The Slumber Party

Note: 18,000 words. Veers more fetish than the normal vanilla sex beats. Thought I'd play around with telling a melodrama through sex rather than using it as the reward at the end.

I lean my ear against my sister's bedroom door—not necessary---because right then, one of the girls inside shrieks!

"Christ! You're such a basic bitch, Sophie!"

"Don't say that! Just because my music's not all that avant-garde beeping and booping and, and rumbly fart noises."

"You are sooo immature. It's called a

synthesizer,

Sopie, not that weird."

"Dude, compared to what? I mean, Taylor Swift won album of the year

three times!!

What's, you know—"

"Austra."

"—yeah, that person, what've they ever done? Compared to Taylor-freakin'-Swift,

three

time winner! And, seriously, all those people couldn't have been wrong."

"All what people? Who are you talking about?"

"You know, the awards people."

Curiously, I don't hear my sister's voice among the mix. But I do have all my gear wrapped up in my arms: Dinosaur sleeping bag—T-Rexes,

obviously

—, Cooling Sensations memory foam pillow, and most importantly, my XXL adult onesie folded up on top—Spongebob themed because my sister's a dick, kind of a gag Christmas gift but one with real sentimentality behind it, or at least, it came with a promise, and that's the part that really meant something to me.

And despite holding all my gear and having a legit invitation, I just

cannot

seem to work up the testicular fortitude to knock on the door to join the party. It's weird, wearing a onesie and going to a slumber party especially as a high school senior, isn't it? I mull that over.

Out here in the empty hall, the grandfather clock ticks in a dark corner; a lone nightlight bleeds out of the bathroom door; a cheap Mack Brown portrait smiles at me; a floorboard creaks; a puff of moist air tickles my earlobe. There's a whisper

"Creeper."

I gasp.

Shivers!

My heart stalls.

Fight or flight!

Lizard brain picks "C" none of the above, and my spine just freezes absolutely shock still. My mouth creaks open and eeks. I realize right then that my body has utterly failed basic evolution.

Fight or Flight

—Nah!

Freeze.

"Oh shit, shit, sorry," I hear my sister say, but it's really hard to believe an apology when she's muffling her giggles through it.

I'm shaking, like seriously got my fingernails dug into my pillow like it's going to be my shield, clenching my onesie as my sword. And I--I pinch my legs together, covertly feeling around my crotch with my thighs.

Phew.

Hadn't drank any large jugs of Gatorade, so no spills.

A total overreaction, I know.

Ah, yup, shoot. Here it comes.

Hip, hip, hip, hip, hip.

The hyperventilations. Shoot. Shoot. Shoot. So pathetic. I try to swallow them. That just makes it worse.

The A/C blasts white noise through the vents. The air wafts down, and a small cold wet patch prickles my groin. Aw, crap. Guess there was a minor spill.

Beside me, I hear some plastic ruffling and a clatter on the floor. My sister, Brooke, has just set her platter of Bagel Bites and bags of Lindor chocolates on the ground. Her fingers wrap around my shoulders. She has to crane her neck up at me. Even being the tall, lithe, former track-star she is, the top of her head doesn't even reach my nose—me, the six-four brute of a tight end she has for a brother.

Her body is so slender in comparison, so breakable. Her fingers can't even clasp halfway around my shoulders as she spins my body to face her, and yet, "Mason, Mason." She snaps her fingers in my face.

I can feel my eyes spread as wide as saucers as my neck creaks down toward her. Stop that! Hic. Hic. Hic. At least the hyperventilating has stopped. Now, for the hiccups, curing them just requires a good scare—oh, wait. Duh.

"Shit. I'm so sorry." This time, her voice is genuine. "I thought that had gotten better? I thought—" She shook her head. "—no, I didn't think." Brooke glances down the hall. "Is it a big one? Do I need to wake Dad?"

My mouth is dry and tastes like a hot fart. I part my lips and manage to gasp, "N-no. I-It's small. Jus-Just a minute." It really is a small episode.

She places two fingers on the side of my neck, monitoring my pulse, and reaches around with her other hand and scratches my hair, deep long strokes just above a tickle. Those big brown eyes of hers flutter their lashes, maybe flicking away some dust, and she just stares up at me. Her irises are so dark they may as well have been an extension of her pupils, a void to hide away in.

My sis, strong and nurturing. And me, well, I'm just the hulking regressive baby that she has to deal with.

Lost in my irrational panic, time slips away. By the time the steam has quit rising from her Bagel Bites on the floor, I feel the cogs in my brain begin to turn again as the halfwit-hamster spinning their wheels wakes back up. It was just a minor episode. Back to having some strands of guile, I twist my body to hide the damp spot on my shorts. Brooke's already seen it. It's just a flick of her eyes, but I can tell she already knew.

I squeeze my slumber-party gear to my chest like a pathetic cunt and mumble, "I gotta get up early for stuff so I think I'm gonna head off to—"

"Mason, no!" She's way too loud. She knows it, too.

The chitter-chatter behind the door immediately halts. The door knob clanks as someone rattles it from the other side, but before the girls in Sister's room can open the door out into the hall, Brooke herself grabs the door handle and opens it just enough to slip her head into the room.

"What's going on?" One of the girls inside, probably Blair, asks.

My sister smooths it over. I hear her telling them "it's nothing, nothing. It's fine...I just....seriously, Mason just had a bit of a scare...no, we'd rather you not...no, please...hey, you know, I got Bagel Bites and chocolate...yes, the gooey truffle ones..."

While she's preoccupied, I shuffle past her and slip back to my room. She peeks her head out into the hall, see's me slinking away and holds up a finger. She tells her friends, "just one sec."

And she tries to say something to me as well, but I cut her off with a hard smile and say, "G'night, sis." I slip into my bedroom and close the door behind me. My fingers linger over the lock, but in the end I decide against it.

Childish, I know.

It takes all of thirty seconds for me to hear the floorboards in the hall creak. Through the crack under the door, I see a pair of lingering shadow toes. The doorknob rattles. It turns. The door opens, and quick as a bolt, Brooke pops into my room. She closes the door behind her slowly, twisting the knob so that it doesn't clank against the latch.

She hesitates over the lock, but in the end, same as me, she decides to leave the door unlocked. Then Brooke turns around to face me, and really, I'm just standing in the middle of the floor like a big piss stained doofus. It dawns on me right then that she's wearing a set of bright yellow pajamas. Not a onesie like mine, but a two piece with separate tops and bottoms. Hers are dotted with brownish spots. There's a pair of shorts, a white shirt, and a red tie painted on. Ha. She's Spongebob.

Brooke puffs her chest out; I even see her perch up on her tippy toes, like she's trying to appear my physical equal.

Trying

is the key word here because while she's wearing Spongebob pajamas, her dominance just comes off as absurd. As if to seal my judgment, Brooke trips and stumbles sideways on...nothing?

Brooke holds up her hands.

I'm alright. I'm alright.

She puts her hands on her hips, sizes me up and down. Then sis grunts and says something incomprehensibly stupid, "You've grown."

I'm flabbergasted. My face must have twisted something fierce because she waves her hands, and opens her mouth to speak, perhaps to smooth over her dumb words, but in the end, she just ends up puffing out laughing. "Sorry, sorry."

"Brooke, it—" This is really hard to say. "—I'm happy you're here for a visit, but really, I gotta get to bed and—"

She points to the slumber party gear that I'm holding. "Really? Like, if you don't want to see me or hang out—" She nods toward the door. "—I can, you know, just go."

I swear it, these words just fumble out before I can think: "Brooke, I don't want to see you or hang out, tonight."

I'd be stunned that I spoke them, but

Holy Hell

was that cathartic!

Her head jerks back. She gapes at the air. "Is that about earlier or...? Because, seriously, I'm so sorry. I wasn't thinking. I mean, it'd been so long since you had an episode and..." She rambles on and on. With my wits about me, I can smell the stink of booze on her breath even from five paces away. She wobbles in place during her half-assed apology. It's annoying.

Noticing that she isn't getting through to me, she hops over to the bed, plops her butt down, and sits on the edge. She pats the top of her thighs and holds out her arms. I know what she means:

Sit,

you know, just like I used to.

Something about that really irks me wrong. I start feeling, I don't know,

Bitchy.

Like finger snap, don't clap back. And I swear right when bitch me takes over, my soul is sucked from my body and hovers in the corner of the room, observing myself in third person.

"You know, in case you missed it," I say, "which, yeah, you kinda did—" Holy Hell! Did I just do that little eyes closed head bobble thing? I did! And still, I ramble on: "I am a two hundred and twenty pound

starting

linebacker, and you're some failed cross-country runner who just got schmoozed into a basic domestic, and the days of sitting in your lap are for damn sure over." Jesus Christ! Stop, you asshole! And yet, my body ignores me and adds right at the end: "And I just had an episode last Tuesday."

"Ah." Sis struggles to find some words. "So, there's that. I--I really didn't know."

I glare at her, pure venom. "Well—" I knock on my wooden door frame. "—I've been lucky enough not to have an attack on Thanksgiving and Christmas."

You know, when I see you.

"Seriously, Brooke, it's the middle of October. You're not due to visit for another month. Why are you here?"

I see her rolling the half carat ring around her finger. She bites her tongue and smiles, but it's twisted. She stands up, and wobbles a step but manages to catch herself. Her eyes flash, and I don't know if it's rage or what, but she stomps past me, and for a second, I think she's going to storm out of my room, but instead, she whips around and shoves her finger under my nose. I stagger back. She steps forward, gets right in my face. "Of all the people...of everybody, but you?

My little brother?"

She's rambling again, except this one's a diatribe.

"You know what?" she says, walking me backward with every step she takes forward. Her neck cranes up to stare me right in the eye. "Against everybody else, I may be small, but against you, oh no, Mason, I am

bigger

than you still."

She's raging gibberish, totally unhinged. I don't know this person. Her pupils are huge; her irises expand to barely a crescent. Bags underline her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed. Button nose wrinkles, her freckles contract, demeanor sweaty and sniffly. Her hand reels back, and for a moment, I think she's going to slap me, but then her palm nestles into my cheek. Fingertips trail down and scratch the stubble under my chin.

This is sloppy Sister, drunk Sister—I squint into her dilated pupils—maybe more Sister.

But she's right. I feel small.

"Listen," she says. I feel a tug at my crotch. "You've made a mess. I—" She stammers and loses her train of thought. "I can't do much, but I can do this." She flings my Cooling Comfort memory foam pillow off my armful of party supplies. She snatches the XXL onesie, and slaps the sleeping bag from my arms.

Brooke flips the onesie out in front of her, presents it to me like she's expecting me to climb inside it. My pj's are a bright pink Patrick Star.

"Arms." She pats my shoulders.

Without question, I raise my arms. I guess it's a sibling hierarchy thing.

Nah, you're just a bitch, Mason.

Her fingertips brush my stomach. She grips the hem of my shirt, pulls it up as high as she can reach, and at the end, has me duck down so she can slip it off my head. She flings it aside, and I'm bare chested before her. The back of her hand brushes my pecs, grazes over my left nipple, and trails over each and every one of my abdominal muscles, clear down until she reaches my shorts.

Her finger curls into the front of my waistband. She stretches it out, both shorts and underwear all in one go, and just that easily, my bare cock is visible to both of us, all curled up in the cradle of my whitey tighties. She's studying it. Then, without warning, she releases my waistband. It snaps back against my gut.

I can't understand why she's doing this to me, but God do I feel small right now. Most fucked up of all is I can still feel the tenderness of love in her actions. It keeps me obedient, keeps me still.

She's still looking down at my crotch, but not—how to say it—not

at

my crotch. Her gaze is brushing over the front of it, right where the wet patch is. She kneels down right in front of my waist; my Patrick onesie drapes idly over her thighs. Brooke leans forward and exhales.

Haaaaa.

It's like she's trying to dry my piss with her breath. She stretches the fabric out then rubs the wet patch with the back of her hand, as if she wants to make sure it's real.

Her thumbs loop through my waistband. She rips my clothes down, and again, just that easy, my crotch is bare before her. My shorts and underwear, all in that one fell swoop, are draped around my feet. Oh dear Lord. My sister kneels before me, and I stand in the naked flesh above her. My thick ropey cock dangles under her nose. Her hot breath pulses against my penis, big exaggerated exhales. She's drying it, I suppose? I can't wrap my head around her thoughts right now, not to mention my own.

Still on her knees, she flips out my onesie, checks that the front is unzipped, and presents it before me. She purses her lips. Her tainted pupils stare up into my blank face.

"Step." She directs my leg; her hand guides my calf into the pajama's opening.

"Step." Same directive with the other leg. This time, I fumble my balance, hopping around, but she grabs my wrist, presses it onto her shoulder, steadying me.

I'd thank her if I could work my mouth.

Haaaa. Haaaa.

Her warm breath brushes across my cock, stimulating it. It doesn't work, Brooke. Impotence, a byproduct of anxiety.

Haaaa. Haaaa.

She pulls me closer, slides the pajamas up my leg. I feel the head of my cock slide up her jawbone. She shifts around, seemingly oblivious, and it glides up her cheek.

But it feels good. Really good. It's beyond the physical sensation alone. My cock can't help it. It lurches. Whips across her tender skin.

She don't care. I guess to her, it's just another part of her little brother's anatomy, no different than the leg she's directing.

Her fingers tickle my toes like I'm a baby. "Lift." She instructs. I do. She stretches the footie around my heel.

"Other foot," she instructs. She turns her head, the head of my penis—my little pee hole—grazes across her lips, lingers in the sheen of her gloss, before it slides over and nestles against her other cheek where it remains pressed. That wasn't my doing, either. And how naturally she did it, even her reaction to it, it's like it belongs there almost.

'Not a big deal, bro'

is the impression I get from her.

I—I really don't know what's happening.

I lift my other foot. She stretches it around the footie. All settled, her eyes peer up at me, lips part—

Haaa. Haaa.

That moist breath again.

My balls ache, but my cock, well, it just flaps against my thigh. I'd given up on that thing a long time ago. Weird for a senior in highschool, I know.

She lifts her body, sliding the onesie up my legs as she rises. Her chest presses against me so tightly that I can feel the lumps of her breasts split my cock between their valley. As she rises, she stretches the onesie out to either side of me.

"Arms," she instructs. I poke them in the sleeves she presents.

When she's standing as tall as she can, my arms are only halfway through the sleeves. There's a wide open V splitting my chest where the zippered front of the pajamas splits apart, but Brooke's still dangling my pajamas low enough that my cock is exposed through the base of the V.

Instead of slipping my pajamas up the rest of the way, she takes half a step back, and taps her finger to her lips, studying my soft dick once again. She bats it to one side like a cat. Nothing. No reaction. She reaches forward and wraps her thumb and forefinger around the base of my cock. They only reach about three-quarters of the way around my girth, that is, until she squeezes her fingertips together, squishing my flesh between them in a clamp-like grip. It seals my cock off tight, like it's some balloon animal.

The pressure of it is the only thing that my brain can comprehend at first, at least, until her remaining fingertips prickle along the sensitive underside of my shaft. That's the moment when I realize that my sister, my childhood idol, truly is molesting my privates.

She's

touching me.

I should be pissed. I should be quaking. But I'm not scared. I'm not nervous. It's Brooke. She's crass, but she's safe. I think that's it.

A pulse of blood spurts into my cock, but her fingers trap it there, won't let it escape. I can feel a slow throb as my blood vessels strain against her touch. It's the beginnings of an erection.

There's a manic grin on her face, sheer delight, almost villainous.

I've sprung my trap!

As her fingers dam back the surging throb, every pulse in time with my heartbeat, it's like she's feeling my pulse all over again, monitoring my body.

Her fingers tuck into the front of her own waistband, and while we're both looking down, she stretches her pajama's out, panties and all.

It's too dark in here to fully see down into my sister's crotch with her presented view, but I do notice the tender crease where her stomach tapers into a Y, her prickly pubes—like they'd been shaved

last

week—studding her pale skin-shape, and I see just a hint of a silhouette of a crevice at the base—the puff of Brooke's pussy lips.

She ducks down until her open pajamas scoop up my cock. Then,

Snap!

A pang jolts through my nethers as she releases the fabric, snapping my cock against her bare flesh. My cock is stuck in her pants. What the fuck? Her waistband traps my whole draping cock inside her bottoms, and what's more, I can feel them nestle against her privates. When she steps closer, the thin fabric of her panties rustles against my head. Her stubbled pubes grate against the shaft.

The top of her head nestles just underneath my chin, forcing my own head upwards. She lifts her shirt, and that painted on Spongebob suit and tie bunch up on the top of her modest breasts—and oh Lord, her breasts, they are braless and naked. Her bosom presses tightly against the top of my stomach, as high as she can reach them.

An aching reaction pumps my cock into her skin. Her body presses into me, and before any of these happenings register in my brain, her arms wrap around my back, hugging me into her tightly.

With her bare chest pressed against me, her only modesty comes from my own flesh, right at the intersection of our flesh. Her stomach, that soft skin stretched around toned abs, slathers wet sweat against my own, sloppy mushings at our union. Her pert mounds sploosh out to either side; the hard nubs of her nipples buried inside the fat roll across my skin.