"Hey, little brother!"
She flounces into the car, bringing with her the sweet ripe scent of cherries, her shampoo. You can't smell cherries anymore without thinking of her; they're strictly off limits anywhere public. She's always like this: unbearably upbeat and happy. It would be annoying if you didn't love her so much.
As she settles into the far end of the bench seat of your Dad's old Ford, you can't help but notice the way her skirt rides a little too far up her thighs. You look away, blushing crimson, a moment before she turns to look at you. Too close, you think. Stop being a creep.
"Are you ok? You look feverish." She scoots closer, places the back of her hand against your forehead. It's cool against your hot skin, and she's so close that the scent of her is overwhelming. Cherries, but balanced by something else, a deeper, richer musk that stirs something deep in you. You pull your face away, too quick but she doesn't seem to notice anything else is amiss.
"I'm fine. I feel fine." You try to inject some lightness in your tone, to keep your voice from taking on the hoarse vibrato of want you feel pushing against your chest. "Alright, jeez! You're fine, I'll leave it."
She laughs and scoots back against the door, her skirt slowly inching back down her thigh. But you can feel her watching you now. You've always been close, and she can always tell when you're lying. You have too many tells to hide anything from her.
"Home, James!" she says in a truly terrible British accent. It's something your Dad used to say when he was teaching you both to drive. "I have to go by the soccer fields first. I forgot my cleats," you say as you pull away from the sidewalk at the stadium entrance, staring straight ahead and shifting slightly behind the wheel. If the universe is kind, she won't watch you too closely, won't see the erection you're struggling to hide behind the flimsy fabric of your soccer shorts.
"Again? Come on, Alex. That's the third time this week! I'm tired, and I just want to go home. Practice was brutal today; I can't get Shelby to make the basket toss right to save her life, and I fell on the mat twice. I'm going to have a huge bruise." You try not to think about where that bruise might be. Amy has been Cheer Captain since her freshman year at State; she jokes she walked on as a redshirt. "What keeps distracting you? Oh wait...I know! Abbi was there - I knew it! She obviously has crush on you!" She hesitates, shaking her head and giggling. "You could ask her out, you know. Most of the girls in the senior class are wet for you!
"Jesus, Amy, give it a rest all right? You don't have to be so filthy about it. I'm not interested anyway."
"Not interested? Why? Oh my god...you already have a girlfriend?! Who is she? Do I know her? Spill!" She punctuates every question with a soft push on your shoulder.
"No, and I wouldn't tell you if I did. I just...the girls at school are too, I don't know. Immature. Boring, inane. They don't talk about anything interesting. They don't listen. They're not..." She's smiling at you, her head tilted slightly to the left, watching you.
"What? They're not what?"
"Nothing. Never mind."
"I think, maybe, your big sister has spoiled you for anyone else." She says it with laughter in her voice, but she's watching you so closely now. You flex your hands on the steering wheel and shift again in your seat as you drive down Buchanan towards the soccer fields. Your cock is painfully hard, and you can't stop it twitching against the fabric of your shorts as her words worm their way into your brain. You picked the perfect day to free ball it, jackass.
You focus on the road with the desperation borne of necessity. The streets are practically empty this far from the center of town, the buildings and houses further and further apart. You round a corner, and the outskirts of the Susquehanna State Forest appear as if by magic off to the left. In the fading afternoon light, they're painted gold and amber. This is your favorite part of the drive, and it's been part of your fantasy for months. This drive, at this time of day, Amy in the seat next to you.
"You think I haven't noticed?" Her voice drops an octave, takes on a thick huskiness you've never heard in it before. You glance over at her, surprised and a little afraid. She can't know. She can't.
"I see the way you watch me. You're always watching. Coming out of the bathroom after a shower, at the gym, at cheer practice." She hesitates and you glance over again. She's staring out the window as you round the last corner and turn into the parking lot near the soccer fields. As you pull into the space closest to the bleachers - and, by no mistake, the edge of the woods - and cut the engine, she looks back at you. Her cheeks are flushed, but she lifts her head and stares straight at you.
"I like it. The way you look at me. It gets me wet."
"Amy...what...I don't watch you. You're wrong."
She doesn't say anything, instead releasing her seat belt, and sliding close to you across the seat. You've never been so glad to drive this old beater in your life. She's so close you can feel the soft press of her left breast against your right arm. It's almost too much. Your cock throbs rhythmically, and you feel an aching pressure in your balls. If she touches me, I'll cum...
She reaches out and places her hand on the bare skin of your lower thigh, just above the knee.
"I'm wrong? Let's see." She slides her hand slowly - excruciatingly - up your thigh, pushing up the hem of your shorts and raising gooseflesh as it passes.
"Amy..." you reach down, make a half-hearted attempt to stop the progress of her hand, but you know it's a losing battle. You're desperate to feel her hand on you, to feel it grip you and stroke you. She moves from skin to the fabric of your shorts, gently wrapping her delicate fingers around the thick shaft of your cock.
