Chapter 2: Kevin groans and fists her red hair, thrusting deeper down her throat. 'Such a good little cocksucker,' he growls, watching spit drip down her chin before flipping her onto all fours and mounting her from behind without preamble.
The silence after was different. It wasn’t the comfortable quiet of longtime friends sharing space. It was a charged, tangible thing, thick as the humidity before a storm. They’d fallen asleep tangled, but dawn had untangled them. Kevin woke first, the digital clock reading 6:14 AM. Ashlee was sprawled on her stomach, one arm hanging off the bed, red hair obscuring her face. The sheet was low on her hips, revealing the soft curve of her ass, the pale skin marked faintly from the rumpled linen.
He watched her breathe. The memory of last night didn’t feel like a memory; it felt like a filmstrip burned onto his retinas. The sound of her gagging, the feel of her throat milking him dry, the insane, filthy banter that had somehow made it okay. His little sister. His best friend. Her mouth.
A cold knot of panic, sharp and sober, tightened in his gut. What the fuck did I just do? This was Ashlee. Quirky, gap-toothed Ashlee who cried at dog food commercials and could recite every line from The Empire Strikes Back. She’d trusted him. She’d come here because her life was falling apart, and he’d turned her into a midnight throat toy.
He saw it clearly: the awkwardness at breakfast, the averted eyes, the slow, sickening realization dawning on her face as the alcohol fully metabolized and the shame set in. She’d move out. She’d either retreat into herself, shattered, or worse, she’d pretend it didn’t happen, and their friendship would become a hollow, painful pantomime.
He couldn’t lose her. The thought was more acute than any ethical dilemma. He could not lose her.
An idea, dark and sleek, uncoiled in his mind. It was absurd. It was manipulative. It was wrong on a level that made last night look like a minor indiscretion. But it was also the only solution he could see that would let him keep her, and maybe, just maybe, let him have that part of her again.
He slid out of bed. He needed tools. And coffee.
Ashlee surfaced to the smell of bacon and French roast. Sunlight streamed through the windows, painting the room in harsh, honest light. She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. Her throat felt raw, pleasantly used. The empty space next to her in bed held the ghost of his warmth.
A giddy, terrified smile touched her lips. It had happened. It hadn’t been a vodka-drenched dream. She’d done that. She’d taken him, all of him, and he’d called her his good girl.
Then the other thoughts arrived, crashing the party. He was asleep at first. You initiated. You manipulated a dream to get his dick in your mouth. You’re a pathetic, desperate creep. He’s going to be mortified. He’s going to pity you.
She pulled the sheet up to her chin, dread icing her veins. She heard him moving in the kitchen, the clatter of a pan. She had to face him. She couldn’t hide in here forever.
Wrapping herself in a robe she found on a chair—his robe, smelling overwhelmingly of him—she shuffled out.
Kevin stood at the stainless steel island, dressed in grey sweatpants and a white t-shirt. He was pouring coffee into two mugs. He looked up. His face was calm, a gentle smile in place. “Morning. How’s the throat? You were snoring like a chainsaw.”
His tone was so normal. So… brotherly. It threw her completely.
“Uh… fine. A little scratchy,” she croaked, hovering at the edge of the kitchen.
“Probably from the snoring.” He slid a mug toward her. “Cream, two sugars, just how you like it.”
She took it, her fingers brushing his. No spark. No acknowledgement. Just the familiar transfer of a hot mug. Was he… had he forgotten? No, impossible.
“Listen,” he said, leaning against the counter, sipping his black coffee. “About last night.”
Here it comes. She braced.
“I feel awful. You were clearly disoriented, freezing, and I just passed out. You must have been climbing the walls in that guest room. I should have made sure you were comfortable.” He shook his head, a picture of fraternal remorse. “I’m a terrible host.”
She stared. He was… apologizing for her being cold? That was the takeaway?
“Kevin,” she started, her voice small. “About what… what happened… in your bed…”
He looked at her, his blue eyes clear and slightly confused. “What? Did I steal the covers? I’m a notorious cover-hog. My apologies.”
He was gaslighting her. Expertly. A cold fingertip traced her spine. He was choosing—actively, deliberately choosing—to pretend it hadn’t happened. To spare them both the embarrassment. The message was clear: We will not speak of this. Ever.
The rejection was a physical blow, far worse than if he’d simply been awkward. He was erasing it. Erasing her part in it. The pride she’d felt, the conquest, crumbled to ash. He was so appalled, so revolted by what they’d done, that his only recourse was to pretend it was a blank space in time.
Tears, hot and humiliating, pricked her eyes. She looked down into her coffee. “Right. The covers. Yeah, you monster.”
“I’ll get you an extra blanket tonight,” he said, his voice warm. “So, I’ve got a boring stakeholder call at ten. Thought maybe, to make it up to you for the shitty first night, we could go downtown later. Get a proper drink. That dive bar you like with the terrible neon sign and the good onion rings.”
She couldn’t look at him. “The Painted Pony. Yeah. Maybe.”
“Cool. It’s a date.” He said it like he always did, a casual, meaningless phrase. It felt like a knife twist.
He pushed off the counter. “Oh, before I forget. I’ve been having awful tension headaches. My therapist taught me this mindfulness, guided visualization technique. It’s like… a kind of waking hypnosis. Takes the edge right off. You looked tense. You should let me try it on you. Ten minutes. You’ll feel like a new woman.”
Every alarm bell in her head was ringing. Hypnosis? After last night? This was too calculated, too weird.
But the offered normalcy was a lifeline. If she played along, if she let him perform his little erasure ritual, maybe they could go back. Maybe she could just be Ashlee again, and not the girl who deep-throated her stepbrother. The alternative—confronting him, having him confirm his disgust—was unthinkable.
“Sure,” she whispered. “Why not.”
“Great. Finish your coffee. Meet me in the living room when you’re ready.”
She sat cross-legged on the vast, cream-colored sofa, facing the panoramic view of the city. Kevin sat in an armchair opposite her, his phone in his hand.
“This is just a relaxation audio track my therapist recommended,” he said, his voice soothing, bland. “Nothing weird. Just close your eyes and listen to my voice, okay? Follow along.”
She closed her eyes. She expected a recorded voice, but it was his. Slow, measured, calm.
“Just breathe in… and out… Feel the weight of your body on the couch… Notice the sounds around you, and let them drift away…”
It was basic meditation stuff. Her shoulders began to drop. The raw pain in her chest dulled to a steady ache.
His voice continued, a soft, rhythmic drone. “You’re feeling very relaxed. Safe. You’re in your brother’s apartment, and you are completely safe. Nothing can harm you here. Your mind is becoming clear… very clear… Like a still pool of water…”
The metaphors were cliché, but her exhausted, emotionally wrung-out brain clung to them. The pool of water. Still. Clear.
“I’m going to count down from ten, and with each number, you will sink deeper into this peaceful, calm state… Ten… nine… drifting deeper… eight… seven… your limbs are heavy and warm… six… five… halfway there, so relaxed… four… three… your conscious mind is resting… two… one… Deeply, comfortably asleep. You can hear only my voice. You will follow my voice.”
Ashlee’s breathing was deep and even. Her hands lay loose in her lap.
Kevin leaned forward, his own heart hammering. He had no idea if this would work. It was a shot in the dark, a blend of pop psychology bullshit and sheer, desperate will.
“Ashlee,” he said, his voice dropping to a firm, quiet register. “Listen carefully. Last night, you slept deeply in the guest bedroom. You were warm and comfortable. You had a pleasant dream, but it faded upon waking, leaving no details. Just a feeling of warmth. You woke up this morning, had coffee with Kevin, and made plans to go to The Painted Pony tonight. That is all that happened. Do you understand?”
A slight pause. Then, her lips moved. “All that happened.”
“When I snap my fingers, you will wake up feeling refreshed, happy, and looking forward to our sibling outing tonight. You will remember nothing of these instructions, only the feeling of relaxation. Ready?”
“Ready.”
He snapped his fingers.
Ashlee’s eyes fluttered open. She blinked, stretched her arms overhead with a luxurious groan. “Wow. Okay. That was… actually amazing. I feel sort of dopey and great.” She grinned at him, her gap-toothed smile unburdened, genuine. “What’s for breakfast, you cover-hog?”
The relief that flooded Kevin was so profound it felt like nausea. It had worked. Or she was an incredible actor. He smiled back, the perfect picture of a doting brother. “Bacon’s on the plate. Get it before I do.”
The Painted Pony was a cacophony of sticky floors, classic rock, and the greasy perfume of fried food. They claimed a high-top table near a flickering Budweiser sign. Ashlee was on her second whiskey sour, laughing loudly at a story about one of Kevin’s insufferable clients. She was back. The quirky, loud, slightly insecure girl he’d shared a childhood with. There was no hidden heat in her glances, no knowing smirk. She was just Ashlee.
And it was killing him.
Because now, seeing her so completely untouched by the memory, all he could think about was reclaiming it. The hypnosis had been a fence, a way to keep her in his life. But watching her lick salt from the rim of her glass, her pink tongue darting out, all he wanted to do was tear the fence down with his teeth.
Every laugh line around her mouth made him think of how it had stretched around him. Every swallow of her drink was a mimicry of the greedy gulps she’d taken of him. The „sibling outing“ was a form of exquisite torture. He had never wanted her more.
“You’re staring at my onion ring like you wanna marry it,” she said, snapping her fingers in front of his face.
“Sorry. Long day,” he muttered, draining his bourbon.
“Well, unclench, finance-bro. It’s Friday.” She leaned forward, conspiratorial. “See that guy at the bar? The one with the tragically cool mustache? He’s looked over here four times.”
A jolt of pure, irrational possession stabbed through Kevin. He followed her gaze. A guy in a flannel shirt, maybe late twenties, with a meticulously groomed handlebar mustache, was indeed glancing their way. He smiled at Ashlee.
“He’s not your type,” Kevin said, his voice tighter than he intended.
“And what is my type, oh wise relation?” she teased.
Me. Your type is me, on your knees, choking on my cock. The thought was so vivid it left a metallic taste in his mouth.
“Guys without facial hair that looks like it belongs on a Victorian railroad magnate,” he deflected.
She rolled her eyes. “You’re no fun.” She slid off her stool. “I’m going to the little girls’ room. Don’t let Mustacheio steal my seat.”
He watched her go, the swing of her hips in her tight jeans a torment. The mustached guy chose that moment to make his move, sliding onto Ashlee’s vacated stool.
“Hey man,” the guy said, smiling easily. “Your sister’s cute. She single?”
Something in Kevin snapped. The careful reconstruction of the day, the forced normalcy, the hypnotic commands—they evaporated under a wave of primordial darkness.
“She’s not my sister,” Kevin said, his voice low and flat. “And if you value that mustache, you’ll get the fuck away from this table.”
The guy’s smile vanished. He held up his hands. “Whoa. Easy, dude.” He retreated back to the bar.
Kevin tossed cash on the table. When Ashlee returned, he was standing, holding her jacket.
“We’re leaving. Now.”
“What? Why? My drink’s not—”
“Now, Ashlee.”
The command in his voice was new. It wasn’t brotherly. It was the voice from the early hours of the morning, the one that had told her to open her mouth. She heard the difference. A faint, bewildered flicker of memory tried to surface—a feeling of weight, of fullness—but it slipped away, blocked by the powerful, artificial calm he’d implanted. She obeyed, shoving her arms into her jacket.
He didn’t speak in the Uber. He just stared out the window, his jaw clenched, a muscle ticking in his temple. The penthouse elevator felt like a suffocating capsule. The doors opened to the serene, silent living room.
“What is your problem?” Ashlee finally exploded, throwing her purse on the sofa. “You’ve been weird all night!”
He turned to face her. The polite mask was gone. In its place was a hunger so raw it was almost predatory. The city lights from the windows cut across him, leaving half his face in shadow.
“My problem,” he said, taking a slow step toward her, “is that you sucked my dick last night until I came down your throat, and today you’ve forgotten how good it felt.”
The words hung in the air, brutal and irrevocable.
Ashlee’s face went blank with shock. Then, a storm of emotions—denial, confusion, and beneath it, a terrifying, thrilling surge of recognition. “What? No, I didn’t… we didn’t… You said…”
“I lied.” Another step. He was crowding her now. “I hypnotized you this morning. A cheap trick. I made you forget. Because I was scared you’d regret it. Because I was scared I’d lose you.” He was close enough that she could feel his body heat. “But I can’t do it. Watching you be my innocent little sister all day… it’s driving me fucking insane.”
The pieces crashed together in her mind. The sore throat. His bizarre calm. The hypnosis session. The lingering, shapeless feeling of warmth she hadn’t been able to place. It was all true.
The betrayal was monumental. He had reached into her mind and edited her reality. The violation should have sent her screaming.
Instead, a different truth blossomed, hot and undeniable: He’s obsessed. He ruined our friendship, committed a psychological crime, just to keep the memory of my mouth.
Her low self-esteem, that constant companion, didn’t whisper ‘pathetic’ this time. It roared ‘powerful.’
She didn’t back away. She lifted her chin. “Prove it.”
A ragged breath escaped him. He cupped her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip. “What?”
“Prove it happened. Show me what I forgot.” Her eyes challenged him, dark in the low light. “Make me remember.”
With a groan that was pure surrender, he claimed her mouth. This kiss was nothing like any brotherly peck. It was carnal, devouring, a reclamation. He tasted of bourbon and want. She met him with equal ferocity, biting his lip, her hands fisting in his shirt.
He broke the kiss, breathing hard. “You dropped to your knees right there.” He pointed to the space by the stainless-steel kitchen island. “You didn’t hesitate. You just… took me.”
Her gaze followed his finger. A shiver, part fear, part intense arousal, wracked her. She looked back at him, at the desperate need written on his handsome face. The last fragments of pretense shattered.
She pushed him back, just enough to break contact. Held his stare. Then, slowly, purposefully, she sank to her knees on the polished concrete floor.
The visual was a sledgehammer to Kevin’s sanity. Her bright red hair against the cool grey floor, her eyes looking up at him, not with forgotten innocence, but with a demand laced with fierce knowledge.
“Show me,” she repeated, her voice husky.
His hands trembled as he undid his belt, the button, the zipper. He shoved his pants and boxer briefs down just enough to free himself. He was already fully, painfully hard.
Ashlee stared at the thick, veined shaft presented at her eye level. “Oh,” she breathed, a real memory—the feel of it, not the sight—flooding back. The stretch. The salt. The choking fullness. Her mouth watered.
She didn’t wait for guidance. She leaned forward and licked a broad, wet stripe from his balls to the tip. He jerked, a curse hissing between his teeth.
“I remember the taste,” she whispered, more to herself than to him. Then she opened her mouth and took him in.
It was different than the first time. There was no exploratory fumbling, no battle with her gag reflex won through patience. This was a raw, messy reenactment driven by recovered memory and vengeful desire. She wanted to own the act he’d tried to steal from her.
She sucked him deep quickly, letting her throat spasm around the head, reveling in the brutal, authentic gag it