenic young soldier in his late twenties who wedded boyish charm with the seriousness of one who has served overseas in these hellish times.
George was not the marrying kind, though that did not stop Lydie's increasingly wild plans for a grand wedding. The rest of us - her sisters and parents - knew perfectly well that it would end disastrously, with my parents having inevitably to raise yet another child. (Despite an obviously frisky youth that had led to five daughters in quick succession, they had decided after Lydie that enough was most certainly enough and my father had had a vasectomy.)
Fortunately - in the sense of every cloud having a silver lining - my paternal grandfather had just recently passed away, leaving to my father not only a significant sum of money (after tax) but also a good-sized house just south of the River Tyne, coincidentally close to George's next posting. My father decided, for the sake of everyone's sanity, to buy George's undying affection by paying off his gambling debts and putting the house in trust for the impending offspring.
This outrageous generosity did not extend to the lavish wedding of Lydie's dreams, but like a star in the heavens she glowed with unfiltered happiness as she documented the burgeoning of her belly daily via her Instagram. Next to her often, of course, was George, whose apparent contentment with his fate had perhaps less to do with Lydie and more to do with Katy. The two sisters had always been inseparable, and it seemed this extended even to the marriage bed.
"Do you think she's pregnant?" I asked, squinting at the latest photos in the feed.
"Of course she is, silly," Mum said. "She's due in April."
"No," I said patiently, "not Lydie. Katy."
Mum peered over my shoulder at a photo of George with his arms about both grinning sisters. "Huh, maybe."
"Quite the ménage à trois."
Mum sighed. "If I were ten years younger..."
I scowled at her. "Don't even say it," I said. My mother's strict diet and self-care regime had blessed her with a body that defied her age. Not only did she often dress like my sluttier friends, she was able to pull it off too. My father clearly enjoyed having this flirty, energetic woman as his wife, but I really didn't need to hear her enthuse over George. I really didn't need a picture in my head of her in a ménage à quatre with two of my sisters.
"You look good, by the way," I added as a peace offering. She did too. She was wearing a glittery gold dress and knee-high black leather boots. Her blonde hair was styled and tied up, and her make-up subtle enough to seem almost natural. You could see in her exactly where my older sister Jane got her looks - none of which I myself inherited.
"Thanks, Lizzie," she said, practically beaming. "Your father's taking me to the theatre. He'll be here any moment. Are you sure you'll be alright?"
"I'll be fine," I assured her. "You guys have fun."
Ten minutes later she was gone and I was all alone. Not for the first time, I wondered where Jane was. She was supposed to be here. After all, she was the one sister who still lived here, even if she was away so often with her work. Photoshoots all over the world - although work had dried up for her over the past year. It was a cruel irony that I saw her more often in magazines than in real life, dressed in sexy lingerie and gazing seductively into the camera.
Jane was blessed with infinite patience and a good nature, and there was always something in her photos that made her look like a virgin on her wedding night, at once dressed for sex and entirely innocent of the act itself. The reality, of course, was a little different. Being a model got her invites to all sorts of posh parties, and for the past year she'd been dating a footballer called Charlie who not only earned a million a year but also probably spent it.
No doubt she was out with him somewhere, but I had hoped she would be at home.
This would be the first Christmas we weren't all home together on the day. Mary had accepted her younger sisters' invitation to spend Christmas up north, and I hoped that didn't mean I would soon have three sisters all pregnant by the same man.
Although I doubted it. Mary might be an anarchist (political and relationship) but being aromantic she was probably safe from George's seductive charm.
I made myself dinner, alone just when I had hoped not to be. The past year had been hard and lonely, what with the lockdowns and everything, but I was nearing the end of my doctoral thesis. I had been looking forward to spending time with Jane, gossiping about her men and my women - not that there had been any of those recently.
Indeed, my sex life of late had consisted mainly of visiting porn sites and putting my vibrator through its paces, and I wasn't about to gossip about that.
Sighing, I resigned myself to a solitary evening of Netflix and social-media doomscrolling. I even drifted off for a while - but suddenly I was wide awake...
You know how when you know you're alone in the house but you hear noises that you can't identify? And you panic that there's an intruder, or a ghost, or something? This was like that. Not helped by it being a big house outside of town, an old farmhouse with creaky timbers.
To suit a family with five daughters, the house had been redeveloped extensively, with what had once been the servants' quarters now a secluded downstairs bedroom suite for our parents, and upstairs (first floor and attic) were now five bedrooms and three bathrooms. The sounds were coming from the first floor, from Jane's room. Maybe she'd left the window open. Maybe it was just the wind - although I'd stuck my head in at lunchtime when I arrived, hoping to find her there, and didn't remember there being an open window.
A sudden cry dispelled that idea. A cry muffled by the thick wooden door, but unmistakably a human cry. If Jane were to cry out in distress, it would sound like that.
I charged in bravely, unsure what exactly I would find - and found what I could not have imagined.
This was in the early days - or, to put it another way, it was only two weeks after that notorious asshole post ("AITA for dumping my gf of 3 years cos she has a cock?") that was widely dismissed as a hoax; and a full three months before the famous Cosmo article, "Meet the REAL Chicks-with-Dicks!" As such, I had seen maybe one or two Twitter threads about cis women waking up to the shock of their lives, but I was far from believing it.
And I was entirely unprepared for what awaited me: Jane, reclined naked on her luxurious double bed with its fairy-patterned white-and-pink linen, her bare, beautiful breasts streaked with what was unmistakably cum from the erect cock pulsing weakly as it dribbled the last of its bounty onto her belly. A cock that had not been there before, and that had no right being there now. Sprouting obscenely from her vulva above a gaping, glistening, hairless pussy.
*
It had been a long day for Jane. After the trauma of waking to the horrifying discovery that her petite clit had transformed overnight into a monstrous cock (in the more literal sense; its dimensions were little more than the average for the male member), she'd rushed secretly to A&E - an adventure that had proved both humiliating and, ultimately, fruitless. Returning home, she'd slipped back into the house as quietly as possible.
Unable to face our parents, and unaware of my presence, she'd resolved to stay hidden in her room for as long as possible. In the soft, warm embrace of her luxurious bed, she gave way to the solace of tears and prayed that her magical genital transformation would be undone just as magically.
In the evening, she peeked out the curtain to see her parents drive off, dressed for a night out, and had believed herself alone in the house. Empty at last of tears, she studied her singularly changed body in the mirror, and this act of self-contemplation became an act of self-discovery, and in due course an act of self-pleasure. The cry that had brought me anxiously into her room was not, as feared, a cry of alarm, but a cry of ecstasy as she crested that so elusive precipice.
*
We stared at each other in shock. A second passed, maybe two, maybe an eternity, and then she screamed at me to leave, even as she wrapped herself hastily in fairies. I was already leaving, backing out of the doorway, giving her privacy, but it was too late. The damage was done. The image was burned into my mind, like a scene from an intensely erotic porno, my sister the blonde starlet absorbed in self-pleasure, splashed with cum and in desperate need of a hard cock.
My sister she might be, but I was undeniably aroused. I might not have believed the stories circulating on social media, but I would be lying if I said the thought of a girl with a cock did nothing for me. Indeed, lesbian trans porn and futanari hentai were two of my guilty pleasures.
I sat at the kitchen table, nursing a herbal brew as I tried to stop my imagination drifting back to my sister's room. I tried not to think about sucking on her cock until it exploded in my mouth. I tried not to think about teasing her nipples with my lips as I licked her cum from her soft, perfect breasts. Jane was probably terrified of what this change meant for her, and it was wrong for me to turn her into a lurid sexual fantasy.
I returned to her room, knocked quietly. "Can I come in?" I asked quietly.
No answer. No sounds from within. I waited. "At least tell me you're okay in there," I said.
Silence for another long minute, and then: "Come in, Lizzie."
She was in bed, fresh sheets (white with blue and yellow flowers), pale blue pyjamas. Her cheeks were flushed red with shame, and she avoided looking at me. Stripping down to my underwear, I climbed in next to her and hugged her tightly, suppressing a guilty desire to do more. Perhaps I only imagined the lingering smell of cum beneath her soapy fragrance. "It changes nothing," I said. "You're still my beautiful, sexy sister."
She made a sound that may have started as a laugh but ended as a sob as she burst into tears. I held her firmly and made soothing noises, and she calmed gradually. "Charlie won't think so."
