Archive of Our Own ^beta

Since graduating high school and escaping my parents' withering expectations in far off Out of State Universityland, I have not been back home.

Home is one of those places that has too much baggage and history to frequent. I've managed to steer clear the past two years, but I couldn't get out of a Christmas appearance. It's break, I have no excuses, and Mom was sure to remind me that it's been two whole years since I've seen any of them. She brought up Hazel to really rub it in my face even though we aren't as close as we used to be. The six year age gap felt like nothing when she was younger and sort of like a built-in buddy who did literally whatever the fuck I wanted.

Things changed as I got older and angrier, unhappy in my body and the perceptions the world had of me because I existed in that body. I did what I wanted to do without telling my parents—better to ask for forgiveness than permission—and it evidently didn't go over well.

Enough time has passed that my nerves have eased about it, but I still feel a sickening dread as I watch the familiar surroundings transition into the town that once contained my entire life.

Presently, the bus pulls into the station in my hometown, stopping to unload us out into the dreary winter weather. The sky is gray and feels as though it is hanging overhead. I get some sense of spatial unease when I look up at it. Everything feels like it's about to come crashing down. I know that's just because of the proximity to my parents, but I continuously find myself glancing up, making sure the sky looks the way it should. Predictable and far away.

I get across town by walking—everything is all close together here in the center, so it doesn't take as long as I would like to reach home. I wanted time to think, to prepare, and delay my entrance as much as possible.

It would not have worked anyway. Family sprawls out from the house's propped-open door and multiple heads turn as I approach. Many of them squint at me in confusion before the pieces fall together. It takes an enormous effort to keep my head held high and to not hone in on the whispering. I look a little different now.

I head straight for the front door and have to navigate through the scattered clumps of people on the way there. I take in their faces briefly. Lots of distant relatives. This could be something like a family reunion. It isn't anything I know about, but I wouldn't put Mom past doing something like this. Plan the timing of the failed child's return to line up with every single person ever showing up for the holidays. Some faces are friendly and I assume it's only because they don't recognize me exactly for who I am. I probably just look like some distant male relative they can't quite remember.

The inside of the house is basically the same as the outside—that is to say, crowded and disgustingly nostalgic. I go straight for the staircase even though I see Mom trying to get my attention. I'll use the long bus ride as an excuse to hide. Once I'm up the stairs, on the landing, my final obstacle presents herself.

Hazel's eyes grow wide as she stops me at the top of the stairs. "Joey?"

I barely have a moment to take the sight of her in. Two years is a long time going from fourteen to sixteen. Hazel might as well be a totally different girl.

"What?" I don't know what to say. I don't really know if what I'm seeing is real or at least if it's really her, so I tentatively say, "Hazel?"

My sister crosses her arms and looks me up and down before smiling. I blink and she is suddenly here, throwing her arms around my neck to hug me. I awkwardly return the embrace. She's taller now—it's noticeable enough I back away and really look at her, not bothering to hide how hard I'm staring.

If things were exactly the same as they used to be, Hazel would shyly take in the concentrated attention, she would drop her gaze and tell me to stop. Now, her smile remains and she even raises her brows a little as though to ask, what do you think? Her hair, always such a vital source of her pride, is longer now and curlier somehow. It's the same warm brown as her eyes. I squint at her face, not seeing much through the darkness up here, and I think I can make out some makeup. It looks good, she's been practicing, and it makes her look older.

"What?" She finally can't take it anymore and grins harder before averting her eyes.

I gesture to her and feel a smile threatening to bloom on my face for the first time since I got on that bus. "I haven't seen you in a while," I say. "That's all."

Hazel looks down at herself as though she's forgotten what she looks like. She's wearing some holiday themed sweater that is hideous in the way that makes me think Mom picked it out. Everything else looks nice, though. Her makeup, her curled hair, and the smile still on her face. I haven't known anyone this happy to see me in a long time.

"I haven't seen you," she says and grabs my wrist, pulling me into her room.

There is more light in here and now I'm able to truly take in the visual feast that is her. I go to her vanity and sit on the tiny stool while she climbs onto her bed to stare out at the front yard from her window. A grimace distorts her smile and she sighs, "Ugh—I thought everyone would be leaving by now."

"What's going on?" I'm halfway paying attention. Most of my thoughts are concentrated elsewhere, particularly on how her room has changed in two short years. Different posters and a new arrangement. So little makes it feel like a completely different space.

"Christmas," she answers and looks at me curiously. "You know that's today, right?"

I blink at her and check my phone. She's right. It's the twenty-fifth.

"I knew that."

Hazel rolls her eyes and sits on the edge of her bed, her hands tucked under her thighs. "Anyway, I don't know if you have anything still under the tree. I know last year they gave your stuff to our baby cousins when you didn't show up."

It feels like a jab and when I meet Hazel's eyes, I realize it is. "I'm sorry," I say and because it's her and not my shitty parents or older sister, I mean it.

Hazel doesn't appear convinced but she nods.

I still, for some unknown reason, feel the need to keep trying. "You know how they were when I came out and everything."

Hazel frowns thoughtfully and looks away, staring back in the direction of the window. "Yeah—true. You could've like, texted me or something. You don't look the same at all."

"I know. I'm sorry," I say and now that the aching nostalgia portion of this visit is just about over, Hazel making me grovel will start to get under my skin.

Before she has a chance to irritate me to the point she ruins the moment, I stand and go to the door. "I'm shot. If they come looking for me, tell them I'm asleep." I leave Hazel's room without looking back at her and go straight into my preserved high school bedroom.

It's comforting being in here for some reason. It shouldn't be, given the fact that this room has witnessed all my worst moments, all the endless nights spent awake and immobilized, but it is. It smells the same, which is to say stale and a little mildewy. My parents haven't touched anything in there. It's like I'm dead, but I'm not, and I carve out a place on the bed to curl up. When I left, it was in a pretty big hurry, so I didn't bother picking up the accumulation of filth and clothes scattered everywhere. I glance around the cramped space and see that my desk is relatively uncluttered. It's clean enough for me, I won't touch anything. This is meant to be a break and I intend to use it.

The next few days pass with an agonizing slowness. My older sister appears from whatever shithole she's been camping in for the last few months and I receive a glass of water to the face after I asked if the campsite had any showers. I don't see Wren again after that as we become like a skilled pair of actors, one of us slipping off stage the moment the other arrives. Hazel informs me that Wren leaves after staying three nights. I guess things are tense between her and our parents. It makes sense; they don't appreciate surprise attributes like my sexuality or Wren's preference to wander.

With their two older children failures and disappointments, all of my parents hope now resides in Hazel, who has appeared to have soaked up the extra attention in the two years I've been gone. I have to begrudgingly admit how good it looks on her. I left behind an awkward, too-loud kid and came back to someone who seems to have halfway figured herself out. Gone are her mismatched hand-me-downs and the fake little girl's jewelry. Whenever I encounter her around the house, she usually wears matching lounge sets or big T-shirts that manage to be the perfect amount of oversized for her. That hair trails down her back like a fluid curtain, always getting twisted in her fingers when she's nervous. Some things haven't changed.

In that strange, unreal week between Christmas and New Year's, the home exists in motion around me. I no longer have a place here and I am content to watch their lives go on without having to be directly involved. A part of me is a little shocked my parents are allowing me to stay here for this long. I've strategically coordinated the best times to emerge from my room and for the most part, I am free to sneak around without the interrogation I used to endure in high school.

Hazel's life continues going on as normal despite my intrusion. It's irrational, but I find myself irritated when I notice this. It doesn't make sense, which causes the frustration to deepen and fester, and I end up hiding in my room from her more often than not.

As I sit at my desk one evening, just woken up from a day of sleeping, drifting violently in and out of indecipherable dreams, I hear Mom ascend the stairs. For a few tense moments, I think she's coming in here and I instinctively bristle. It's some leftover reaction from the years I spent here. My eyes automatically go to the mess, taking stock of the clothes glued to the floor and the accumulation of dishes teetering on the dresser. I hold my breath as she passes my room and goes to Hazel's.

These walls are thin. I hear them talking as my heart rate calms down. Mom always sets me on edge. There's always one thing guaranteed to take the edge off. While I vaguely listen in on the conversation—Hazel's going out, doing something—I navigate to some ol' reliable porn site and push a hand in my boxers to grab my dick. I've taken to hard packing while I'm here as a sort of fuck you to my dipshit parents and it's been coming in handy (there's a joke about hand-jobs somewhere in here) whenever the mood strikes me. Which is often.

I choose a video at random. I watch some bullshit to get warmed up, just barely teasing my dick, still touching it with it tucked away in my sweatpants. I have a few favorites in mind for whenever I'm closer to actually cumming. I'll start one of those once I'm really close, but it can't be one more than two or three minutes. Just something quick to send me off. Outside the room, Hazel argues about her curfew and Mom remains firm. Eleven o'clock. Hazel makes a comment about the fact they may not be awake and Mom quickly concedes. Instead of thinking about the fight my defiance would have caused, I watch some e-slut choke on a plastic dick.

My hand wraps tighter around my dick's shaft—it's nothing crazy; a reasonable six inches and a nice girth to it—and I grind it down against myself. Everything is hot and wet between my thighs and as my boxers soak it all up, the fabric sticks to my sweaty skin. The video isn't even that hot. Pornstar 1 convulses on the dick and her eyes flood with tears as Pornstar 2 snaps their hips into her face, plunging their artificial cock down her throat like they're trying to impregnate her from the wrong end.

Mom and Hazel are still talking and I'm hardly paying attention anymore. There's a small part of me that is bothered by how much I give a shit about Hazel's blossoming love life. It's stupid to feel bitter toward my sister's place in the world. With a face like that, she's guaranteed anything she wants out of life; it's just the privilege of being a Stacy on top of the physical food chain.

I can't be jealous—I'm older, I'm in my sexual prime, and I don't live with our shithead parents. Despite this, I hear Hazel bid Mom farewell and skip down the stairs. I try to think of something else as I idly watch around various porn sites, but my mind continuously circulates back to Hazel. What is she doing?

The orgasm is less than ideal since I'm distracted. I furiously push Hazel out of my mind as I rub myself to some unsatisfying, shivering conclusion. Immediately after, I wonder if she's getting laid tonight and despite not knowing if she is, I feel a surge of disquiet course through me. It would be a humiliation on an untouched level if she's fucked before I have.

It's late when Hazel gets back home. Mom and Dad are already asleep—apparently, she's been going on enough dates recently the initial excitement has ebbed. I hear her from upstairs even as she sneakily tries to avoid all the creakiest floorboards. It's an oddly nostalgic feeling. I remember hearing my older sister doing the same thing when I was Hazel's age. Wren was a lot better at it than Hazel is.

The creaking ascends the stairs and instead of going to the left, where I know her room is, Hazel hesitates on the landing. I can imagine her facing the door to my room or the bathroom. It must have been a bad date if she's lingering out like this.

I go to the door and crack it open. It didn't take long for my room to get filthier than I'm used to it being, but I don't want to hear it right now.

Hazel faces my door and flinches when it suddenly opens. I step out onto the landing and watch her awkwardly wrestle with what to say. In the whirlwind of activity and my daytime hibernating since my arrival, I haven't been able to really interact with her as much as I thought I would. Seeing her like this—older, further along in puberty and reaching her mature silhouette—makes something twist deep in my chest that I would prefer not to dissect. She is the age I was when I began transitioning, so from here on out, I will see what I would have looked like. It's a slightly unnerving thought and I drop my eyes from her face, instead taking in her date night outfit.

It's cute and that is sort of a sickening thought to have about my sister. She makes it look good—a deep sage green dress with one of her thin, vintage belts cinching her waist. Long, brown hair falling freely around her exposed shoulder. It's curled more than usual and something sweet wafts from her body as she stands in front of me. Although she took off her shoes at the house's entrance, I can make out tights on her legs, miles long even in a dress.

I shouldn't be looking at her like this, but I'm tired, I haven't seen her in two years, and I have eyes.

"What do you want?" It comes out rude and hoarse. I don't bother correcting my tone, she isn't an overly emotional thirteen year old anymore.

Hazel inches closer and points into the room. "Let me in. I wanna talk about this with somebody."

As she tries to force herself past me (more of that artificial sweetness reaches my nose and my arms prickle with goosebumps), I block her and ask, "Why me? Call someone."

"Why'd you come out here? You knew it was me," she retorts and pushes me out of the way. I can't argue with that and I'm a little too tired to want to, so I allow her inside with a sharp sigh.

Hazel does not seem phased as she steps over the piles of clutter scattered across the already cramped room. Whatever is on her mind is taking priority over everything else. She goes straight to my bed and sits on top of the disheveled covers, crossing her legs and pulls her skirt down.

"So, I've been on a lot of dates lately, right?"

Instantly launching into the spiel. It's not a great sign and I can't feasibly make an escape before she gets going. I am forced to stay and endure, sitting awkwardly on the edge of my desk while Hazel chatters. It's easier to see her in my room's lighting—still dim, but warm and ambient.

"I'm trying a lot of new things lately, just in the spirit of putting myself out there and like, figuring myself out. Because I'd rather get all this over with now and figure out what I want," she says sagely, never once looking at me as she speaks. I don't feel like she wants input yet and remain quiet, simply taking in her newer, older mannerisms.

Hazel pauses and sighs with so much drama I'm surprised she isn't interested in being an actress. "This guy tonight though," she says slowly and shudders. "It was just so bad. I don't feel like I expect much. Just like, hold the door open for me. God. It just sucked."

We look different from the side. It's our noses. She takes more after Mom's—straight and short, while mine is longer, a little hooked at the end.

"I know you're like," Hazel squints at me and waves a hand. "Whatever you are. But did you ever go out with any guys?"

That instantly draws a scoff out of me. "I'm not the kind of person people want. I don't look right." It's kind of a stupid, self-deprecating thing to say and Hazel cringes at me.

"Okay? So did you ever go out with anyone, ever?"

I grit my teeth and shake my head. I see she's adopting the same bitchy attitude Mom and Wren have. It's a shame, she was my favorite from the moment she was born.

"Ah, man," Hazel huffs out a sigh. "Well, I just wanted to know how you felt about it."

"About what?" I don't know why we're talking about it. She knows how people treated me back then and it hasn't changed. The otherness is only more palpable even though I'm passing most of the time. It's a feeling. People see me and they just know.

"Like, about how to behave on dates," Hazel clarifies and sits up straighter to adjust her hair. I remain silent as she pulls the curtain of curls over her shoulder, draping it and letting it dangle in brown ringlets to her lap where she idly twists the ends. "'Cause I feel like there's certain expectations. Like, you're making a good impression, you wanna show you're serious, that you can show up with your stuff together, and it's even more important on a first date. I'm tellin' you, this guy didn't touch a single doorknob."

"So you just expect people to do shit for you since you're a pretty girl?"

Hazel rolls her eyes. "No—it literally goes both ways. I have expectations. So do they."

"And how are people supposed to know about these expectations if you don't tell them what you want? You just expect people to treat you a certain way 'cause that's how it's always been for you," I say and sit on the gaming chair rolled up to the desk.

"It's like a universal thing. Did Mom or Dad ever talk to you about what you should do on dates? It's like that," Hazel says firmly, pointedly refusing to acknowledge what I'm talking about. Air-headed slut. I can't believe we come from the same people.

"No," I say and some of that are you fucking stupid? tone leaks into my voice and Hazel frowns at me.

"Hey. I'm just trying to talk to you," she says and she sounds so genuinely hurt I'm actually taken aback. "Whatever, Joey. I'm gonna go to sleep."

I don't know what to say. I don't know what she wants me to say and even though I shouldn't want to tell her what she wants to hear, I find myself grasping for reasons to keep her here, to keep talking. Instead of anything else, I say, "Okay. Night."

Hazel turns and leaves with a sharp sigh, leaving me alone in my room with my thoughts.

The conversation has set me on edge and despite my best efforts, I can't sleep or distract myself. I have loads of hidden goodies around the room that would help me sleep, but I'm paranoid about doing drugs here. The most I will do is drink, maybe smoke somewhere outside and just immediately retreat to my room, but the risk outweighs the rewards. It just doesn't seem worth it. There isn't anyone I would want to smoke with around here anyway.

After some half-hearted masturbation, I manage to slip into a somewhat decent sleep, and the next day proceeds as the ones before it. I spend the day sleeping, jerking off, and watching the world outside my window. I spent a lot of time near my windowsill growing up and I get a strange sensation of muscle memory working its magic when I sit on the chair next to it.

Hazel comes slinking around my door once we've had dinner which was an event I had to grit my teeth through. I've taken refuge in my room, prepared to stroke my shit for the third time today, when Hazel slips inside without knocking. She nearly catches me with a hand shoved in my sweats and I struggle to act normal after wrenching my hand free. I open some mindless game before I dare to glance at her.

It ends up not mattering. Hazel goes straight for my bed and launches herself there with a huff. It doesn't seem like the build up of clothes on top of my covers bothers her.

Once I've recovered from being surprised with her presence, I ask, "What're you doing?"

Hazel rolls over onto her stomach and dangles her arms off my mattress. She emits a thoughtful hum. I look back at my computer screen in an attempt to look more invested in what's going on here. Finally, she says, "I'm bored."

"No shit."

That earns me a loud, dramatic sigh. "Do you wanna do anything?"

"No."

Hazel groans and something collides with the back of my head before falling to the floor. Boxers. I look up at her lounging on my bed like she's marking her territory and she impishly smiles.

I don't know what to say to this and I try, and fail, to return the smile. It comes across as more of a grimace and Hazel erupts into giggling so girlish it feels like an affront to witness.

I turn back around and say, "Well, if you're gonna stay in here, don't bother me."

Hazel lets out a hum of acknowledgement and when it becomes clear she won't be speaking again until she feels like it, I attempt to pour myself into the game. It's one of those bullshit cozy games one of my college acquaintances-I-actually-dislike-but-keep-around-because-they-give-me-notes put me onto. It's terrible; just unpacking endless pieces of horseshit from bottomless moving boxes and decorating. I can't really get into it and I keep finding myself listening back to Hazel, trying to detect any change in her breathing or position.

"I've been online," Hazel mutters from my bed and I instantly start paying closer attention without sacrificing eyes on the game. "Just looking up stuff to try to understand this."

I don't know where she's going with this, but there is a strange weight in her voice that is intriguing. I navigate somewhere else, some random site online while she speaks.

"Um—I don't even know if I can talk about it because I don't know if you even know what I'm talking about—"

"Well yeah, you aren't actually explaining anything," I interrupt and pause, waiting for her to get on with it.

Hazel glowers at me. I don't have to turn around to know what kind of face she's pulling. Eventually, she continues, "Well, maybe it's hard to talk about, and I'm having a hard time, and maybe you should be patient," she finishes with a hiss. When I have nothing to say to that, she begins again, "I just had this thought after that sucky date I had. I don't think I've actually liked any of the guys I've been going out with. I was trying to think about why I did, and all I could think about was Mom and Dad."

I'm not shocked to hear this. When I initially came out as a dyke, they were not pleased. As I revealed just how much of a dyke I was, they began exerting more pressure on me. Pressure to change, to conform, to do what they wanted to stay in the family's good graces. I guess I screwed up any chance of them accepting a second dyke in the family.

"But other than that, I really don't have anything keeping me with them. There's stuff that always like, draws me in, I guess. 'Cause if they're cute I always have an easier time imagining what they'd be like, even if I'm always wrong about it," Hazel sighs and sniffles. "I don't know. I'm really confused."

I still do not face her and instead thoughtfully drum my fingers on the desk.

When my silence persists, Hazel asks, "Are you still like, a lesbian?"

I stare at the bright white screen of my computer. My eyes feel bloodshot behind my glasses and the lenses are smudged with grime from the day. I don't look like a girl anymore. I'm not really a girl anymore. Lesbian is normally perceived as a distinctly girl word. I decide to answer honestly.

"Yeah—kinda."

"How kinda?"

I hear Hazel shift on my bed and some old wrapper crinkles in the covers. If it grosses her out, she doesn't say anything. I continue, hesitantly, "It's complicated." I suddenly don't really want to talk about this, but I don't want to back out of the conversation and look like a pussy.

"Come on, Joey," Hazel whines and the wrapper bounces off the back of my head. "I have lesbian questions for you. About lesbiansss."

"Why the fuck are you saying it like that?"

I get no response. There's some subdued snickering that I pointedly ignore. "Whatever. I'm like not a girl, but I'm also not really a man, so I'm just a dyke. And I only fuck women. It's always been like that."

Hazel snorts. "I didn't think you did that with anyone."

"Are you calling me a virgin?" I mean, I am, but she doesn't know that.

"You said it," Hazel says, audibly satisfied with her ability to get under my skin. It actually draws a full-bodied laugh from her and I finally turn the chair around to face her. If nothing else, she looks very pleased with herself and tosses her hair over her shoulders.

She rolls her eyes, "I thought you said that. Whatever. Are there other lesbians who look like you? Like, not exactly like you. Just—y'know, this thing you've got goin' on," Hazel says and gestures to me.

I refuse to look down at myself but I don't know what the fuck she's talking about. This thing I've got goin' on? The stained, years-old sweatpants littered with holes or the stick thin arms coming from my white shirt? I purposely choose to ignore the reasons behind why she would ask, and I respond with, "What?"

Hazel flushes hard enough I see it even in my room's dim light. "God, y'know."

"No, I don't actually," I snap back and huff out a sigh. She shouldn't get under my skin like this. It's a little ridiculous how quickly we fall back into routine bickering. It's equally nostalgic and irritating.

Hazel groans and stretches out on my bed, pressing her hands over her eyes. "Don't make me say it."

"Say what?" Part of me wants to smack it out of her.

"Fine," she bites back and rolls on her side, facing away from me.

I'm more interested than I thought I would be. This isn't a conversation I ever thought I would have. Especially not with my parents' perfect daughter—the one who wasn't a drifter like Wren or a dyke like me.

Still not looking at me, Hazel continues, "Like the way you look like a boy, basically. I don't mean that offensively at all—you really just look like some of the guys I know. And you're hairier."

It suddenly strikes me that I haven't been home in two years. I started injections a little before leaving and I left before the effects began showing.

Hazel is unaware of my train of thought and keeps going. "Do—are there other lesbians like you?"

A pause stretches between us until Hazel rolls over, finally looking at me. Her mouth is pressed into a thoughtful frown. It seems like the silence gets to her quickly and it isn't long before she's anxiously chewing her lip as she stares at me.

"Well, yeah," I say, because surely she's seen some around. "No shit there are."

Hazel's contemplative frown distorts into a scowl and she rolls her eyes. "Forget it, Joey." She stands up and begins going to my door. Without thinking, I stand up and grab her wrist. She turns abruptly and her eyes dart up to my face. She says nothing.

"I—uh. Sorry," I begin, tripping over myself because I can't place why I don't want her to go (or, I can, I just really don't want to think about why).

Hazel wrenches her wrist out of my grip and stands in front of me. Her eyebrows raise expectantly—of course, she wants me to do everything, the spoiled brat. And because she's always been my favorite, I fold easier than I would like to.

"The word you're looking for is butch," I mumble and am suddenly acutely aware of how I look right now. Two day old clothes and the scent of stale sweat clinging to me. Unwashed, greasy hair hangs limply over my forehead, only serving to conceal a landscape of scars and acne. I'm better about it back at my place, but it's break, I'm home, and I can't be bothered if I'm not going out in public. "There's a lot of stuff online but I can talk to you about it if you want."

Hazel's eyes drop and she nods. "Okay, Joey," she says and hesitates, lingering at my door. I find myself itching to touch her again, but I don't. "I might talk to you about it later. I just have to think about stuff."

I swallow hard against the strange urges welling up from some pit within me, and I nod. "Okay. Night, Hazel."

"See you, Joey," she murmurs and drifts out of my room.

I stand by the door for a long time before returning to bed. Sleep does not come easily and I curse my heinous energy drink consumption. It blows because there's nothing I want to be doing. There is literally nothing in this world that would take my mind off of Hazel and how she's been behaving since I've been back.

I feel like I'm making shit up. This isn't normal behavior from a sister—maybe she's reaching some kind of sexual maturity at the same time as she's breaking out of compulsory heterosexuality. It can be a bitch to handle, especially on top of experiencing the heights of teenage growth. I struggle to recall how I handled it. I had it different, of course, only targeting the most prime feminine specimens for my mental spank bank. I think Hazel was too young, Wren too bitchy, for me to turn my sights on them. Those first realizations came when I was fifteen. Hazel was ten. I can't remember much about her from then—this new Hazel is gradually eating away the old memories I have of her.

It should not come as a surprise to me when my hands slowly wander lower. Still, it does, and I'm mildly disgusted at myself as I dredge up the memory of Hazel in her pretty little date night number. She had some makeup on that night as well; she's pretty good at it. If I kissed her, it would get on my lips, on my mouth. I'd probably taste the moment I ingested a bit of her.

That isn't something that will ever happen, but I keep thinking. Every train of thought that attempts to intercept my current route ends up careening right off the rails.

My hands rest on my stomach, over my clothes. The white t-shirt I've been wearing for the past few days and plaid boxers I've had since middle school. I'm not the kind of butch girls want, but my sister, perfect and beautiful, wants to know if there are others like me. It's unthinkable. My hands shift lower and one of them cups my cunt through the boxers. The heel of my palm presses down on my dick—my clit—and I swallow hard against the noise that threatens to tear out of me.

Some memories bubble up to the surface of my mind as I debate how much I want to touch myself. Technically, I'm already touching, but I want more pressure and movement. If I commit to it, I will have to admit to myself that I'm jerking off to my sister. I have plausible deniability right now. I'm just touching, I'm not actively jerking my dick.

Although, that was an odd conversation to have with me. We barely know each other anymore—and her body language. I wet my lips and my hand pushes into my boxers, fingers threading through the dense hair concentrated down there. It's a familiar, almost comforting sort of feeling. I'm still not directly touching myself, only the neutral ground around, but I think of how much bigger Hazel's tits are now and my clit throbs and I have to touch it.

It's a little ridiculous. Hazel was always oddly scrawny growing up and now she seems composed of soft curves. It's only been two years. My dick pulses hard in anticipation of more pressure right before I give in and establish a steady pace of rubbing myself.

She will probably want me to show her some things. It doesn't matter that I don't have experience—I've spent enough time thinking about it, imagining it, to handle myself. I think of the things I don't ever allow myself to think about. Hazel's soft, brown eyes staring blankly up at me. Her ass pressing up against me through her jeans.

There is a small, distant part of me that remains detached from everything. It compels me to acknowledge the big picture. Hazel is my sister. This is wrong, but, if she is to grow into the femme she needs to become, who better to guide her than me? I rub myself harder as I think about teaching her what butches want out of a femme. Total subservience. Fantasies I've only dreamed about. I'm the only one who can do this for her—no one else knows her like I do, they won't look out for her like I will.

I jerk myself harder and slam my free hand over my mouth to swallow the stuttering groans escaping me.

It doesn't take very long for me to cum all over my hand like some amateur and it's unusual enough I'm left laying there with my cum covered hand in my boxers. I usually don't finish like this, or it takes so long I end up getting frustrated. It's mildly unsettling to know the cure to this is thinking about my sister. It's a little too easy to think about how actually fucking her would effect me.

Some discomfort lingers in the sweet, sleepy afterglow until it morphs into something worse. A guilt I choke on right before sprinting to the bathroom to vomit up everything in my stomach. Most of what comes out is liquid. The sour tang of bile saturates my throat and mouth, lingering in my sinuses long after I've brushed my teeth and returned to bed. I can't think about what I just did. I don't want to, even though my mind is traitorously acting on its own volition, forcing me to mentally conjure up Hazel's face deep into the late hours of the night.

It's difficult to pretend nothing's happened over the next few days.

Of course, there was nothing that actually happened between Hazel and I. I just masturbated while thinking about her after she more or less said she was attracted to me.

It's the final week before I return to my shitty out of state apartment and resume my life at the university. A storm is due to hit tonight, one strong enough to potentially take out the roads. My parents are downstairs, debating whether or not they force Hazel and I to come with them to visit some aunts or cousins or something. I hear Hazel drift downstairs to inform them that she'd rather not go. Mom's shrill voice calls up for me and I ignore it. She does not ascend the stairs to come and try to convince me. Obviously, I don't want to go. They discuss it a bit and it's out of earshot, but it ends with our parents leaving and Hazel staying behind. I'm a little surprised they didn't stay after seeing the news, but these relatives live in some big fancy house in the city. Maybe they were going a little stir crazy while being cooped up inside with us.

I sit up as I realize I will probably be snowed in with Hazel. Wren has been gone for the past two weeks—I only saw her briefly when I first arrived. We had some bad interactions and she avoided me until disappearing back on the road.

Once I've confirmed our parents are gone, driven away through the growing snowfall, I go across the hallway to Hazel's room. I open the door without bothering to knock and it catches Hazel off guard. She is balled up in her blankets, scrolling on her phone when I come in.

"Why didn't you go with them?"

Hazel groans and launches one of her millions of stuffed animals at me. "Get out."

I sit on the beanbag on her floor and watch her until she looks at me. She rolls her eyes, but I detect a hint of a smile playing on her lips. I shouldn't be looking at her lips.

When my silence persists, she asks me, "What do you want?"

I shrug and relax further into the chair. I haven't seen her room in a long time and I take a moment to really absorb the sight. Light purple walls left over from her childhood and a princess canopy bed covered in those inane stuffed animals. A sweet-scented candle is lit on top of her dresser, accompanied by pictures of her and her friends, ornate perfume bottles, and a stand housing her delicate necklaces. It's so girly it feels a little ridiculous. I can't breathe in here.

"We're probably gonna get snowed in," I say to break the silence and because I need to stop staring at her mouth.

Hazel furrows her brows and produces her phone from somewhere under herself. She checks it and grimaces. "Oh, man. You're right."

"You shoulda went with them."

"Why? I don't know those cousins that well and they're all like seven."

"Fair enough," I sit up and lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. A part of me wants to keep talking to her while another part knows this is weird behavior from me. I stand a moment later and drift to her door.

Hazel clears her throat and I turn expectantly. She wets her lips when we make eye contact. It takes her several long moments before she speaks.

"Never mind."

I grimace at her and leave. How anticlimactic.

For once, the forecast is accurate and over the rest of the day, the snow relentlessly comes down. The world is bathed in white by mid-afternoon and I doubt the roads are usable under the snow. This is the first time it's snowed all year and I find myself stuck by my window, watching it fall like I've never seen it before. It doesn't take long before I'm itching for something to do. None of my games are calling to me and I don't know if I feel like smoking. I have some stuff hidden around the house for times like this, but there's a nagging worry in the back of my mind that advises against it.

Somehow, I manage to avoid Hazel for most of the day. I don't know if it's the right decision, because it may just make me look more suspicious, but she doesn't know I jerked off while thinking about her. I physically can't bring myself to be around her.

The guilt is superimposed with memories from the moment. The deep, complete satisfaction I felt in my soul as I thought of using her, more specifically, of breaking her in. I assume she's a virgin—it would be a little embarrassing if she got laid before I did—and I would get to set the baseline for butches.

Now, I stare at myself in my streaky bathroom mirror after a scalding shower. I mull over what the conversation meant. It's all I've been able to think about all day, but now, I force myself to look at it from every angle. I want to be absolutely sure I'm not making shit up. Hazel asking if there are other lesbians like me implies she likes something about me. She did clarify—the masculinity, the androgyny—but she couldn't bring herself to look at me when she did. She mentioned something specific, my hair, and that has to show some sort of deeper interest. Why else would she fixate on or bring up a detail like that unless she wanted me to know?

My skin is blotchy from the steam and too pale. I usually take on a sickly pallor during the winter but it's grown worse in recent years as I've elected to stay inside year round. Heavy bags drag my eyes down and they make me look almost bruised. The shadows are only a small part of the colors composing my face. Dark red scabs from relentless picking, flares of acne painting reddened constellations over my face, and the glint of metal from my piercings. The one through my eyebrow isn't doing great. Some crust is built up on it and when I pick at it, it feels swollen. A sigh escapes me and I look away from my haggard reflection. It'll take a lot more than a shower to make me look less like a piece of shit.

A fresh outfit does wonders for me and by the time I feel mentally prepared to face my sister, I at least look halfway decent. I don't feel any certain way about cleaning up for her until I'm halfway to the door. I freeze in place. I'm cleaning up like I want her to like me or something. It is so profoundly fucked up I almost resign myself to a night of hiding in my room. Some other part of me wins over and compels me to venture downstairs.

Hazel is curled up on the couch in the living room with one of the ancient quilts drawn tightly around her shoulders. She's reading. I didn't know she had the brain cells for that.

She sees me before I have a chance to announce my presence. "What do you want?"

Still prickly. I approach as casually as I can manage. There's a couch positioned across from the one she's on and I saunter over to it before sitting. Hazel wordlessly watches me as I sit and does not set down her book.

"What're you reading?"

She turns the book over as though she's forgotten. "Just something for school."

"It's break though."

Hazel scowls and finally puts the book down. "I need to get ahead, so I'm reading it now. It's not bad."

I hum thoughtfully even though I don't particularly care about what she's doing. I needed to get out of my room, I needed to see her. I don't really know what I intended to do when I came downstairs, but now that I'm here, I don't want to leave.

Hazel bristles as my silence persists and she blurts out, "Are you high?"

I squint at her and bite back a laugh. A smile still manifests on my face and it doesn't help my case. "No—I was thinking about it but didn't get around to it."

Hazel rolls her eyes, but I still catch her smiling back at me. I can't decide if she likes me or not, platonically or not.

"Now's probably the time," she remarks, her tone suddenly serious, and gestures outside the window. "We're really about to be trapped in here. Mom called me and said they're gonna stay over there, but I feel like they planned on doing that anyway."

"Yeah, no shit."

Hazel glowers at me. "You're acting like I should've known."

I shrug. "Well, they were probably tired of doing fuck all over here."

"Whatever—just go smoke," she sighs and rolls over on the couch. The new position causes the blanket to bunch up around her shoulders and I'm presented with the sight of her legs. She wears some lounge shorts, the kind that hug her ass when she's laying down like this. I can't bring myself to move. I stare openly at her, taking in the sight of her long legs coming out of the shorts, smooth and tan, even in this dark winter.

I linger too long—Hazel abruptly looks at me from over her shoulder and she absolutely caught me staring. She isn't that stupid; she saw exactly where I was looking. A hot, flushed embarrassment washes over me. It feels as though I've been doused in ice water. My mouth defensively opens until I realize there is literally nothing I could say to get me out of this hole I've dug for myself, because why the fuck was I staring at her like that?

Before I can think of some way to save myself, Hazel rolls over and sits up as though nothing happened. I blink at her as she goes into the kitchen. I wonder if I imagined it. I definitely did not. Her reaction—or lack thereof—says a lot and all of it confuses me more than anything.

I hear some clattering in the kitchen. Glasses clinking together and some other movement. I exist in a state of terrified stillness. Even if I wanted to move, I don't think it would be possible. It has suddenly struck me that not only is she my sister; she's also sixteen. I swallow hard and let the implications of this sink in. I'm twenty-one, close enough to twenty-two for that to mean something. It isn't right. If anyone ever found out about this I would be beyond screwed. I desperately pray to anyone listening that I'm not discovered. I don't specify what I intend to do—I don't know how much the whole underage sister thing will discourage me. It's probably too late for me anyway.

Hazel returns to the living room with a bottle of wine.

"What the fuck?" The sight is so unlike her I can't help it. She's always been such a stuck up prude. I'm pretty sure she still goes to church with our parents even though she's old enough to put her foot down about it. Two years is a long time when you're going through puberty, I guess.

Hazel shrugs. "We're gonna be snowed in," she states bluntly as though this is the obvious thing to do.

"Do you do this a lot?"

"Kinda," is all she gives me.

I find myself stuck to the couch as she pours herself a glass. She sits back on her couch without pouring me one, but the bottle and an empty glass remain on the coffee table. I don't know what the fuck she's doing.

Hazel crosses her legs and leans back against the couch. Keeping my eyes on her face takes enough effort I'm genuinely afraid I'll burst a blood vessel.

"Are you gonna drink?"

I feel my face do something unattractive and I shake my head. "What? What are you doing?"

Hazel appears physically pained for a moment before her expression settles on something more thoughtful. She swallows hard enough I see it from where I'm sitting. I don't know why I'm letting this bitch get under my skin. The discomfort feels like something thick in the air. It weighs down on my lungs and breaks out in chanting in the back of my mind: she knows she knows she knows.

Finally, she deigns to speak. "I don't know what else we're supposed to do when we get snowed in like this. Also, I haven't seen you in forever."

She drinks and her throat moves to swallow. My eyes drift lower without my permission—traitorous things—and I finally allow myself to take in the visual feast that is tonight's outfit. Baggy shirt—what the fuck? That's one of my old band shirts.

The realization shows on my face and Hazel abruptly stops drinking (she has quickly downed half of her over-poured glass) to examine the front of the shirt.

"Oh—forgot about this," she says and smiles at me.

As my silence persists, that smile shifts into something different, still lifted at the corners, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. Is she nervous? Does she think I'm mad at her? I do not trust myself to say anything coherent or normal, so Hazel is forced to speak first.

"Joey? Are you okay?"

I snap out of it, thank fuck, and nod quickly. "Yeah," I say and my throat feels dry. I grab the remaining glass and pour myself a reasonable amount. I don't know what's happening.

I take a massive drink from it and wince. It's really not good, but it's strong, and I suddenly need it. Hazel is watching me when I set the glass back down and lick the rest off my lips. It's probably really gross. If this is by some small chance doing something for her, I don't know what's wrong with her.

"Sorry—I'm tired."

I feel like such a loser in front of her right now. It's simultaneously pissing me off and making my nerves worse. There is no way she knows; she would have said something by now. The uncertainty is keeping me pinned in place, but the wine is helping to loosen things up.

Hazel quickly finishes her glass. It's faster than I would have expected her to get through with it, so it makes me wonder what she's been doing in the last two years. I haven't asked, which is on me, but I'm shocked at how much I've missed. My eyes drop without permission, too fast for Hazel to catch me. I can't believe I missed her tits growing in. Somewhere in those two years, she started drinking. I can't even begin to imagine who taught her that, so my train of thought changes trajectory and I mull over the few of her friends I know. Is she hanging out with older people somehow? People willing and able to buy her alcohol? Or is she going to parties? If she's going to high school parties (I don't even want to acknowledge the worst possibility of her finding herself at college parties), there's a higher chance she has more experience than me. It's a ridiculous notion, but very possible. What have I done—how far have I gotten? If I really think about it, the time I jerked off in the middle of the computer lab without being noticed.

Now—I did get caught with my hands in my pants the next time I tried that. But that first time was the closest I've done it (and by it, I really just mean anything) in proximity to another person. It has to count for something.

I drink more and Hazel pours both of us more. Everything about this experience feels like some insane fever dream. Outside, the snow is continuing to fall and piling up now. It is eerily quiet but I can't bring myself to say anything. I keep drinking because it really is helping even though it feels insane to drink with my sister. I half expect her to turn the T.V. on at some point, but she doesn't, and we exist in a strange sort of limbo until the bottle is emptied.

The neckline of my old shirt is stretched enough that it's almost hanging off Hazel's shoulder. She's been wearing the hell out of it. I would be pissed off about the loss of a perfectly good shirt if she didn't look so good in it. Those lounge shorts don't leave much to the imagination and they're gradually riding up as she shifts in her seat. The tension is a heavy, tangible thing. It weighs down my movements until it feels as though I've been suspended in water, fighting to stay on track with what I'm doing.

The wine is starting to give us both a buzz, but the bottle is empty and we can't continue avoiding speaking to each other.

I find myself suddenly shy out of all things. Despite how much I would like to project this air of confidence around shit like this, my facade is only thrown together and fragile enough to dissolve with the alcohol. I loathe that Hazel takes the initiative and talks first even though it's irrational. I wouldn't have said anything if she didn't. I'm still irritated that she's better at this than me. I should be the experienced one as I'm older and in my sexual prime.

"So, how's college been?"

It catches me off guard and I keep alert as I answer, "Fine, I guess. Why?"

Hazel furrows her brows and thoughtfully frowns. "Why're you being paranoid? I have to start thinking about that, y'know. I'm a junior."

Right. I knew that.

"What do you wanna know?"

Hazel shrugs and stands abruptly, grabbing the emptied bottle before going back into the kitchen. She calls out from there, "Just what it's like. What're you studying again?"

"English."

"What do you even wanna do with that?"

I defensively bristle. "None of your fuckin' business!" Truthfully, I have zero ideas, but I trust that something will come to me when the moment is right. Maybe I should take mushrooms.

Hazel returns, more liquor in hand, and she sits cheerfully on the couch across from me.

"Where are you even getting this shit?"

She shrugs and pours a shot. It's rum. I didn't think our parents fucked with rum, but sure, I guess anything goes on a night like tonight.

"I have these friends who know some guys," she vaguely explains, a smile playing upon her full lips.

I don't even know where to begin with this statement. I watch her take her shot without flinching. She's been doing this for a while and I have no way of knowing when it started.

When my silence persists, Hazel pours a second shot and slides it across the coffee table. It's within reach, but I'm unable to move for some reason. Hazel rolls her eyes and pours herself a second. It seems like more than she should be able to handle. I wonder if it's more than I can handle.

"So, uh. Do you guys talk about the gay guys in The Great Gatsby?"

"What?"

Hazel shrugs and a little disbelieving laugh escapes her. The smile reaches her warm brown eyes and seems as though it lights her up from the inside. "I have to read it next semester so like, as an English major, have y'all talked about it?"

I squint at her and fail to come up with anything to say. I don't know why she wants to interrogate me about school right now when we're taking fucking shots. I reach for mine and take it before immediately pouring and taking a second one. It doesn't burn as much down my throat as something like vodka would and it just makes me realize how experienced Hazel is. There is a lot she's done. I don't know how to feel about it.

"Did you even read the book?" I've been quiet too long and now Hazel's giving me an odd look.

"What? Shut up." The room feels warmer all of a sudden.

Hazel snickers but has mercy on me and drops the subject.

I end up taking another shot and I'm really feeling it now. My face acts out of my control and I repeatedly feel my mouth pull into a stupid smile. It's alright though—it makes Hazel smile back at me every time she sees it. Hazel's been drinking more too. I think we're even right now. Two glasses of wine and three shots each. I don't have a lot of opportunities to drink despite being in college and at the ideal age for it. It would damage my libido and performance. Even though I'm not fucking anyone (yet), I need to stay prepared for it.

I can't tell whether Hazel is handling the alcohol better than me. I feel too out of it to focus.

"Did you wanna talk about that thing?" It comes out before I can stop myself and I feel my face grow hot with embarrassment.

Hazel averts her eyes and lets out a breathless, nervous laugh. One of her hands reaches up to her hair to anxiously twist the ends. I follow the movement—it's hypnotic.

"I guess," she says softly and continues to avoid looking at me. I can't get rid of the blush coloring my face and I know I'm probably a little too tipsy. Too late to do anything about it, though. "I did look some stuff up."

When she does not elaborate, I ask, "Like what? Do you need me to like, clarify?" My words come out easily but they're a little less coherent. A warm, fuzzy feeling vibrates over the surface of my skin and I lean into it, physically melting into the couch.

Hazel mirrors my movement and we stare at each other from opposite couches. I'm only able to keep my eyes fixed on her face by some miracle.

"There's just a lot of information," she muses, still twisting her long hair. "I don't know what I identify with, because I feel like I'm not allowed to if I don't have experience with other lesbians."

I don't miss her choice in word. Saying lesbians instead of girls. I don't think I'm reaching.

"You gotta be specific. What're you talking about?"

Hazel frowns and fidgets with the shot glass. It feels very quiet all of a sudden and my skin prickles with the weight of it. I want something to do; some background noise, if nothing else.

"It's about what you said—butch, I mean." She still refuses to elaborate.

I tilt my head back to stare up at the ceiling and remove my glasses to pinch the bridge of my nose. Impatience wells up within me alongside a churning, sobering feeling of fear. I need another shot before asking, "What are you asking? You're being vague as fuck," I remark and take the shot.

"I guess I don't know if I can like, say I'm a lesbian, or that I'm femme," she says quickly and without looking at me.

"You think you're femme?"

That prompts her to look at me, finally. I give her a smile and feel the heat on my face from the excess shot. Hazel grimaces at me and says, "Yes. Do you think I'm not, or something?"

I shrug even though she looks exactly how every femme I've ever seen has looked. It's not in the clothes—Hazel is wearing one of my old shirts and loose cotton shorts. It's the air about them, the way they carry themselves, and my sister has always had some of that in her presentation. It wasn't clear what it was before now, but it makes sense in hindsight. That, or I'm drunk.

Hazel scoffs and takes another shot. This time, she cringes and sets the glass down, far away from her in the center of the coffee table. She's forced to lean over to reach that far and I'm presented with a perfect view down the loose neckline of the shirt. She's not wearing a bra and her tits are hanging down. The neckline isn't so loose I can see everything, but I see enough that the sight actually draws an audible gasp out of me. Hazel glances up and catches me for the second time tonight. Again, she says nothing.

"Well, I know what I don't like, I guess. That has to count for something."

"What do you mean?"

"Like, I've messed around with some guys and it just sucked. No one ever made me do anything I didn't agree to, but it just wasn't like everyone said it would be," Hazel sighs and drapes herself over the arm of her couch. For the first time tonight, I catch sight of a blush on her cheeks.

"And by messed around you mean—"

"Yes, that," Hazel says and snorts out a laugh. "It wasn't fun. I don't know. It was like everything about it."

Mentally, I am stuck on the fact that she is apparently not a virgin. She's fucked before I have. What a slut. I should've expected this, but it still takes me completely off guard, and I seethe knowing someone else has touched her. Some gross teenage boy, probably. She may be a slut, but she should have been used by someone more worthy of her pure, untouched body.

"Hey," Hazel snaps and I'm brought out of my staring. This time, I was locked completely in on her chest, and there is no way she is ignoring it a third time. "Can I ask you something?"

I squint at her and wonder when the hammer is coming down. I feel it looming overhead, knowing for certain she's going to ask about why I was staring at her like that—leering at her—but she just sits expectantly across from me.

"Okay?" I say and sit up, propping my elbows on my knees and leaning forward.

Hazel holds my gaze for a long moment before her flush grows redder and she hides her face. "I can't look at you right now, sorry."

"Oh my god just ask it."

"Okay! Do you know about like, being stone? Do you know what that is?"

Do I know what that is? What do I look like, a masc?

"Yeah," I say and manage to keep my tone even and reasonable. "Why?"

Hazel grows shy again and shifts awkwardly in her seat before meeting my eyes again. "I think—and this is just based on the stuff I've done and how I've felt about everything—I think that might be me. Or, I might be that. Sorry, I'm nervous. I don't talk about this stuff out loud like, ever."

"Yeah, okay," I muse aloud and watch Hazel squirm.

She continues, "It's just something I feel like fits after I've been reading about it."

"And you're telling me this because..?" I have to act like I'm not beyond stoked she's telling me this. The situation couldn't be more perfect if it tried. Sweet little sister, coming to me for guidance after a slutty foray into the adult world.

Hazel frowns, appearing genuinely hurt for a moment before she says, "I just wanted to tell someone and I figured you'd be able to relate or something."

"Do you think I only bottom?"

"No!" Hazel groans and presses her face against the armrest, hiding between her outstretched arms. "The other way around—the one opposite me."

"Oh." I watch her until it becomes clear she is not moving before I say something. It's my turn to shift around on the couch. "Yeah. I mean I do relate. To the other way around, thing." It comes out so horrifically awkward I consider handing her a gun to just finish me off, but Hazel sits up and maintains eye contact.

A few long moments pass before anything happens. Hazel moves first. Another pair of shots. Don't mind if I do.

I swallow mine and it spreads that tingly warmth further through my body. When I lean back, it's hard to find the will to sit back up and my head is stuck staring at the ceiling. If I could bring myself to speak, I'm sure it would be embarrassing, so I concentrate on the edge of the ceiling where the wall meets it. This is an old house. I grew up here.

Hazel crosses the space between the couches and sits beside me. I don't move, but her presence is suddenly there, and my weight causes her to involuntarily shift toward me. It makes me think about how much larger than her I am and my throat runs dry.

"Are you drunk?"

Her voice feels too close and I instinctively inch away. A hum reverberates from deep in my chest. "Yeah, somethin' like that."

Hazel snickers and she pokes my shoulder. The contact is sudden. It feels as though all my awareness concentrates on that point of contact and my skin prickles with goosebumps. When I attempt to cover how flustered I am with a laugh, it comes out strained and hoarse.

"What?"

Hazel hums and pushes out a sigh. I still can't remember how to move; I can't see how close she is to me.

"So, you would say you're stone?"

My mouth is drier than it's ever been. I swallow hard before I answer, I have to, but it probably makes me look weird. My tone is thick with something I can't put my finger on when I answer, "Yeah." It's all I can manage in this current state.

Finally, I turn my head and look at Hazel perched next to me. She sits cross-legged on the couch, facing me, and she takes a deep breath when my eyes meet hers. A foreboding feeling washes away me, almost sobering me, and I can't predict what will happen.

"I have one more question," she says firmly, as though it is taking her an immense effort to maintain eye contact.

I nod. "Okay."

Hazel finally can't take the pressure of looking me in the eye and she drops her head. One more deep breath later, she asks, "Would you kiss me?"

This is not happening. I'm probably in an alcohol poisoning-induced coma or something. I swallow hard and my tongue feels dry and swollen in my mouth. "What?"

Hazel flushes harder and averts her eyes, some of that drunken boldness leaving her. Only now do I notice how much she was leaning in. It feels like she anticipated me saying yes without question. She's making a lot of assumptions for someone I haven't seen in so long.

"Are you gonna make me say it again?" She can't look at me when she asks this, so I nod and firmly say, "Yeah, actually. What'd you say?"

Hazel looks up at me, deeply hurt and shocked (though, I could be seeing things. I'm drunk to the point my vision feels strange; vibrating at the edges), before sucking in a deep breath. She releases it and gingerly puts a hand on my arm. Her palm burns through my shirt and I fight the urge to squirm.

"Would you kiss me?"

Would I? It's an odd choice of words. I disregard this and nod, existing in a place near disbelief and denial.

Hazel looks like she wants to smile and her mouth moves in a twitch before it settles back into her determined, focused frown.

"Okay," she says and scoots forward.

It feels like every cell in my body is leaning forward, bracing in anticipation. Part of me still refuses to believe this is happening even though she's closer now and I can smell that sweet body-spray that's always lingering around her like a cloud, and I can see the depth of her warm eyes, her pupils swelling to consume every bit of color surrounding them.

Before I have a chance to convince myself it isn't real, Hazel ensures I know it is. She slips her hand along my shoulders and presses against the back of my neck, pulling me in. While I'm shocked into uselessness, Hazel kisses me. It feels like she knows what she's doing, but it's difficult to be irritated about that when she sucks my lower lip in between her teeth for a second. Some disgusting groan tears from inside me and I shudder, pulling away and covering my mouth.

I've never been kissed before. I abruptly, desperately hope it wasn't as obvious as I'm thinking it was.

"What?" I can't think of anything to say and I still, stupidly, kind of refuse to believe it's happening.

Hazel rolls her eyes and stands. I'm lethargic from the drinks and follow her movements, delayed. Now, she's straddling my hips and sitting on my lap. The silence saturating the home persists and the noises we generate feel too loud, like they don't belong. My hands remain poised around her hips even though she feels so ridiculously soft on top of me. I can't bring myself to touch. I can't process this with another sense and make it even more real.

"Are you gonna make me do everything?" She asks, her words a little slurred, face flushed, and eyes bright.

I shake my head. There are absolutely zero thoughts occurring in there and I finally touch her. My hands rest on her hips and tentatively squeeze. There is nothing in this world that could have properly prepared me for how soft she is. It will be impossible to pretend this didn't happen. The home's eerie silence puts me on edge and I feel compelled to ask, "Are you sure?" She's only a woman, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised that she wants me like this, but I still have a lingering doubt.

"Yeah—I mean, we just can't actually have sex," she says and nervously laughs at the end of it. The noise is abrasively loud and I wonder how to best shut her up. "We're siblings," she whispers as though I am not already acutely aware of this minor issue. Then, there's the minor issue. I forget the law here, but sixteen may be legal, maybe.

"Yeah, duh," I say, breathless, and Hazel smiles down at me. I don't know if all those drinks are making me see her differently, but she feels so warm in my hands and her face is still flushed. I can't bring myself to kiss her; she has to initiate once again.

The way her lips move against mine is unlike anything I could have ever predicted. I've thought about kissing—about anything, really—but I didn't know it felt like this. It looked too wet for my tastes, but I'm learning I shouldn't always trust my assumptions. I've been proven wrong time and time again. Hazel is hesitant for a while and then as I discover how to move my hands, she becomes more comfortable. I let my hands drift higher, gliding along Hazel's arms before I reach her shoulders, then higher, getting in all of that long brown hair.

Everything shudders for a moment and Hazel presses herself more firmly into me. I'm forced to lean back while we keep sucking face. I melt back onto the couch while Hazel presses her slutty body against mine. I feel her big teenage tits squish against my flat chest. It's insane how much she's begging for it without using words. My mouth runs dry as I consider pointing it out; something like I can't believe you're acting like this for your big brother's dick. It's obscene. We are absolutely going to hell.

Now, Hazel does something I really did not expect from her and she pushes her tongue against the closed seam of my mouth. This feels like something that only happens in those old corny '80s movies where they talk about frenching or whatever they called it. I gasp and she takes that as an opportunity to invade my mouth as though she's been thinking about doing this forever. Her tongue is warm and wet, sliding against mine and stroking along the side of it. My hands automatically drift to her tits without thinking and I grab them from below, groping her hard enough to draw a surprised whine out of her.

"Ow," she whispers against my lips and playfully bites my lower lips. It's barely any pressure, but I feel like I can do anything right now, so I bite her back. It's a little harder than I intended, but she'll be fine.

Hazel wrenches back away from me and touches her lip. Her fingers come away spotted with blood.

My reaction comes a little too late and my apologies delayed. I hold her and touch her lip. "It's not bad," I murmur, not really looking at it. I'm looking at her eyes—they're fixed on me. "What?"

Hazel swallows hard and says, "I want another shot."

I release her and sit back. Hazel stands and pours two more shots. One for me, one for her. The room spins when I finally scrape together the will to sit up. This is it, I tell myself. The last one.

It lights a fire down my throat and settles uneasily in the pit of my gut. I haven't eaten much today. It hits hard and when I stand up, it feels as though something else has decided to clumsily possess my body. Blood pulses at my temples and the pressure is enough to make me stop and close my eyes for a moment. It must make me look unwell. Hazel asks, "Hey, Joey? Are you okay?"

I swallow hard against the growing thickness in my throat and I nod. I open my eyes and go to her couch. I miscalculate—everything thrown off from the drinks—so my face ends up pressed against her shoulder.

It is so oppressively quiet in here. All I process is the sound of my heavy breathing and the metronome beat of my heart pounding in my ears. Hazel smells heavenly. I make a mental note to shower in her bathroom before I leave and use all of her products. Get closer to her, bring pieces of her home with me when I have to leave. My tongue slips out of my mouth once my lips find her neck. It dips out to taste her without me thinking. I just want to be as close to her as possible, in every way I physically can.

Hazel squirms underneath me and a high, nervous laugh escapes her. I press my weight into her and feel her chest flare with the force of her breaths. It almost feels like she's hyperventilating. I push my face against hers and somewhere along the line, my lips find hers, and we end up horizontal on the couch.

Despite my eyes being closed, the world still feels as though it's spinning, and I struggle to keep composed as the vertigo washes over me. I pull away from her and keep her pinned by sitting on her lap as she remains flat on her back. Although she's wearing that oversized shirt, I still make out the outline of her heavy, sensitive tits, and I can't help but reach down to grab them. It draws a gasp out of Hazel as though she didn't expect this. Dumb slut. I really didn't expect her to be so unaware of the perfect rack she's carrying around, but I'm not always right.

"So, what can we do if we can't actually fuck?" I ask without thinking about it first and almost instantly regret it. The regret fades quickly as I stare down at her, watching her grow more flustered. All women have the same buttons to push, it's only a matter of finding out which ones those are. I've got this shit down to a science; fuck real world experience.

Hazel flushes bright red and pulls the shirt's stretched collar up to hide her face. "I thought you'd have something in mind," she mumbles, averting her eyes.

A lazy smile pulls at my lips and I can't do anything to hold it back. I reach back down for her tits and idly squeeze them as she stares vacantly up at me. Does she assume I've done shit like this before? I slide my thumbs over her hard nipples and that smile deepens as she shivers.

"I don't know. I think these things usually start with the pretty little femme getting naked, though," I remark dryly and slip my hands under the hem of her shirt. Her skin feels velvety smooth and fevered to the touch. "Do you want to be a femme? 'Cause in order to call yourself that, you gotta do whatever a butch tells you."

My hands move higher and the shirt is slowly bunched up under her tits. Hazel looks away and rolls her hips in some pitiful attempt to get some friction. She stumbles over what she wants to say. "I—even if that butch is my brother?"

Fuck. I push the shirt over her tits, letting them fall free and sag to the sides of her body. They're soft and fat—just as feverish as the rest of her body. Tears prickle at her eyes when I drag my fingers over her nipples.

"Yeah," I say eventually and grab her tits from the side, squishing them together, making exaggerated cleavage to push my face into.

Hazel emits a soft little oh that rings out like a bell in the quiet living room. I squeeze her tits harder and inhale her scent as deeply as I can.

"You're so pretty, Hazel," I murmur against her skin and suck one of her nipples into my mouth.

Her hands almost automatically go to my hair, threading through the strands to the roots, and she holds me there. Cradles my head against her chest while I suck hickies onto her tits. I can't linger in any one place for long. There is too much I want to sample and Hazel's rack is big enough to keep me occupied wherever my mouth takes me. The noises that come out of her fall on my ears like something from a far off dream. She gasps and whines, rolling her hips against my leg—suddenly, without my permission of knowledge, my knee is jammed between her legs—while my face remains buried in her tits.

My hands can't get enough of her and I'm vaguely aware of how hard I'm groping her. Every once in a while, Hazel protests with louder whines, but she never explicitly says anything. I'm past the point of nuance meaning anything to me and I've mentally handed the reins over to my dick. All I can think of is how soft my sister's tits are.

"Joey," she sighs, breathless, and pushes weakly against my chest. Her hands splay in the center and she pulls clumsily away from my face. "Whoa—do you have boobs?"

I scoff and shake my head.

Hazel bites her lip and writhes underneath me, so I feel helpless to do anything besides give in. I pull away and rise, pulling my shirt over my head. The scars did not have the best healing—that's my fault—but I now irrationally feel the need to hide myself. Hazel's hand floats up in wonder and she brushes the back of her knuckles over the raised scars.

"Are you too nervous to uh—" Hazel laughs and hides her face in the shirt. "Can you eat me out or do you need another shot?"

It's absolutely not a good idea, but there's some lingering anxiety that compels me to just grab the entire bottle and take a swig. I don't know how much goes down my throat, but it's scarily easy to swallow. I could keep going if I wanted. Hazel has to pull the bottle away and when she does, she looks a little nervous. Must've drank too much.

"Are you okay?"

I don't know. I grab her tits—so fucking soft—and I swallow hard. I need water. I need her. I can't think of anything else but the sweet pussy between her supple thighs and I shift away to push her down against the couch.

"Hey, Joey," she says a little firmer now, but I can't bring myself to pay much attention to what she's saying. Her skin is like a warm, soft expanse for me to explore with my hands. I don't miss the clamminess of my palms or the dirt under my nails, but Hazel seems too preoccupied to mind. I scoot down on the couch and grab her waistband.

Out of nowhere, Hazel kicks me in the side and I'm forced to acknowledge her. I release her shorts and hold my hands up. "What?"

She drops her eyes, suddenly shy, or maybe just a little too drunk. She asks, "Have you done anything like this before?"

I feel a frown pull at my face and I fight to keep it nonchalant. "Yeah," I say as though it doesn't matter.

Hazel squints at me and a disbelieving smile graces her features. "No," she says slowly, so sure of herself. "You definitely haven't. Do you know what to do?"

It's humiliating she would even imply I don't know what I'm doing. I subdue a scoff and resume pulling off her shorts. She wears a shockingly adult pink thong under the shorts. Now, she only wears the thong and the shirt. My hands hover over her thighs before I muster the courage to touch her. It feels more real. I know I should be disgusted with myself, or at the very least, anticipating the consequences, but I just don't care. I'm so suddenly swept up in Hazel's attention. I put my hands on her thighs and my fingers splay out to take in as much of her as I can.

"If I eat you out, it's not really sex," I say and shift, lowering myself to the floor in front of the couch while Hazel's long, tan legs dangle off the side.

Hazel props herself up on her elbows to watch me kneel in between her legs. I'm eye level with her pussy. I can make out the outline of it through her thong. My mouth floods with saliva and I can't hold back some embarrassing soft noise that escapes me when she spreads her thighs.

"It's not really sex," says Hazel and leans back down. I can see her hands go to her chest to play with her nipples and I suddenly can't stomach not touching her now.

Although it's covered by the thong, Hazel's cunt draws me in like a moth to a flame. I trace the outline of her pussy through the fabric of her thong and as I get closer, I take in that musky, almost sweet smell of cunt emanating from there. I grow dizzier on it and push my entire face firmly between her legs, pressing my nose against the moist crotch of her thong. Hazel whines and rolls her hips down onto my face. My tongue drags along the front of her cunt through her thong. The taste is subdued this way and it's not enough.

My eyes remain closed as I pull her thong to the side and push my tongue against her cunt, moving blindly and navigating purely by what my mouth feels. The taste is sharp and distinctly similar to the scent. I suck on her folds hard enough to hollow out my cheeks and I rock my face against her, pushing my long nose against her clit while she thrashes and writhes.

Hazel's fingers tangle deep in my hair and at times she pulls so hard I feel as though I'm drifting through empty space, only guided by her grip on me. The alcohol makes everything feel more detached and I find myself doing things without remembering. I hold her plush thighs against my warm face and her skin is a shocking cold relief. I probe my tongue deep into her cunt and suck on her hole. Hazel's thighs shiver around my head and I lap into her deeply, holding her thighs apart just enough for me to breathe. She's heaving and grinding on top of me. This feels a hell of a lot like sex. I wonder who she learned it from.

My clumsy, unpracticed eating drags on for a few long minutes and it feels like mere seconds. The only indication of the passing time is the soreness in my jaw. The persistent silence makes it seem like we're in some other dimension where time doesn't apply. I pull away and nuzzle my face against her thigh. We're both slick with sweat and we cling together like magnets.

Hazel scratches my scalp and I emit some brainless noise of pleasure. I think she's smiling at me, but I can't bring myself to open my eyes.

I go back for her pussy without warning her and my hands slam her thighs abruptly open. Hazel sucks in a tense breath and stiffens up, but softens under me once I begin idly tracing her wet hole with a finger. Her cunt flares open, silently begging me to plunge inside.

Without asking her or warning her, I push two of my fingers into her pussy, pretending not to notice when she freezes and stops breathing for a second. Everything feels muffled as every cell in my body hones in on the warmth enveloping my fingers.

"Wait—" it tears through her like a gasp of sandpaper, rubbing her throat raw, and she coughs. I feel the reverberations of it in her tight pussy.

I deliriously lean over her and press my fingers deeper into her. They're almost completely stuffed inside her. I shush her. "Shh. Hazel, let me show you how butches and femmes fuck."

"What? Wait—Joey."

There's some real alarm in her voice and for whatever reason, it just encourages me to keep going. I line my hand up with my hips and push them into her, finally reaching the base of my fingers. I curl them up while they're inside her and press hard. I want her to feel this every time she sits down. I want her to feel this when she's fucking around with some lame boner machine in her grade.

"Joey! Stop!"

Hazel can still speak, though. She's writhing and starting to fight back with more force. This just means I need to go harder. Or restrain her, if I need to.

As I jerk my fingers within her, trying to find some spot that'll make her see stars, Hazel pushes against my hand and my fingers slide out of her. It takes me so off guard and I'm forced to acknowledge her as a person again.

"What the hell?"

There are tears in her eyes and as I sit in a stupor, Hazel draws her knees up to her body and hugs her legs to her chest. "Joey—we can't do this," she says and sniffles. "You can't do that without saying something. What the fuck?"

I swallow hard while my hands remain poised in the air in front of me. Hazel shakes her head. "We're related. What're we doing?"

I can't believe what I'm seeing.

The audacity of this bitch. To lead me on, to coerce me into this, and back away the moment I've had my first taste of it. I shake my head as I consider her words and feel myself shaking. For her to go from the perfect, model submissive femme to this is too much for my drunken mind to handle normally. My dick throbs incessantly in my sweatpants, urging me to finish what my bitch of a baby sister started.

Although I'm pissed off enough about this sudden stop to take me out of my pussy-drunk head space, I put on a nice face and reassure her, "It's okay. Lay back down, I'm sorry."

It isn't enough. Nothing is ever enough for these sluts. Hazel's brows knit together. Her plush lips are swollen, slicked and shiny with spit. Pupils blown wide. She's breathless. When she hugs her legs tighter against herself, it only makes me want to force her to unfurl whether that's what she wants or not.

"No," Hazel says firmly. "We're siblings!"

I push out an exasperated sigh and experimentally put my hands on her knees. Slowly, I pry them open. Despite all the protesting—we're related, we're siblings—Hazel does not stop me and instead warily eyes me.

"That didn't matter when you got the wine," I say and push her legs completely apart.

I don't need words for this. I push back into her, probing deep inside her cunt while using my free hand to keep her pinned down. It is attached to her hip, my fingers splayed wide and pallid on her sun-kissed skin.

"Joey!"

Hazel's voice hitches up into some new, previously untouched degree of alarm. The struggle grows more violent and she slaps me before freezing with fear. If I were less drunk, it would probably hurt more, but I stiffen automatically.

"You started this," I lean down, getting inches from her face, and hiss this reminder to her.

Hazel blinks wetly up at me and some noise escapes her parted lips before she begins the useless struggling again. I straddle her, using my greater weight to keep her immobilized, and the motion makes my dick grind up alongside the inside of my boxers and I don't have time to restrain the shudder that rocks through me. It's more difficult to care about these things now—the unattractive noises and physical reaction. There's a drunken filter superimposed over everything I do. It makes everything seem very distant and unreal. When I clumsily push my fingers between her teeth to reach her warm, wet throat, I hardly notice as Hazel defensively bites down.

It hurts, but the pain is somewhere in the back of my mind. My fingers are webbed with her throat slime. Mucus and saliva. I push back in, undeterred by the biting and now, the sobbing that is becoming increasingly wetter as I search the inside of her mouth. I learn she has a harder time biting when her jaws are forced apart to accommodate my fingers.

There is some detached part of me that understands on some fundamental level that this is horrifically wrong in so many ways. My sixteen year old baby sister. Younger sister. Underage sister.

Hazel inhales. It's a deep, wet and shuddering breath, struggling around the intrusion of my fingers. I lean back in anticipation of what will come next. She bites me again, this time with enough force it makes me think she's genuinely trying to take my fingers off. I pull back automatically and some of that searing pain blasts through the collecting haze of alcohol clouding my thoughts. I slap her reflexively—it's barely any sort of substantial impact, but it still makes Hazel frenzied in her fighting. It actually catches me off guard and I'm forced to climb over her on the couch. I pin her down with some struggling until I get my forearm pressed across her throat.

Hazel attempts to speak again, but her voice comes out thin and strained.

"Shut the fuck up," I hiss and push my knees closer to her body, jamming one against her sopping cunt. "You wanted this." I press harder on her throat for a second before releasing.

Hazel coughs violently enough to send her body pitching forward. When she finally regains enough composure to look up at me, I keep her subdued with a backhand hard enough to send her back onto the couch.

Everything feels a bit unreal and the room spins as she falls. She's saying something and it gets lost in the deafening silence of the room. I grope the table for the bottle and take another long swig. This time, Hazel doesn't stop me when I drink too much and I pull away from it, gasping like I can't handle it.

When I return to Hazel it feels as though I'm moving through a dream.

"Joey, please. Fucking stop."

She never curses. That's beneath her. I grab the thong after a few uncoordinated tries and I wrench it off of her body with a snap. It is reduced to straps and I use it to restrain her wrists behind her back.

I push her onto the couch and nearly go down with her. Everything spins—I've drank too much. It doesn't fucking matter. I straddle her hips while she uselessly thrashes against the restraints. I know I tied them too tight. I saw how the fabric bit into her tender skin, the redness already blooming from the irritation.

"Get the fuck off of me! Get off!"

The protests fall on uncaring ears. I'm taken by her face, wide open and despairing. Her warm eyes swim with tears, some of them already falling and ruining her makeup leftover from the day. Mascara streaks down her cheeks and she just keeps pleading, "Joey! Stop!"

I can only stomach so much. There is a place in the back of my mind, inaccessible and wholly detached from the sheer amount of alcohol I've consumed, that contains my rational thoughts. I see my sister and she's scared and small and sobbing—but I also see some bitch who couldn't finish what she started.

"We won't actually fuck," I say, heavily slurring and barely coherent. "I don't even have a dick you stupid bitch."

Hazel's brows knit together and she scowls up at me. "You're the bitch, dickless."

I blink and I have Hazel's hair clutched in my fist, dragging her face down to my crotch. I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I'm not packing right now and I end up just awkwardly grinding on her face through my sweatpants. It is still better than nothing and my skin crawls with a new pins and needles sensation.

"Fuck you," I sneer and stand up.

Dragging Hazel up the stairs while she's naked and restrained would already be hard enough without her struggling. My drunken state hardly helps either. I haul her from the living room in a strangely oppressive silence. It feels as though my ears are muffled—like I'm underwater—and I've tuned out Hazel's protesting a while ago. Each footstep ricochets up my body, ending in an involuntary shudder as I retain my composure.

My hands remain glued to Hazel's hair, gripping her tighter and pulling harder when she tries to go limp. If nothing else, she is at least fighting with everything she has. A surge of satisfaction washes over me as I force her up the stairs. I'm not a particularly strong person, but I still managed to wrangle the bitch into submission. At the end of the day, that's all that really matters.

I'm vaguely aware we're both chattering—I'm rambling, talking about nonsense, while Hazel continues whining—but it's not something I'm paying attention to. I kick my door open and push Hazel inside. Without the use of her arms, she stumbles forward and slumps against the bed. Before she has a chance to regain her balance and come at me, I dig up some rope from a neglected corner in my room. There are quite a few unused sex toys and equipment scattered around despite my inexperience. It's just something I figured would come in handy whenever I found a girl worthy of my time. I had no idea I just needed to look closer to home to find it.

I step toward her just as she manages to stand upright on her shaky legs. This is the first time I truly allow myself to take in the sight of her. She shivers with her arms behind her back, her hair a wild curtain hanging over her shoulders in some weak attempt at modesty, and her legs crossed to try to conceal her pussy. Her tits hang free, heavier and softer than I imagined they would be. Hazel sniffles and says, "Joey—please. You're drunk. You drank way too much. Please."

I back her into the bed and she's crying now. Openly and without shame.

"Please," she tries again and cringes away from me.

The only place she can go is my bed and after a few long moments of wet, shaky shuddering, Hazel sits on the bed. Her face is stricken with something unreadable and in my altered state, I disregard it as meaning nothing. I don't expect her to lunge up and her shoulder to collide with my stomach when I lean over her.

I'm lucky to react by closing in. It's clumsy and I stumble into her, forcing her back onto the bed. I sit on her kicking legs and restrain them to my bed posts. She is left on her back, her arms pinned under herself, and her legs spread shoulder width apart. As Hazel strains against the rope, testing its integrity, she slowly works herself into a more panicked frenzy. She is realizing how securely bound she is and that there is nothing she can do.

I pace around the bed and allow that deep satisfaction to wash over me. I suddenly wish I still had the liquor with me. I want her to be drunker, more incoherent, and stupider. I don't appreciate the gleam of cold, calculated burning in her eyes. It feels like something creeping in behind me, waiting to catch me off guard.

Determined to put those thoughts out of my mind, I go to the side of the bed and drag my hands over her tits, feeling the velvety smoothness of them. They're perfectly teardrop shaped and sagging a bit since she's laying on her back. Her nipples get hard pretty quickly and she cries harder when I pinch them.

"You're such a dumb bitch," I mutter and grab her nipples harder before pulling up, squeezing as I go, and Hazel whines.

"Please—" she's a breathless broken record, just please please please.

"Please what?" I grab the meat of her tits and shake them. Watch them jiggle and cause a deep flush to bloom on Hazel's face. Little girl isn't used to her big teenage tits yet. Go figure.

Hazel has to inhale a few more deep breaths and fail to break free one more time before she says, "Just stop," and the stop comes out in broken up sobs.

I can't stomach her sounding like this. Some guilt trickles in from the back of my mind and I step away from the bed. While Hazel cries and writhes, I strip out of my sweatpants and boxers—they're sticky with my pre—and I shove the damp boxers in her mouth as a makeshift gag.

I can't decide what I want to do with her just yet, but I know I won't be able to come up with anything until my dick is attached to me. Suddenly, I wish I had something bigger just to put her in her place. Stretch that slutty cunt out enough to leave it gaping and obvious—everyone would realize she belongs to someone.

I pull on my harness and attach the dick, rubbing it like it's the real thing once it's secure. My mind flickers in and out of coherence. There's the feeling of my clit rubbing against the harness' base when I push my hips into it. I pull my sweatpants back on over my dick and grab the pronounced outline. The stuffy, stale scent of sweat permeating the room. Hazel still smells sweet and girly, like the inside of a bougie MILF candle store. Some noises continue to emanate from the direction of my bed, but they're so muffled by my boxers it doesn't matter. I drift back to the bed and climb on top of her, caging her in.

"I wish I could kiss you," I murmur and watch her pupils shrink with disgust. "Why would you make a move like that on me?"

I rub the side of her face and drag my thumb over her brow. Hazel screams into the boxers and nothing is understandable.

"I can't hear you," I say firmly and roll my eyes as though I'm chastising her.

I lean back and straddle her hips, watching my dick strain against my sweats as though it knows there's some sweet young pussy just on the other side of the fabric.

"You wanna be a femme, right? This is what you have to do. Whatever the fuck I want," I sneer down at her and grab her waist. "This is what y'all were made for—butch cocksleeves whether you want it or not." The effect of my words is subdued because I'm slurring everything together, breathing too hard, and looming too close to her face, but it still hits where it needs to.

I slide my hands up to her tits, playing with them like they belong to me. In the moment, they might as well.

"You're so stupid—what the fuck did you think was gonna happen when you did all that downstairs? You thought I was gonna be nice or just like the butches you read about online or whatever bullshit?"

Hazel stares up at me while I busy myself with her tits.

"Just askin' for it with a rack like this, honestly," I remark and twist one of her nipples until I see more tears.

She cries more and the last remnants of her eye makeup melt away, reduced to colorful streaks down the sides of her face. I let out a deeply satisfied sigh and slump forward, momentarily laying across her prone body. My weight crushes her and her breath leaves her in a wheeze that's mostly devoured by the boxers stuffed in her mouth. I would move sooner, but she's so warm and soft, pliant under me.

I eventually slide down her body, keeping my eyes closed and feeling the way with my mouth. Hazel's skin is feverish and I can almost smell the panic in her sweat. The further down I travel, the shakier she gets, and it reaches a new degree when I reach her cunt. Seeing it in the low light of my room without the thong in the way is truly a sight to behold. It's already leaking wet, clenched tightly, and reddened with irritation.

I spread out and lay on my stomach in front of her pussy before going in. Some may argue that eating pussy is something below us and that we should never let a bitch get what she wants without it benefiting us in some way, but it benefits me. I probe deeper into her with my tongue and brace my hands on her thighs. They're forced to spread apart, but the restraints don't stop Hazel from thrashing as much as she can.

It feels as though I'm trying to pin down a feral animal caught in a trap. Hazel shrieks, the noises diffused and the boxers' fabric getting caught in her throat, and her hips buck in an attempt to throw me off. I keep my mouth attached to her pussy and keep her hips immobilized with my hands. It doesn't take much pressure and she tires herself out after a while. I don't think I will ever tire from this. The smell of her cunt is cloying and I taste it in the back of my throat—the kind of scent that will perfume every imagined scenario from here on out. I get dizzy on it and bury my nose in her sparse bush, inhaling her deeply. I feel my eyes flutter back into my skull and I rise up, bracing my arms around her hips, before dragging myself forward to align my cock with her hole.

"Not actually sex," I muse, halfway delirious with the desire to watch her split open on my dick. I push the head of it against her cunt push just far enough to be securely inside. "It's not actually sex, Hazel. It's not real. We're drunk, it doesn't count, this isn't even a real dick. It's not real."

Something flickers and wilts in Hazel's eyes and finally, finally she goes limp.

I slip my dick a little deeper into her cunt, overwhelmed with all the sensations that come with my first time. There's resistance, which I'm surprised to feel after learning that she's like every other slut and has already been laid. It's fine. I'll take her, even if she's someone's leftovers. When I pull out, I feel her pussy trying to keep me inside, and although it's some normal response, it feels like her body's trying to tell me something. She needs dick, even if she doesn't feel like she does.

I tuck my face in the crook of her neck, my tongue darting out to taste the fearful sweat beading on her fevered skin, and I simultaneously lift her hips to push my dick completely into her. It's too much, too fast, and Hazel cries into the boxers. Her cunt clenches hard on my dick and I pull it out anyway, desperate to set a pace that will give me some of that sweet friction I've been denied all evening.

My face remains attached to her neck while I pound her. It's sudden and messy, and I know it hurts based on how fucking much Hazel's crying. I feel her tears trickle down the side of her face and get onto her neck, eventually running into my mouth as I drag my tongue along her protruding tendons.

Nausea roils up from some deep pit within me and I bite it back, forcing myself to slow down. The alcohol is starting to take on a sour note and I reduce my near-frantic pounding to a more manageable pace. With this change in tempo, I rise up, holding myself up with my hands caging Hazel's head in.

Her face is still beautiful, still as angelic as it's always looked, but she looks more grown up now. More of that deep satisfaction rushes through me. I did this. She may have gotten pounded by some dick brained football Chad before this, but no one's fucked her like I have. I see it in her eyes. There's a new weight to her gaze and now, it's more hollow than anything.

I pull my dick out of her and stroke it while it's still covered in her pussy juices. Everything smells like sex and it's an interesting layer to detect over the room's natural stale clothes scent.

I try to plunge straight back into her inviting cunt and miss, instead poking her tight little asshole. Hazel instantly freezes.

"Oh?" I lean back away from her and feel a delirious grin pull at my lips. I feel like I'm wearing some fucked up Halloween mask version of myself. I can't help what I'm saying. It's almost like some involuntary reaction to the excessive drinking. "Are you afraid of me fucking with your ass?"

Somehow, Hazel's eyes manage to widen more and she desperately shakes her head. I can almost hear the shrill please she's trying so hard to convey without the use of her voice.

I reach between our bodies and shift into straddling her. My wet dick bobs from my crotch, struggling under its weight. I move lower, positioning her legs on top of my thighs, then I push them up. They only go so far with the restraints binding her ankles, but I get enough access to her asshole to make it work. Everything between her legs is drenched—so much for not wanting it—and her pussy pulses, squeezing out more sticky fluid that oozes down to lube up her tight ass.

"I bet you're still an ass virgin," I muse while swiping my thumb over her hole, feeling the ridged texture of the rim, craving the warmth I can only find inside her body. "I can break you in that way, right?"

Hazel keeps shaking her head and shivering. There's something she's trying to say, but I don't give a fuck anymore. It's harder to see her as my sister when she's gagged and useless like this. It's how she should be—some anonymous cocksleeve.

And she looks beautiful in some desolate way. Tears cling to her eyelashes, making them clump together while she blinks up at me in terror. That blotchy, flushed look to her face has chilled into a pallid horror de-saturating her face. If I squint, she looks more like some dead body than my sister. It makes it easier to retain this detachment I have to her when I shove my finger in her hole without warning.

The resistance is different, drier, harder to push through, but I'm far past the point of giving a shit, and I force it inside to the base.

Hazel wails and the sound is swallowed by my boxers. More tears, more snot bubbling in her nostrils, and the fabric shoved in her mouth is beginning to get disgustingly wet from all her drooling. I curl the finger inside her, pushing against the snug walls enveloping me, and she clenches hard around me like she's trying to shove me out. I keep pressing, gathering up some more of the fluid leaking out of her pussy to lube up my next finger.

Everything is so warm. It's my skin buzzing with it, the flush on my face from the alcohol. Our shared breaths have synced up. We're both panting, our chests heaving together. I breathe out and Hazel breathes in.

I lean down and lick her face. It's a long stripe up the length of her face, beginning at her jaw, traveling around the boxers overflowing her stuffed mouth, and ending up at her forehead. My tongue picks up her sweat and tears and makeup. The flavors of despair. Hazel shudders and I feel it deep in her ass. I give her another finger and she sobs harder even though at this point, she would really be stupid to think I'm going to stop.

Something gushes over my fingers. More fluid. I don't stop because I'm close—somehow my dick is out of my sweats and grinding up against Hazel's thigh.

I rut against her until I can't remember how anything else feels. My dick ends up inside her and my hands away from her ass, and the bitch is so grateful I'm not finger-raping her ass anymore she's started moaning for my dick in her pussy. I hate that it's working on me. Even with the gag distorting her voice, I know she's getting off on it even though she hates herself for it.

"Yeah," I hang over her face, lick her again, the words uncontrollably coming out of my mouth. "You like taking my dick, huh? You stupid bitch—gagging for your brother's dick."

The only sounds in the room are my hips slamming wetly into the back of Hazel's thighs, the diffused moans, and our shared panting. I pound her harder, only distantly aware of the repulsive noises coming out of me, and I angle my hips higher, instinctively fucking her as thoroughly as possible. I want her forever. I want this pussy forever. I want to fuck her like this every second of everyday. And I'm buried balls-deep, breathlessly gasping over her while my hips shake with the force of hard fucking hard I just came.

I recover quickly and everything is very wet between my legs and hers. When I pull out, her pussy continues gaping open, retaining the girth of my cock as though she's urging me to slam it back inside.

"Not really sex," I muse, circling back to our conversation. "I guess anything can be sex, if you think about it."

I return my attention to her asshole and finger it open again. I wait until she thrashes, sobbing, before I put my dick in her greedy cunt again. She'll learn in time. I plan on coming home for more family bullshit.

I have one more in me.

I fold Hazel in half, stretching her long legs up and draping them over my shoulders. Despite everything, Hazel's eyes still run over my arms, thin and wiry. I impale the bitch on my dick and split her back open. It doesn't take long before I cum again and I know I should take care of Hazel, but I just don't care. I'm overwhelmed with all the new sensations and the searing pleasure burning in the pit of my gut and the way my dick smashes into the harness every time I pound deep into Hazel's pussy. So, Hazel doesn't cum. I do and suck a massive hickey under her jaw in the shuddering, embarrassing process of nutting.

I collapse on top of Hazel and lie there, shivering, until I feel my soul return to my body.

Everything is still submerged in this unreal warm haze by the time I've regained my senses. I'm still drunk, but erring on the side of sick-drunk rather than happy-chill-guy-drunk. Hazel is motionless under me and when I peel myself off of her, she continues her corpse impression.

"Hey," I say, testingly, and my voice sounds far away in my ears. Thick with exhaustion and slurred. I reach out to pat her face. "Hazel."

She doesn't move. I inch closer to her and spy my phone laying on my nightstand. I lean over her to grab it and Hazel shivers, but does not wake. I deduce she passed out at some point. The pain must have been too much for her; there's blood spotting my covers.

I open my phone and clumsily navigate to the camera. This isn't something I'll be able to do again for a long time, I think, so my spontaneous solution is to document as much as I can. It kills two birds with one stone; Hazel will never say anything if I get this footage. Not that I'm particularly worried about that. She started it, she asked for it, and she couldn't handle the consequences. Some bitches never learn.

I grab a marker from the nightstand and stake my claim.

Whore in big block letters across her soft stomach.

Baby slut over each of her nipples.

Brainless bimbo bitch femme slut.

As I take all the pictures my heart desires, I reach into my sweatpants and grab my dick, multitasking.

There's a picture of her face, immortalizing the worst moment of her short, comfortable, girly-girl life on my phone. Tears streak down her cheeks and her skin has taken on a strange pale tone in her fear. I capture the sight of her big tits defiled with hickies and bruises. I pinch her nipples and she writhes. I document every inch of the damage I've done to her, taking care to spread her pussy lips open to really see the injured cunt and asshole. Everything down here is inflamed and irritated. I spit on her pussy and watch it flare open. Seems the bitch isn't satisfied—you can't ever please them.

I get videos and take one that is one big tour of her body, filmed as though it's being shot from my eyes. I see her dull face and pull the boxers from her lips. They're dry despite the excessive drool and her tongue looks swollen in her gaping mouth. Drifting up, and the camera lingers on her eyes. They're puffy from the crying and full of gooey discharge, already drying down into a painful crust. Her hair is horribly tangled and it's everywhere, spreading out on the covers behind her while trailing around her shoulders. I flip her over onto her side to untie her hands. It takes a while as I'm working with one hand, but I manage to get them unbound. They flop uselessly at her sides and I reckon the blood rushing back will make her start to stir. I continue recording and get back to her cunt, turning the flash on, spreading her irritated holes, and I stop the video.

Hazel does stir as her arms regain sensation after being pinned underneath her for so long, and a weak cry escapes her. It seems she has nothing left in her.

"Hey," I murmur and sit next to her head.

Hazel looks the same as I remember her—withdrawn and nervous. Scared. She looks up at me with wide, terrified eyes.

"Hey," I repeat and show her my phone. The camera roll. "Look at this. You can't tell anyone, okay?"

Hazel blinks at the screen as though she isn't processing what she's seeing. Something flickers in her eyes, a deep light being snuffed out, and she stares through the screen. I know she's seen exactly what I wanted her to see.

"I think it's bedtime," I say, testing her, wondering if this is what it took to put her in her place. Force her into that perfect fantasy femme mold.

Hazel swallows hard and nods, anxiously wringing her hands together, trying to regain feeling.

"Do you want me to sleep up here with you?"

I don't expect her to say yes. I know this is some pivotal moment in my life—one long overdue—when Hazel nods, finally submitting and understanding her place as a femme.

When I position her on her side, setting her up to be my little spoon, I push my dick deep in her abused cunt and put my hand on her tit, holding her close. I fall asleep like this while Hazel remains awake and aware, processing the abrupt implosion of her life.