Shock, like the start of a civil war.
This... is... SICK!!
Meghan Ivy had discovered her brother's private folders. Buried in the game directory, like he didn't think that she'd ever check Recent Files and roll back the computer clock—child's play. She was twelve and he was eighteen, but the collection he had accrued since 12/7/2020 was more along the lines of what she'd expect to find under an old man's dirty mattress.
Pictures of girls her age in suggestive poses. Tweens candidly captured or in galleries from sketchy websites. Cute little Hungarian and Czech naiads intentionally underdressed. KidKoks where the dances were maybe too provocative, over the top, nearly-see-it sit-n-spins and squats. Creepshots. Camgirl “wins.”
Lolicon.
That's what he's into? My brother's a—
Pedophile. Yes, that vulgar, enticing, forbidden phrase. Her brother Jonas liked them young, quite clearly. While it wasn't the only type of p*rn on his Keep Out! laptop, over the years the ratio had become fairly telling. None of the girls seemed to be over thirteen, as if Jonas had a standard, of sorts—too much development and he lost interest.
Gross!
A hard kernel of anger and nausea weighed her down like a secret she could never bear to withhold. All of a sudden it dawned on her that she faced the decision: to tell Mom and Dad about this and to put the medicine ball in their court, but also thereby to worry them to tears for the rest of their lives. We need to talk about Jonas, and it might expose everything—maybe even her own nocturnal searches if Dad closely scoured the router traffic. Yikes.
Another choice presented itself as she morbidly scrolled through the images. Kiddy slu*t Kronikles, Part 2. Pervy Greg (FULL Collection). A tilt-a-whirl variety. The alternative choice: to leverage this. Turn the tables and have him wrapped around her finger for the foreseeable future.
Seeing the lewd emphasis on flat chests and bald puss* and cute butts and all that on screen—the stuff her brother liked—Meghan recognised of course how it mirrored her own body. Her development was nearly in full swing, to the point of good first impressions at the wedding and the disappointment of college boys who wishfully assumed that she was maybe sixteen? Observing all this foul ageplay content on her brother's hard drive, identifying herself in the array of redheads all splayed and laughing and available, Meghan also saw the rabbit-hole widen to encompass her, too.
Why did it always have to be “Big Brother” in charge? She could put a stop to that today, for good. She would have her older sibling—her only sibling—at her mercy.
To set the scene, we sketch the beauty queen. Meghan Ivy stunned at bat mitzvahs and steak dinners, like complimentary eye candy for the international consultants and producers that her father was always meeting. Oh, where had they flown in from this time, Brazil, how nice. Meanwhile their eyes were always discreetly tracking the waveform curves on her off-limits body. They probably had a casting couch warmed up just for her.
Yet despite her tween elegance and mademoiselle entitlement, way in advance of her age, she still showcased more affinity for stunt work than for acting.
Pranks and dares, Meghan was the first one to say yes—no questions asked, no strings attached. Her flowing red hair acted sometimes like her bandit mask, a place she could hide, or just a friend to chew on when she was mulling something over, the way she was now.
Her choice in attire today involved the “ecliptic” skirt: a glittery, black and diaphanous thing, frilly but tight-fitting, showing / not-showing like the tease was sewn right in. Her neon-orange tee seemed fitting for a festival or a sci-fi nightclub. As ever, Meghan wore the orange sneakers too, indoors (because hardwood floors) and laced up with butterfly clips.
Meghan rehearsed her speech. She was going to check him, hard. Her appetite otherwise would be completely derailed, to have that black cloud hanging over her head instead of his. It pained her in a way that it had come to this. Long ago they had been more of a team, Becky and Bronco, Jonas always good for piggyback rides and protection. Then, when he'd turned fourteen, a kind of separation, a lot more time that he spent in his bedroom, alone. It occurred to her that this disconnect, all this space between them, had possibly driven him to choose a strange substitute, all this nutrition-free candy and guilty pleasure, to patchily bridge the gap.
Maybe the pillow fort hadn't disappeared completely. What had begun as appalled and mystified anger transformed over the ticking minutes into something like sadness, or nostalgia, for what could never come back again. He must have torn through Kleenex in a mad dash to bury his desires, to satisfy them and forget—binge and purge. Meghan had never felt anything but kinship and kindness from her brother until more recent years, during which time he had chronically downloaded all these dirty fantasies, dramatised by un-famous underground artists out of repressed Nebraska or censorious Japan, too lewd for word-of-mouth.
Past the nausea, past the shock, Meghan looked inward only to discover that a part of her body was responding to the vile animations and compilations. To see versions of herself or her friends, such close replicas, all of them either beaming in orgiastic release or crawling in closely-watched bondage or enduring the dire straits of male domination, okay, it was… kind of... hot?
How, though?! It was nasty! Taboo, NSFL or whatever. And it was wrong, she thought, like, men weren't supposed to touch little girls like that, let alone try for pregnancy. Her horrified fascination changed just like those butterflies or the laws of nations, some sad*stic wheel of fortune, turning… like a key.
In a lock.
Jonas!
Meghan had arrived home ahead of him today due to basketball being canceled. He couldn't have known, and maybe he'd banked on getting to his computer ahead of time, and that maybe even if Meghan came home early, she wouldn't stoop to snooping. She had just wanted to try FantasyQuest on Jonas' rig and opened it from sleep mode, no password, only to find herself intrigued by the Gretel-meets-Hansel breadcrumbs tragically left on his desktop in a cluster of files. Then those led to certain disk partitions, filling up with data, recently viewed.
Her heart raced as she heard him kick off his shoes, approaching his room like nothing was amiss. Hadn't he noticed that the deadbolt was undone, that she'd beat him home? Like something out of a bad soap opera, banned overseas.
“...Tribe, f*ck your land, f*ck your children, f*ck y—”
Rapping along, Jonas did a double-take at the doorway and looked at Meghan, who was sitting, shock-still, on his computer chair (itself full of secrets—or rather, c*mstains). She projected a kind of dark sorceress aura, rising to her feet and peering at him with this electrifying sense of the new power dynamic just coming online.
Jonas killed his earbuds. He glared at her like she was the transgressor here, the one who should apologise.
“Um, what are you doing in my room, squirt?”
Meghan savoured the tense silence before the sea change. Her heartbeat jumped, like her automatic response to a dare she hadn't seen coming. Pedo Crisis!!!
“Oh, excuse me!” Saccharine sarcasm. “Gosh, I wouldn't want to disturb you, Jonas, I'm real sorry. Here, let me just get out of your way and you can get comfortable, get back to jerking it to kids like you did all last week.”
The colour drained from his face. Half Sephardic and half white, Jonas hadn't had that much colour to begin with but now that the hammer dropped he turned ghost, zero chance to revive.
“Whaaa? Meghan, I honestly don't know what you're talking about, that's super weird, are you joking? I don't—“
“Sure. Dig your hole deeper. Let me ask you this, what do you think I saw when I opened that Nuremberg, 1946 folder?”
He stalled and tried to figure out how she knew to specify that one. Jonas’ sweatdrop served to confirm her creeping accusations.
“What...? That? Jeez, M-Marcus sent me that and, like, I was just gonna use it to catfish—“
“You have always been the worst liar. Jonas!! What, how can you like that stuff? They were all, just, so dirty! I think some of that is illegal! Is that really what you like? Naked little girls?”
Meghan didn't need to mention that she too was considered a “little girl” by most people, or at least, most senior citizens. Those closer to the line could see that she had crossed over it, from child to near-teen, in an adolescent ramp-up to the unforgettable firsts and the group magic of early sexual activity, rites of pleasure. Physically, Meghan was just waiting, ready, anxious for her own private voodoo to take full effect.
She could read the dilemma playing out on his face now. Here was his chance. If he liked girls her age, that bracket of just the first few double digits, then why not confess right now, when their parents weren't home, when they could freely (and loudly) negotiate, work this shame out like any other secret misdeed.
This one was just a little heavier than shoplifting.
“I, uh.” Loud seconds ticked away. “Look, you don't understand. I really do pretend to be them, or, it's like—” Strange tells: pitch-shifts, desperation, body language out of joint with his lies. “It's like I'm trans, I think? Like please don't jump to conclusions or tell anyone about that because it's super super private, Meghan, please?”
She showed him the bare-minimum respect of considering that possibility. After chewing on it, though, Meghan rejected the excuse. No, he wasn't trans. A childhood of Army Frank and blue jeans and teasing girls, like, she'd never noticed any girliness in him, as was typically the case with real trans sisters of hers growing up. Jonas was instead still pathetically trying to fabricate, denying everything, tying himself into knots. His characteristic slickness failed him now. The gifted brother she had never managed to best in chess or anything else, really, was now at her mercy in a big way.
“Bull. I really just can't with you right now! I'm going to tell Mom and Dad if you don't tell me, honestly. Last chance. I already know the truth. You love little girls, don't you? I bet you have little panties locked away that you stole from a laundry room or something. Tell me! Right now. Do you perv on the little twins down the street...? They’re only nine! You're so messed up! I've been in your browser history for an hour now, Jonas, hello! I saw everything!”
His mouth went dry, his eyes wide. She knew him better than anyone now. He did, in fact, have two cherished pairs of pilfered little girl underwear, an addictive, neverending nosegay made from two pretty flowers that fueled his most liberated pedo fantasies.
But where did she get the brass to confront him like that? They were alone for the hour ahead and yet her sudden checkmate threat had him staring at the clock and feeling small, Jonas-in-Wonderland.
How badly he wished to be locked in Neverland instead...
Added to all this of course, her words got him incredibly, shockingly, near-explosively stiff in his corduroy. Like, stuck at the chalkboard, raging hard, an embarrassing secret nowhere near the magnitude of this one. She'd played her card and it came up, Ace of Cups, the premiere vessel, the uterus. Girlboss.
Guilty memories, panicky sweat—he'd never pass her lie detector test, she was f*cking good at that. No more stand-ins, not any waifu or unrealistic dream girl who spoke in dumb, programmed soundbites.
Meghan was better than any body pillow.
Presently he thought of those shame-laden interludes where he'd substituted Meghan herself for the party favors in his fap material, the unlucky maidens who fell into monstrous hands—monstrous like his.
How much of his high school career had he spent avoiding homework in order to f*ck his lotioned fist in isolation, to drain the Jergens, thinking of her? It had never seemed like anything that would come within his grasp, not in this lifetime.
But now, the door was open. This line of questioning could lead to Jonas' doom, or his trick-shot redemption. He had to cover his groin with his AP Biology textbook in order to hold some defensive line of dignity as he replied.
“I might, I—okay, fine, Meghan, you're right, I guess I do like it but I struggle with it so much, I really do. I've deleted that stuff so many times but it keeps coming back, I relapse. It's like I'm cursed,” he explained, with some honesty, at last.
Try as she might, Meghan couldn't stay mad at him. At least, not now that he was finally coming clean. The curious residue of warmth stayed like embers under impatient kindling, or a defiant little flame in the turbulent afterburn of their argument. Calling him out like that and seeing him suffer, but then also noticing him grow very obviously hard off her opening statement, it all gave Meghan an exquisite sense of her new authority.
Eat it, Bro!
Maybe he would bow down, and from now on it was going to be her choices on family movie night, and all her favorites at the Chipotle.
Beyond that, she had some of her own favours to ask, blacker than blackmail, inspired by her own libertine dreams. Meghan’s fantasies (so little, stacked next to her brother’s!) were absorbing heat and then catching fire, set precariously close to the raging conflagration of loli p*rn that her brother consumed—memes and gifs and various depictions of cub-f*cking catastrophes that spilled over to Meghan, his beautiful and venomous little sister.
“Yeah? ‘Kay. I forgive you, then. We can keep this quiet—maybe. You knew this was coming, Jonas. You're a creep, duh, but then, I don't know. I guess I won’t tell Mom. O-o-only if you do all my laundry and chores from now until forever.”
“WHAT!”
Meghan began gathering the “copies” she'd made of the folders and set about humming absent-mindedly as he failed to come to grips. A perpetuity clause?!
“Wait, wait, wait, no. Please. I'll do them for a year, okay? Not forever. That's crazy!”
“Six years.”
“Hell no! No, Meghan, I have to go to Syracuse in the fall, and—“
“Oy, Jonas! Remind me again, who's setting the terms here?!”
Meghan almost roared. She was a Leo, after all. It worked to scare Jonas back into line with the new feminist regime.
“Ugh. Five years?”
“Six.”
“You're literally the worst!”
“Oh, am I?”
He seethed but, yeah, game over. The back-and-forth felt like some negotiation that had no right to go on between brother and sister. Like, boardroom drama, students six grades apart remaking an episode of Succession, shot for shot. On his screen, Pervy Jonas’ collection lay wide open, spilling further scenes of lewd, loli-centric mayhem.
His boner remained obvious like a bad saboteur, cover blown. That's what got him into this trouble in the first place! Always attuned to the pathways of nymphets around him, their comings and goings at the park, at the mall, just everywhere. Drowning this evergreen passion in his wild-hearted, fire-kissed sister was an action that crossed his mind a thousand times and yet never had the opportunity come to him correctly set in space or time.
There were moments at age fifteen—that year of daily agony and (loli) ecstasy—when he had prayed for the plane to crash gently, picturing himself and his gorgeous nine-year-old sister as the only survivors to make landfall on that castaway beach, assuming new primitive identities, and at last coming together in some secluded cove of their incestuous discoveries—unleashed. If it was to happen then they had to make it happen.
And not here, not at odds, as sibling rivals, but in some future time of peace, in that tranquil, familiar field he remembered, presently denied him by the barbed-wire menace of their skirmish line.
She pushed Jonas' textbook down like a fake fig leaf, revealing more of his priapic shame, the upright Mars symbol, failing to hide.
“How are you still hard?! Have you been thinking about that stuff this whole time?”
No, I’ve been thinking about you, Meghan, and when I used to call you Carrot Cake—
“You are such a PERV! Say it!”
“Yes. Okay! I am, yeah. I am a perv!”
“Say that you like little girls' panties!”
“Why?”
“Say it!”
“How much more of this—“
“Jonas,” Meghan came in close and grabbed him by his ears, forcing him to look directly into her casino-green eyes. “I swear on my life, on the blood of the angels, I will text Mom right now and I will tell her what you've been doing. If you expect me to keep this secret for you, if you want me to not DESTROY your life in one second, the way that you know I can, then you will kneel, you will grovel to me, you will do as I say starting today, and continuing until I say stop. Do you understand me, Brwd'r?”
She used the Yiddish. She only did that when she was dead serious.
“... Yes.”
“Then what do you say...?”
He remembered.
“I... like little girls' panties.”
“Louder!”
“The neighbors—”
“Probably already know, you creep! Louder!”
He cleared his throat nervously and shouted at half-volume.
“I LIKE LITTLE GIRLS' PANTIES!”
“How much do you like them?”
“Meghan!!”
“How much do you like them?”
“I—a lot.”
“Complete sentences.”
“Sheesh! I like little girls' panties a lot. Happy?”
“How much is a lot?”
Jonas glared at her but he had no good move. He gulped and went on in total torment, his dick refusing to quit—c'mon, J2, go down!
“I, f*ck, Meghan, I like them so much that I want to just breathe them in all day. They're so cute. They smell so good, it’s like heaven. I swear, how can I not, I just have to take them or draw them or anything to—”
“Stop. Do you want my panties?”
“Uh! What, seriously?”
“Yeah. Pretend they’re hostages. That's how the shoguns used to hedge their treaties, you know. Not with little girl panties. Probably, haha. But by swapping their, like, kids and stuff.”
He marveled that she'd pulled up such a random fact and tied it to their understanding. Apart from that quirk, Jonas also doubted that he could really have that panty pipeline, supplied straight from his sister, as advertised. The dangling carrot of that offer seemed tantalizing but too good to be true, although she had said yeah and then backed it up with her next, brilliant move.
Meghan broke off negotiations, so near to closing the deal, only to step out of her green mistletoe panties—aren't we Jewish?—right in front of him, like old times. Their innocent bathtimes hadn't remained innocent forever, the last and best one back when Jonas was ten years old and she barely five, in the secret bubble-bath moments while their parents were distracted, scant seconds of glorious, aqueous, brother-sister privacy, pretending to be seals, pushing their slick seal-bodies together. And now, at least one of them was a little wet like a callback, their paths crossing again, islands in the stream.
Only this time their parents weren't around at all, and wouldn’t be until nearly sundown.
Meghan Ivy in Return of the Queen, a king’s daughter with the superior claim, always destined to triumph over her evil brother, the lecherous usurper, the impostor. She laughed derisively at his obsessions and flung them back in his face, launching her sweaty panties at him from between her toenails, lacquered green like go.
“Go on, take 'em!”
Oh, now she was torturing him? Baiting him? What was this revolution, he was still the older brother here. He still had power of his own. It wasn’t like those turned tables were made of stone.What was Kasparov's advice? Never resign.
Still, he was defeated. Instantly. The sudden perfumed ornament of her panties on his nose put Jonas into a whole new league of temptation. She was still cautious in accepting her crown, and although she feigned carefree, and as much as her power pose warned that he'd better not try anything weird, this slide of hers into more permissive sisterly quid pro quo told him that there was some wiggle room, so to speak.
“I own you, Jonas, okay? That’s what those mean.”
Nutmeg and fennel, cinnamon and saffron, the residual notes of her pheromones and his fever dreams, how long had she been sitting there, hot in the afternoon sun like a dripping ice sculpture of Diaspora? How long had she been wearing these, with her delicate essence seeping slowly into them, with no barrier between fabric and folds, cloth and kitty?
Jonas stifled a groan, staring at Meghan past the slip of wintergreen that alighted on his nose, an accidental butterfly that wouldn't fly away. He wished it never would!
He breathed deeply as the priceless aroma he’d never stolen before, impossible visions of that thing he’d never done before, now inundated his world, a Noachian flood. How could he see past the fumes, how could he catch the whisper so difficult to hear, or absorb those clues from her every pore, worshiping in his doomed way every perfect part of her body—to observe for only a moment her scheduled farewell to childhood, the most fleeting of glimpses.
Past the prop weapon of blackmail, past her confident gambit, in the choreography of her waltz upon his shame, she could humiliate him to death and he’d still want her from beyond the grave—all of her, now and into the sunset of their sibling amity. Like Jaime and Cersei, forever young, blissfully wrong but at least they were wrong together, or paying his paltry homage to the pharaohs, the dynasties that wed sibling to sibling for an entire glorious millennium of incestuous misrule.
Jonas held her private history to his nose—her disposable cotton garden in his hand—still cherishing the new terms if it meant he got to inhale the ambrosia of his preteen sister's puss*, which he had purposefully, righteously, denied himself for so, so long. It was his holy fetish. Yet on a lark she had given it to him: the very thing he most craved in this world.
“Mmmm… you win, Sis. Okay? You own me. But you don’t have to be cruel about it. Please, I’ll throw it all away, for you, I’ll try to stop, I will stop. Honest—”
“Stop? Stop what?! Jonas, have you been doing anything to my friends?!” She’d seen some images of them that he’d “generated,” cute young classmates in piles, a hidden recess, fun in the shadows, semi-innocent, semi-sapphic, and it made her wonder.
“Huh? No, no no. Nothing like that, never. I'd only really ever wanna do that to y—“
He caught himself at the brink of disclosure, a slip of the tongue. He was usually better than that. But there it was, as obvious as a fragrant bobby-socked foot in his mouth. Jonas had more or less tipped her off that yes, she had starred in his wicked fantasies, too. Of course she had.
“Me? Jonas! So, that one folder, with my yearbook photos, Halloween, Hanukkah, and all of the AI stuff...”
Jonas didn't say anything while she figured it out. Yes, he’d genned her. Yes, she could try it herself. If that's what she wanted. Whatever she wanted.
“Show me.”
“What?! You're kidding.”
“For the last time, Jonas, I'm not kidding! We don't have all night. Show me before Mom comes home.”
“Show you what?”
“How you make it, like, copy—”
“Image to image? Like from other pictures?”
“Yeah.”
“I can show you, I guess. Seriously, though, Sis, no more games. Are you sure? This is so weird, we really really really don't have to do this, I'll just abide by the terms you—”
“New terms,” she said, assertively, like the contract was open-ended. “Jonas, show me right now!”
Was this Heaven or Las Vegas? In his most recent dream of Meghan they were playing the odds together, binary stars orbited by tacky, retro-futurist furniture. It felt good to cheat the system together, treating the world as their own private slot machine.
Now, like waking up, soft focus rapidly sharpened to reveal to the Ivy siblings a pixelated array of Meghan’s faces on different bodies, in different clothes, a bottomless dollhouse—not quite, almost, there, that one looks good!
How did it create her so perfectly, how could it conjure up the tiniest and slu*ttiest outfits out of nowhere—Meg, I'm trying to make it less sexy but it's fighting me! It's like this model is horny—in four seconds flat? She asked him how, and he answered.
“Our GPU.”
“Like, the—fan thing?”
“Yeah. It's good enough to handle the processing. And it's the right brand,” he said, sounding proud, when the upgraded card was helping him create the purest filth. “All you do is install the AI suite, like, follow that tutorial? Then choose a model. Find interesting ones, you know, ask people, then you just assemble a prompt. After that you just massage it.”
“Massage it?”
“Yeah. Specify better what you want it to generate. Use your words. It's kind of tricky to master right away.”
“Have you mastered it?”
Jonas scoffed. He was still leaking a stream of precum like a fountain of perpetual guilt, staining his corduroy with waning patience.
“No. Obviously.”
“Skill issue.”
“Shut up!”
“Well, how do you get better?”
“Aren't you...? Are you really sure you're okay to see all this? We don't have to.”
“You said that already! I'm fine. Please, show me that encrypted chat again...?”
Together, they improved, as did their relations. It devolved into this sinister lesson of big brother showing little sister what his digital summoning spellcraft could do on their screen, potentially on all the screens. There was just enough time left to experiment, and the tools were powerful enough to intoxicate them both.
“Wait, wait wait, so like, I could take Angela's pictures, and—”
"Yup.”
“That'd be so mean!”
“Yup.”
“Should we do it? Like, just make them, don't send them...”
Meghan witnessed her mortal enemy being transformed into a pleading, reluctant slave to men and dogs and Lovecraftian monsters, these comic and serious reprisals that the AI kept churning out. Sometimes they came out like illogical jumbles of elements that partially worked, maybe needed inpainting. The lingo proved easy enough to pick up. Welcome to the uncanny valley, except that the Ivy siblings had learned how to take the uncut gems they found among the iterations and polish them, feed them back into the machine. They patiently calibrated the software to spit out more mean girl strife, more anguish for her bullies, more cum-dripping exhaustion for a girl who probably did this kind of thing anyway. The rumor mill potential of the program was staggering, and Meghan felt a vindictive gravity wave bring her once more to the question of whether to deploy the doomsday weapon or not, the stirring prospect of a thermonuclear strike upon her foes’ social media feeds.
Up against time pressure—Zeitnot—Meghan finally placated her brother’s kiddophile co*ck, jerking it as he looked at tweens, at local girls and Ukrainian girls, at Meghan, and at the smorgasbord of nasty art.
“Not yet! Here, Jonas, let me,” she’d said, holding her hand out like peace, open palm. “If you want. You total perv! You're such a freak. Are you going to cum to little girls again? Jonas, you loser, I can’t believe this! C'mon, weirdo, before Mom gets home, let's just—I'll help you, okay? We'll beat this thing together.”
She volunteered. It surprised her as much as anyone, but in coming to this two-state solution her excitement mounted, her walls came down, and her baseline sisterly sympathy for her brother returned like a wanderer, coming home at last.
In other words. What began as the blood-pumping terror of a young pervert's jeopardy circled back around. Hero’s journey, and all the hero wants to do is bang his sister. Nonetheless she brought witchcraft in her hands, novice but not unskilled. Like the blacksmith’s apprentice she oiled an untouchable sword, straining to escape its mythic prison. She jerked his little Excalibur nearer to a long-awaited release.
Under anguish that went balls-deep, under the shadow of guilt hovering over his head, going nowhere, Jonas had no lifeline to call for the answer, all his thrusts like a Morse-code message tapped through the border wall and the message was received: okay, little sister, go for it. The coast was clear.
Meghan received homeschool sex ed, following computer science. She watched her phone all the while, making sure Mom's car didn't prematurely pull up in the driveway. After her long sit in front of Jonas' screen and now the conjoined hour of effort they had put in to master AI image generation, a high-stakes chess match of incest came off without a hitch, a flawless draw.
At first his hands guided hers, then Meghan found the way on her own, matching his impulsive and needy hip-thrusts, up and down. This was just between the two of them, another sticky secret to digest. He'd been caught out as a pedophile by his own little pumpkin, danger orange, and through ancient magic or maybe modern science they were brought together again, fraternal respect and sororal contempt, across the rift. She'd tolerate his sickness—White Cleopatra—and he'd stay enslaved—Egyptian Jew.
He looked at the screen again. The prosecutor’s presentation kept running with an utterly incriminating playthrough of his favorites, yes the cub stuff, yes the 3D, yes those files that were a hair's breadth from criminality, a boy too perverted to discern the line. Enjoying his eye candy and flexing his appreciation of the taboo, at long last he had his little sister embroiled in the opening ceremony of the games he’d always wanted to play. However, Meghan’s expression was pure repugnance, only slowly softening to a put-upon determination to finish him and deepen his debt.
Royal impatience. This was a transaction after all—hurry up! There, her slippery fingers kept glancing off the head and the ridge surrounding it, manually smearing his lust around like melted butter.
Jonas looked up at the ceiling fan, groaning, wishing not to be constantly reminded of his transgression—How did she get so good at this? Did Jacob teach her?—only then to want dreadfully to look down and watch his sister work it. A curious instance of FOMO, this classically indecisive pedo, agonised by the choice: do or do not. It put him on the rack between guilt and gratification. The tug-of-war, the revolt inside his head like a coup d’etat—that’s your little sister, Jonas—hard up against the clock and fretting his decision—isn’t she beautiful?—all of it drove Jonas to such desperation that he bit his lip, drawing blood.
Best not to look? Oh hell, might as well.
When she brought her panties back and tangled them up across his glans, jerking Jonas off with her sopping green felt, a co*ck-tugging panty-job, at last his body and mind united and made the right move. It produced an exultant money shot, a truly pent-up and embarrassingly generous mazel tov moment for the both of them before Mom got home, just two siblings observing the creamy desecration of her underwear, Meghan and Jonas, alone together in the champagne room, some place that they knew they should not be. Jonas celebrated wearily: toasting his reputation—still intact—and his exhaustion at her hands.
“Hnnnghh!! Unnnh! Yeah, oh—oh f*ck, Meghan. Thank you,” Jonas said. It sounded like the whines of a sick dog, pathetically servile, and spent.
He pocketed the panties.
Meghan however took her hands away, all covered in her brother's secrets, and went to the bathroom. What did they have, two minutes to clean up?
“Oh, Jonas! Don’t forget! You're disgusting!!!”
Out of moves and out of energy, Jonas could only hang his head, grab another tissue, and concede.
