Her knees are shaking. Tense and trembling, discoloration spilling from haphazardly applied bandages. You pick at a curling edge with only a faint hum. A fair distraction. One leg is held up, your fingers crushed in the hot crook. There’s a heart-beat there. It’s soft skin and a skipping pulse, a trapped bird. You pull back, kept a little closer to her chest, and absentmindedly go down the list of reassurances.
Rubbing down the cling of her panties, warm-wet—she thinks she's had an accident. The human condition in its most primitive. If we couldn’t rationalize these unfamiliar acts, and denial is a winding river, it’s sure we’d all go insane.
Pleasure, for a child, is no different than tipping a glass.
A spasm, knee flex, her hips twisting away from your touch. This is different and it is wrong but she doesn’t know she knows this yet. From the strained whites of her eyes, drool glistening down her chin and throat. You edge a nail under the useless fabric cover to peel it back.
The stretch, knees now pushed to parted, has her cunt pulled open, pink and wet. With the flat of your fingers you tap into it. This is formed by the comfort she got as a baby, rocking and patting. She cries loud like one, fussy, spit bubbling on bitten lips. By inductive struggle she’s let herself awkwardly slipped, neck bent, back arched, down your lap. You huff, pull away from holding her up to loop your arm around her head so she rests fallen into the elbow. All the while tapping down, pausing, rub into the collecting slick, then back to tapping.
Her tongue is pink and white. It over-hangs, like a tangled vine of ivy, where her head tips into your palm. Born lopsided—made dumb. The spit drips down the forearm. You keep your fingers behind her back teeth and feel the warm, rolling breath. If you went under—nose buried in wet dripped curls—if you went under you could kiss. If you wanted you could open for the tongue-tip pitcher, leaf collected spit, and drink. Have her swallowed into the open cavern of your mouth, nestle between crooked teeth and into your working throat.
Sometimes you feel you must be the big, bad wolf.
But you only pant into her neck. She croons and you lick deliriously up the fur. You’re cock deep, stomach-to-stomach, stiff nipples frictioned against fur-clipped skin. It’s only slick between the back-legs, where every thrust gets you hilted.
The action is wild in want, instinctive. A dog's cunt is always tight, and when opened into that dark throbbing red, hot.
Nails tap your shoulder blades and you shift, rolling one hip and tugging her jaw forward. She shudders, a deep mud shake, lolling tongue, but you kiss her white teeth. Petting the lower back into push quick motion, never enough time to separate. Hard and sharp. She’s rocked like a baby, clinging and calling. Ringing in her high young voice.
You settle her to the bed with knees pushed under hind legs. Your cock is pulling, white and pink froth slipping by moment. Trailed down into the dip of her stomach and grabbing one of the thick nipples, sore as your own, to run into circles. It’s the mommas kind. Still kissing, fingers gripped and lip twitching, you take the bottom canine, tongue into gums, and suckle.
“Ah, ah–ah–” Its nails clip down your sides, pushing weight as your elbows slip and you bang head-first to the tile. There's a wet puddle of spit gathering in your dipped spine, rivering down the shoulder. It meets into a sticky cold pool under your cheek where you realize, in beached fish gasps, that you’re drooling too—no better than the dog.
The thrusts are shorter now, closer fit into the gut and quicker by rising heat. It’s going to finish, you think, but it can’t, not here, a mess on the kitchen floor.
All you wanted was that quick relief. Chest pressed down, tits squished to your chin, you arch the back—sliding a hand underneath. Your shoulder twinges. Trying to find the clit, to pinch, to hold, finger-tipped rubbing, but it keeps up the fuck and your hand won’t steady.
“Wait—please,” you sob. Its paws drag your hips.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The cock swelling stretches the outer of the hole. A little closer, and every time you try to pull away, a little harder. No—you tell it—bad, bad boy. The force and settle of the knot slurs those complaints to dumb whines.
It uselessly twitches, fucking without a place to be except disgustingly buried. Its cock throbs and spills and it's not fair that the animal doesn't care to listen. You’re shaking. Sore by the grinding knees as it's slipping off your body, panting, with one leg forced to raise. Like pissing, a hot pulse to empty. With a sharp bite you finger through the folds until you get the clit, pinching hard. Another orgasm ruined.
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 caution. And just because you’re there you twist your head down to kiss at her hole in a series of soft peckings.