When you finally get her down, face pushed to carpet, you have to remind her how to take it. This wasn't enough–the hand on the back of her neck or the knee slid between her legs. She knew as much, found with the shake of her limbs that wouldn't settle. It only worsens when you dip fingers into waistband and gently pull down her panties.
It was a beautiful sight. The arch of her back shows off hole twitching and cock limp. Your free hand goes under to take hold. She tenses as her thighs try to snap shut but she's heavy in your hand and you're coaxing her into her wants. A gentle squeeze, a slow stroke, by the time you're pulling back foreskin and rubbing circles into her tip you got her sobbing in relief.
“Good girl,” you say, leaning forward to kiss at the dip of her back.
She heaves, sucking in her stomach as her whole body contorts forward. You twist your wrist and mouth encouragements to skin. Until she jerks and somehow in the movement your grip has loosened. It’s a moment that you slip. A violent thrash is followed by a foot slammed to the gut that makes you grunt, gritting your teeth. She doesn't get far.
All it takes is grabbing her ankle to drag her back to you. She screams, flipped over in the process but you reach and grip her throat, squeezing to get her quiet.
“I know, baby, I know.” The buckle of your belt clinks. “You’re doing fine.”
Her mouth hangs open, eyes flickering around the room. You spit in your hand and grab your cock, stroking yourself to the sound of the strangled rasp of her breathing. When you're satisfied you reach around her leg to lift her hips. There's not much else before you're pressing your tip to her hole, you'll give her a gentle reminder to relax–remember how she’ll like it more than enough.
It had been a dream when your sister insisted on helping, but this was pushing to the edge of too much.
You’re left forearms and knees, head bowed, while she keeps one hand under your stomach to raise the hips. The other has a steady grip and occasional pull of the dilator buried into your cunt, rewarded in the leak. She's taking your wetness–slick in the folds–to rub up from taint to hole, fingers soft-circling that sensitivity. You want her to keep you open, between the tonguing and spit-drool lube it's always been enough, but she wants you to learn.
It takes more effort then it should to keep down, keen into your arms.
“Good girl,” she mutters, kissing the back where she rests her cheek. “Look at that. You can keep it in now.”
All for nothing because that gets you arching with a whine–back to the push and to be slipped out if only for her palm shoved flat across your cunt. She snorts and leans down instead to lick open your slick-wetted hole. Your legs straighten, push out and kept up by her hold. You’re all hers now, though the distinction isn't necessary because you were hers then too.
Seconds, counting, waiting, until she pulls back. The dilator slipped out and you're free in the open twitching. Loose, as it should be.
She rubs the silicone length between the cheeks, against your ache, but a tap to your back gets you to startle.
“Please,” you gasp. “Please? I’m good, I–”
“I know you are.”
You bite your lip, muscles shaking. There’s a fog in your mind and it makes these moments of forced focus all the harder. Arms burning at the carpet, you get to raise your hips a little higher, stumbling over, “I love you, please, please. I love you.”
“There it is.” You can hear the grin of her voice and feel it more as she sinks the dilator into your waiting hole, hand on stomach and dragged back to hook fingers into your cunt. Your head slams to the carpet with a muffled scream.
Your momma is stumbling sick through the kitchen and into shattered crystalline across the floor, but he won't notice the blood smeared in her wake when she's too busy spitting up in the sink. That is where you’d have to remind her she shouldn't be drinking so heavy–where she would brush you off once again.
Just give me a minute, she baby-soothes, just a minute to catch my breath. But you’re no baby anymore.
Stepping careful over shards and puddles–momma doesn’t acknowledge your clutching. She doesn't protest, won't even notice, the impatient hands slipping beneath her robe dress. When thumbs hook into panties dragged down to knees. That you'll rub at her back as you'll push her head further down and fit your cock where it belongs. The entrance had always been easy. Your loving, forgetful, only-trying-her-best mother to take you without complaint.
When you were littler you said this was an apology. Now you know better. Arm wrapped under her waist, finding a simple way to rock the body, you brush back her hair to let her retch unburdened. This was all you could do to help. Your momma shouldn't drink so much and when her womb takes, she'll have to reckon with it.
You press your cheek into her back where the heart thumps–and count.
The pain starts between the shoulders and travels the way from elbow to wrist. A spiked, throbbing ache of slept-too-long and awkward-angles. It’s in your eyes, hurting, in the closure.
But you don't want to move.
It’s warm here–it’s soft. Even though you have to breathe through your mouth, twitching in hold, because you’re being held. And still when your head turns, wanting, rubbing with some sort of whine. She laughs and it reverberates through your body, disrupting the daze. Swallowing dry, you taste the heavy douse rose perfume that sinks into your mothers skin, clothes, hair.
She pets your cheek, sighing fondly as she calls, “is my princess awake now?”
Like she's been waiting. As if, and the remembering comes slow, it wasn't her own insistence of a nap. The curtains drawn and dark, cradled in her rocking arms. You try to say this, but your words mumble into babbles.
Her hold adjusts with your legs tucked up as she pushes your head down to bosom. It’s soft skin and choking scent until you’ve found the teat.
Latched, deceited in drinking, your mother hums a low tune. Her hand stroking slow around your cocklette. The pain is still present. Attention is only shuffled into the stroke of pleasure and your tonguing swallows of an unquenched throat. When you cum, its little spurts into the palm that she will hold, endeared.
When you rounded the door your foot caught on the edge frame. An awkward angle, a loss of stability, it was a pop followed by a sharp stab at the ankle. You slammed into the floor, knee-first to bruising and unable to walk–so you started to crawl. But she was fast and she was angry. Myra catches you from behind and drags you by your hair out of the hall, back into the dorm.
You’re screaming, crying out and flailing, “Stop! Stop it! Help-”
“Shut up, bitch!” Head yanked back, she slaps a hand over your mouth and glowers. There was blood still wet down her face. It’s nothing short of terror. “Or else I'll really make you regret it.”
From there, back onto the ground because god forbid you let her take you to the bed, she wrestles your weight to have you on your back. She’s focusing on access. The thought that she couldnt simply lift the skirt to rape into you makes you sob. Maybe that would have been better. Maybe that would have felt right, to be taken.
She frees your mouth to grab your wrists, hands having been left to claw, and takes your crying on her tongue. Leg pinned to your own, arms shifted to the chest, she fingers you as she wants, slipping back in motion.
When you twist your head, she follows. When you thrash your weight, she yanks.
“I’ve seen the way you look at me, hon,” she mouths with a smile. Back to that smug self-satisfaction as if she really knows anything.
“No. No.” You’re sobbing and she licks in. “S’tp it.”
A gross squelch, her fingers curl and your hips raise away from the touch. She shifts only to kiss at the jaw. “If that was true you wouldn't be so easy.”
Too much. The pain was hitting you now, adrenaline ebbing. You could scream. You should. but the exhaustion wayed the cost. Maybe you could keep on the hope of your roommate coming back–but who's to say she wasn't delusional just like her girlfriend. You were alone, fucked onto her fingers, the realization dampening your struggle.
There’s anxiety in the twitch of her fingers and you’re sure that if you could bring yourself to look at her then she would be worrying her lip. She’ll bite at the soft flesh till it tears and continue to bite until there’s nothing left to chew. Red, bloody, exposed. A bad habit. Not one you cared to prevent. Not when it was easier to lap the metal from her wound.
You have a thumb to her wrist, pressed into the pulse. The veins are a sickly purple stretched into the pale. Arm, wrist, nails. The skin was unbroken here. She exhales and you dig a little harder when she asks, “you don't think it's gross?”
She isn’t given a denial. The thought slips from your mind entirely. A reassurance is caught behind the teeth, too thick to swallow.
“Don’t wanna hurt you,” is what you mumble.
“It’s okay,” she says, selfish as always, and shifts forward in your lap to put wet lips against your cheek. It makes you gag. “It’s so okay. You know you won't, and I promise, it's okay.”
“I don’t-” want to be here, is what you don't say.
Whether or not Jeanne knows this doesn’t matter anymore because her wrist is tugged back and you’re left with no choice but to follow all the way until she's sliding your hand up her nightgown and you’re being directed to rub against the skin-line of her inner thigh, separated across the dozens of bandages, layered one over the other.
“We can start slow. you-” she laughs like there's a joke to be found. “It’ll be good for you.”
You keep your hand still. She doesn’t, won't ever, make the first move. An offer tantalized. A dog led into heat. There's a push of fabric and her nightgown slips into the bend of her waist, settled quiet in a puddle. Her cunt is bare, hairless. Jeanne spreads her legs, showing off the ripple of soft-pink folds. She’s open. Your nail slips under the edge of the bandage.
The peel is slow. A reveal of brown-blood deception, rot, unwinded. She’s open here too. Heavy gashes into fat, spreading when she flexes the muscle. You lean down to lick at her opening. You taste the pump of blood, feel the drag of sheets. The nails clawing into your shoulder.
“Claire, please, please, fuck me,” she sobs. It’s all you can give her to push into the split.
She’s all you can taste, heady. Twitching against the work of your tongue. You want to claw at her, you want to pull and tear until there's nothing left. Your teeth graze the edge of skin and she screams. It’s not a quiet act. It’s a guttural cry of your name, the sharpened whimper. You can feel it in the throb of her heat, finishing with a spray, catching into your turned cheek.
The muscle reforms with your retraction, not enough of an intrusion to leave a gape. She hasn't been looking at you, her head is thrown towards the ceiling, shaking with the piss stream and clenching in need. It;s all dark now, the blood smeared on her thigh and your face and the sheets. You lean forward and vomit into the mess, spitting chunks of metal.
You were twelve years old when you lost your virginity. There’s nothing to recall about him, never got to see his face (he had come from behind, dragged you by the hair to be slammed into the shadow-cut wall of that alleyway) but you remember his frigid touch. The trembling fingers fit into bruisings on the inner thigh. He had easy access with just a hitch of your leg. A skirt hemmed too short and the frayed band of your pack-cheap panties. Those are the details you have to focus on now with Alina slotted between your legs. A hand hovering to the knee. She’s hesitating and you think that man did too. It’s just enough time to convince yourself of a need–that you are never wanting.
Thin fabric was torn in a bid to have you, slipped down thighs, then down to ankles, as cock found shallow thrusts into his need. You never did tell when you were left that night to walk home with the blood-drip lines down the leg.
She wouldn't be able to handle it–handle this–if she knew. It’s only with her ignorance as she pulls back a fist. The first hit collides with your jaw, head snapped to the side and it's quick to be followed with another to the soft of your stomach. There’s a grunt and a sharp throb as her cock is jostled. That’s the easy act, cunt clenched and crying something broken. She gives you another hit for it.
***
You’re laid out on the bed, smoking with your head craned back. It makes it harder to breathe. There’s more of an effort taken to get smoke in the chest, a welcome distraction from her countless apologies. You loved Alina, or thought you did, but you never did like her voice (it was the movement of the mouth, the lip pulling and the scratched hesitancy to grate against nerves) and that's why it was a favor when you listened. That's why she had to give back what she took.
Rolling over, pressed to the side, you look at her. She’s still naked. Her cock was flaccid between her legs and her knuckles were bruised. You see the purpling across the hand laid on her chest. You reach to take it and she only looks at you when you bring her to lips.
“Why?” She asks and you think her questions are worse than her need for forgiveness.
There will never be a point you could give her understanding. There was never a point she could fulfill your need to be a real woman. Instead of letting her distress, you tangle fingers, let her squeeze.
“Next time,” you tell her, because you both know there will be a next time, “you’ll need to hit harder.”
The razor was easy now–everything familiar in the sting of the blade. Your sister is precise with it. There’s an assurance in each (straight, clean, perfect) line. In layers, skin-slivers between scar tissue, marred. Slow and unbecoming and a privilege only for the good girls who listened well (like you).
Today had been the right wrist and even though you asked if you could finish your homework (an essay for fourth period english crumpled beneath sheets of display-work maths) Audria said she wanted it done now. Hand on shoulder, rattle-dragged wood on tile. It was easiest to be sat in the kitchen where the blood splashed bright. She folds the sleeve and undoes bandages and you recite your prayers with tongue to teeth.
She calls you patient (seven cuts midway up the forearm).
Then she calls you pretty (the chair creaks when you can’t stay still).
And Audria pulls away and your words twist in air (red-lined wrapped on the wrist liked tied yarn bracelets) and both of you know the easy part is over. The buckle clinks as the belt is undone.
Her cock is set on the ridge of your palm. Short and thick, a wetness beading at her relief. With a grip underneath, arm-to-arm and hand clasped at elbow, your shaking hand is held in her weight. Every tremble in your fingers felt in pattering against the skin. She reaches out. You duck your head and spit in her hand. It’s enough to place above, block the tip with pressure, and glide into your length.
The heat is a throb. An open pull of wound that has your head knocking back and your voice rising. Tide-pull. Moon-cycled. The shallowing of your sisters breath. (blood is sticky. it congeals dark on the white, white tiles.) The thread falls from your grasp, words lost in bubbling spit.
“And all of God’s people said amen,” she chokes, white-heated. “Amen, amen–fuck–”
(and it seeps into every crack, impossible to clean)
“Um, Tonya, I..” Her voice was weak, teetering on the edge of apprehension. “I think this is kinda weird.”
“What? Can’t handle a footjob between friends?” you say, trying to maintain a straight face although it's becoming increasingly difficult with Joan's agreed–if not hesitant–participation. As she was, Joan was sitting opposite of you on the mattress, propped up on her arms with a foot raised in the air.
It was a joke, or at least it was a joke about ten minutes ago, you can't exactly find the comedy placed at your ever growing boner in the flex of your best friend's foot. She hasn’t even touched you yet, hovering a few inches above your clothed crotch, but the tease left your head spinning. She hums as her leg weighs to make the first move. It’s nothing impressive. Joan rubs her forefoot and curls her toes into the air. But then she slides forward. A smooth motion down to the arch but not quite at the heel and you jolt with a groan. A raise into contact, hips off the mattress.
She pauses. “Oh. Do you like that?”
You don’t respond. Anything justifying this need falls firmly into the humiliation that you weren’t ready to bare, but she doesn't seem to mind. She does the motion again, deliberate with just the slightest push of pressure. You hear her breath out as you suck in air and she rolls, again, starting at the ankle and follows down the heel.
Instinctive, you try to reach out. Though it's something more like a desperate grab, a rejection of pleasure and the overwhelm of shame. Joan kicks back. “Stop it! You know you can't use your hands.”
Her tone is patronizing, a simple scold like you were the obnoxious child she's only indulging. Your chest stutters and your head falls back. You slide up, a caress under the thigh. A wanting.
“You’re giving me rules now?” You gasp, twitching a smile.
“I think you need it.” It’s a sudden dig, a hard press that has your knees buckling. Barely a whimper of a swear. She rubs up, curling toes into your bare stomach. The bend then press. She puts weight, heel lowered to grind. Barely seconds where she drags the motion before her leg is raised instead. Your mouth is trembling open, quiet and needy. Joan seemed passive, the apprehension left only in a dark of her cheeks. “Because you want to be good, don't you?”
You have to bite back the urge, bring yourself to dip your head, shoulders hunched as you kiss the side of her foot. The bend of the crease then the soft of the sole. You pant and nod.
When your sister comes into your room with her eyes kept low and her hands shaking, you're quick to pull her in. With a gentle hand on the wrist, a cup of her wet cheek, she falls into you. The door is nudged shut and it’s only then that she breaks.
She’s pregnant, she says, she’s pregnant and she’s terrified. You listen to her blubber over the words, chest heaving with such a confession. There was the fear of the future–what was mom gonna say? How would she continue with school? What is going to happen to you when people start to ask questions?
You take her into your bed.
She quiets as she goes and it's enough to let you settle her into your hold.
You aren't surprised, because of course you arent–you had used every excuse you could scrape up to go without proper protection. And it’s not as if she never had to care about such things when she was younger, back when all she had to do was lift her skirt and spread her legs so you could have her as you pleased. Even now, you throw an arm over her waist, rub at the stomach before slipping between her legs. She's wet, desperate, and whimpers needy with the shaky exhale. It’s all she could have known.
It should have changed when you had woken her up that morning with fresh blood, not the kind that dotted stains of her panties, it was the dark red that pooled into the sheets. Only she had blinked slow and asked so sweetly, yawning as she clutched her stuffie. So you had taken her again right then, just as she wanted. It was after, as you were cleaning up did you explain how things were going to be a little different from then on. She wasn't a little girl anymore.
She looked stricken by your words but her worries were quickly pacified with fingers rubbing at the mix of slick, blood and cum dripping from her cunt and a promise of birth control. That would never have to deal with it again.
The bottle you gave her were sugar pills. She never knew any better.
Even as her stomach had begun to get round, heavier with more than just her own baby fat. Even when her tits were sensitive to every little touch, soreness barely relieved as you massaged, rubbing thumbs over her puffy nipples. Even with the sickness, the cravings, the sobbings, the need. It was the part of getting older, that's what you told her as you continued to pump her full of your cum, nothing she should worry about.
It’s what you tell her now with a steady rub to her cunt and lips to her neck. And for all of it, she believes you. That accidents happen but nothing you won’t take care of.
This was becoming routine and that made you sick.
It starts the same. You would call your boyfriend–he always picks up. The conversation is soft, an irrelevant lull of lapping waves. He talks about work keeping him late and you talk about grading papers you stay up for and neither of you bring up the question of who he was staying with that night. You have been taught to sit still. There is nothing good to come when you rock the boat. The call ends as it starts, quiet. You have been pacified in the comfort that he always picks up. You are spurned in knowing she does too.
Laura finds her place in the emptiness of your home. Sometimes you only want her to listen over the line. It's easy talking by silence in the static. Other times she comes to help you with simple tasks–laundry undone, a sink full, the constant re-arrangement of a mock-nursery. You don't talk as much then.
When the house is clean and the dogs are fed, she will take you into the bedroom. You like to think of this as repayment. It's easier like that, knowing you can't refuse.
It doesn't take long to satisfy her. Laid into the sheets, pretty as a picture, and let her comfort, although her touch is sloppy with a shake in the hand and the catch of too-long nails. She kisses bitter and you struggle to the swallow around words of endearment. Those are the ones that get lost long-distance. But there's no distance here. She cuts through the water with a force to capsize the last thing to keep you afloat. A rock of the hips. A drag of a tongue. Rough finger-pads pressed above the hip bone and a promise of something worth more.
You liked to measure her growth in how far she can wrap her hands around your cock. The first time you got to lead her into it–pressing your ache into the soft palm of her hand–she could barely flex fingers as just the tip was thicker than her own wrists. But she's bigger now. Older, in that with the thick fit into the palm, she can almost touch fingers together. She tells you as much with a bright smile, gapped with her newly missing baby teeth. It gets you to laugh, airy, in agreement. A passing remark on how the time goes by.
Like this that she doesnt need your guidance, doesnt need to be taught through the motions–shes already learned. It lets you groan and lean back as she works. (though you keep your eyes that much open, watch her sat at your feet with her face scrunched up in focus, tongue peaking out) Her hand twists, squeezing, and you find it hard to keep the fond smile off your face.
You call her name. Her eyes flicker, peeking up through her lashes, then down again. Still shy.
She comes to hold the base of your cock as she leans in with puckered lips. A kiss to the tip, a smear of pre before her tongue darts out for a taste. Always a tease. Your fingers twitch. Her elbows knock as she shifts and settles with her tongue out flat. It’s not enough to find a place in her throat. Even the kind push of your fingers will choke, but as her hands begin to move and her clipped nails scratch along the sensitive skin, you think this is enough. The saliva pooling on the tongue, her eyes squinting in anticipation.
When you release it covers her face. A few drops fall to the tongue, but you pull back and let the rest line across her nose and up to the bangs. Her mouth closes, swallowing without thought before opening, wider. You grunt, hand coming on top of hers with the other on the back of the head. A couple of quick jerks to get the last of it out before rubbing your cockhead down the crease of her mouth. Cum clings to her skin, to the lashes, as she sits tongue out. Like a puppy wanting a treat and you tell her as such. She twitches as her chin lowers, flush darkening. A slight tug and she's forward with lips wrapped to suckle your tip. You’ll have her stay there until the mess has dried.
The tree above was a gnarled, ugly thing–all barren with its leaves fallen into a wet-rot across the ground. A bluejay rests on a branch. Black-eyed. Quiet in observation. Why would it stay here? You want to ask her that, why would the pretty bird perch still on dead-wood? Blue on black. Danger willing.
If you were a bird you would have long spread your wings and fly. But you are not a bird and you have no wings and you cannot fly.
There is a hand on the back of your head. The fingers flex and settle, thumb pressed to the soft underside of your jaw. It's all quiet. The leaves don’t crunch and the birds don’t sing. There's no buzz of cicadas. Sweat drips sticky down your cheek. You were still breathing, open-mouthed, since he's allowed it so far. No longer hands on throat, thrashing in the bed of his pick-up. He’s staring at you.
In the shadow of the old tree, the sun burns in your eyes. All you could see was his cock pulled through the hole in his jeans. You wonder if Lucy seen him before. She would have told you, must have, since he's nothing like the boys in your class. He's weighted. Heavy. Red-tipped like a dog.
Your mouth is open and he leads you forward.
The push isn't the problem. You've been told well enough–watch the teeth, swallow as needed, just like your momma aint you–but it's the taste that's real awful. Like diesel-dirt and bitter-rind. You take the length of him, tongue flat. Years blur through the vision. It's hard to know where to focus, the shine of his belt or the shine of the sun. You don't know if he's looking at you.
He doesn't breathe through his mouth, he huffs through the nostrils, chest rise and fall. The thumb jabs and your jaw loosens. You try. You try in the way that Lucy once talked about but it's a choke-pull of an angle and a canine caught on flesh. You’re cock-free in an instant, hand knocked you to the ground. A hit to get the ears ringing. You spit up into the dirt. He’s kept yelling. You roll over and look to the branches and see that the bluejay has gone.
You awake alone in a bed, naked with a pain in your stomach and a heavy feeling of dread. It’s not your bed, not your room with walls covered top to bottom in posters, but your clothes are strewn about the floor and your blood has stained into the sheets. When she comes back she doesn't meet your eye. She doesn't talk about it, she's a good girl like that, but you can't forget the hand on your arm as she ushers you out of her room.
And you know you've done something very, very bad.
It’s a feeling from numbed fingers though your nerves are shot and your memories are hazy. Stumbling towards the bathroom you catch glimpses of your thoughts. A few bottles of beer, you had told her you quit drinking and you really did this but she insisted on a sip and that one turned to three turned to more than you could count. When you start you always find it hard to stop. But you remember soft hands and sweet smells and you stumble through the door tripping over yourself to vomit.
Just a little too far and you've missed the toilet. Knees on tile and your body shaking. There is blood on your thighs. There is blood on your thighs and a pain in your stomach and a desire for something you were never allowed to have. The porcelain of the toilet seat is cold. You press your face down and begin to sob.