Youre half-way unbuckling her pants when she breaks away to whisper, “but what if mom comes in?”
The television plays from the crack of the door, a thin sliver of dying light caught by the far reach around the stairs. You tell her that its fine, moms asleep–exhausted–from the late shift at the hospital. You kiss your sister again and shimmy her jeans down her hips.
Her panties, which were yours all the way back in middle school with its worn ruffling and peeling vinyl patterned cats, cut tight. Theres a dark spilling that if you touch comes off sticky.
“Tell me you want it,” you say, drinking the spit from her mouth.
“Please,” she pants. “Please, I really do.”
You pull back to sink to your knees. The panties come sliding down with you, on the other side of the dark stain is the inner lining filled with murky slick. It reminds you of coming home, wet and gross. She whimpers.
All it takes is spitting in the hand. You fuck fingers at the taunt skin between hole and cock, the head gripped between thumb and forefinger, and her body tremors. Muscle spasms, the shaft twitching like a working throat. If she had been scared to be discovered–that was hers, you werent worried to be heard–she forgets her cation. And just because you’re there you twist your head down to kiss at her hole in a series of soft peckings.