Chapter 5: Ashlee finally closed cut
The morning light was a pale, guilty thing filtering through the blinds of Kevin’s bedroom. Ashlee woke to the familiar, terrifying disorientation of a foreign ceiling, followed by the warm, solid reality of a body beside her. Memory returned in a sickening lurch. The movie. The grinding. His hands tearing her panties. The look in his eyes, a feral promise she’d both craved and feared. Then… nothing. He’d stopped. He’d carried her here, muttering about being fucking idiots, and they’d collapsed into separate, tense poles of the king-size bed.
Now, she was on her back. And Kevin was propped on one elbow, looking down at her, his blue eyes clear and unreadable. The sheet pooled around his waist. He was naked. She could feel the radiant heat of his skin.
“You awake?” His voice was morning-rough.
She could only nod, her throat tight. He’s going to say it was a mistake. He’s going to tell me to move out. Oh God, I fucked everything up.
“My arm’s dead,” he said, not moving.
“What?”
“You rolled onto it. Hours ago. It’s a dead limb. Useless.”
A hysterical giggle bubbled in her chest. This was so them. After last night’s nuclear tension, it came down to a dead arm. “Sorry.”
“You’re not.” A faint smile touched his lips. “You’re a bed hog and a blanket thief. I have years of evidence.”
“I am not.”
“You are. And you snore.”
“I do not!”
“Like a chainsaw.” He was fully smiling now, the easy, platonic grin that twisted her heart. Then his eyes flicked down. She followed his gaze. The T-shirt she’d worn to bed was twisted up around her ribs. Her breasts were bare. She hadn’t done that. Had he?
Oh, but you wanted him to, a voice hissed inside her. You dreamed of his hands on you all night.
She didn’t move to cover herself. A challenge hung in the air.
Kevin’s smile faded. The atmosphere thickened, shifted. The mention of last night was a ghost in the room. “Ash…”
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say it was a mistake.”
“What the hell was it, then?” He didn’t sound angry. He sounded lost.
“I don’t know.” She found courage, liquid and hot, in her belly. “Maybe we should stop thinking.”
She moved first. A quick, desperate surge, her fingers digging into his side where she knew he was ticklish.
He yelped. “Hey!”
The reaction was instinctive, electric. He grabbed for her wrists, but she was already scrambling, kneeing him in the thigh, her other hand spider-walking up his ribs. A laugh burst from him, genuine and surprised. He caught one wrist, but she wriggled, her bare chest brushing against his arm, and his grip loosened for a split second.
It was a war of attrition, a familiar childhood battlefield resurrected in the dawn. They rolled. The sheets tangled. Her laughter was real now, sharp and breathless. His was a low rumble. She pinned him for a glorious second, straddling his waist, her red hair a curtain around them.
His skin is so hot. And he’s hard. Oh Jesus, he’s already hard under me.
That momentary distraction was her undoing. He bucked, his superior strength and wrestling experience from high school coming back. In a fluid motion, he reversed their positions. Now he was over her, knees pinning her thighs, his hands locking her wrists above her head on the pillow.
“Say uncle,” he breathed, his face inches from hers. He was flushed, grinning, but his eyes were dark, the pupils swallowing the blue.
“Never,” she gasped, still squirming.
He adjusted his weight, settling more firmly against her. The thick, hard length of him, unmistakable even through the sheet now bunched between them, pressed against her stomach. His grin turned wicked. He released her wrists, but before she could move, his hands went to her ribs, his fingers digging in with expert precision.
She shrieked, bucking wildly, but he had her trapped. Her laughter turned to desperate, airless giggles. “Stop! Kevin, stop!”
“Say it.”
“No!”
He tickled harder, his body sliding against hers in the struggle. The sheet between them was nothing. A formality. She could feel every inch of him, the rigid proof of his arousal a brand against her. Her own body was betraying her, melting, heating, a slick warmth growing between her legs that had nothing to do with laughter.
He won. He always won. Her body went limp, spent and gasping. “Uncle,” she wheezed, tears of mirth in her eyes. “Uncle, you bastard.”
He eased off, chest heaving. But he didn’t get off. He stayed there, straddling her hips, looking down at her. The playfulness evaporated, burned away by the raw, physical truth of their position.
This is it, Ashlee thought, her heart a frantic drum against her ribs. This is the line.
Kevin’s mind was a hurricane of contradiction. This is Ashlee. Little Ashlee. Your best friend. The girl who cried when she s
Your best friend. The girl who cried when she scraped her knee on your skateboard. His eyes raked over her: the freckles scattered across her chest, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts, the sea turtle’s tail peeking from her shoulder. But his cock, a thick, insistent weight, throbbed against her stomach, rewriting every single line they’d ever drawn. “Ash, get off me,” he said, his voice strained. It wasn't a command. It was a plea.
She didn’t move. She arched her back, just a fraction, pressing her softness more firmly against him. “No.” The word was a whisper, a vibration in the charged air between them. Her green eyes held his, wide and unblinking. She saw the war in his face, the conflict tightening his jaw. She could feel the rigid proof of his desire, a blatant contradiction to the words he was trying to say. He wants this. He wants me. This thought, terrifying and exhilarating, filled her with a power she’d never known.
This is a canyon you can’t uncross, his mind screamed. She’s your sister in every way that matters. But his body, starved and presented with a feast it had secretly catalogued for years, was in full mutiny. The scent of her sleep-warm skin, the flush on her chest, the way her nipples were drawn into tight peaks just inches from his face—it was an overwhelming assault. He needed to be the one to stop this. He had to. “This isn’t us,” he managed, his hips betraying him with a minute, grinding pulse against her. “It’s the fucking… proximity. The move. It’s confused.”
“I’m not confused.” Her hand moved, shocking in its bravery. Her fingers didn’t go to his face. They slid down his sweat-slicked side, over the ridge of his hip, and brushed against the bunched sheet covering his erection. He flinched as if burned. “I’ve never been less confused in my life, Kevin. You felt it last night. You stopped, but you felt it.”
Fuck. Her directness shattered another wall. He remembered the damp heat of her through her panties, the animal sound she’d made when he’d torn them. That memory alone sent a fresh surge of blood to his cock. “I was drunk,” he lied, his breath hitching as her knuckles grazed him again. “You were drunk. This is a monumentally bad idea.”
“Then why are you still on top of me?” Her question was a soft dart, hitting its mark. His entire body was corded with tension, holding himself over her like a bridge about to collapse. He could roll off. Right now. He didn’t. Be aggressive. Take control of this disaster. He let a growl build in his throat, lowering his face closer to hers, trying to scare her with the intensity he was fighting to leash.
“You think you know what you’re asking for?” His voice dropped, rough and low. “You think this is some fucking rom-com? It’s not. It’s messy. It’s going to ruin everything.” He was listing objections, building a dam, but every word felt hollow because his hands were still pinning her wrists, his thighs were still caging hers.
“I know it’s messy,” she said, her breath catching as he pressed down harder. “But everything’s already ruined, Kevin. The second you tore my panties with your teeth last night, our normal was already in the shredder. We’re just cleaning up the scraps.” Her words were brave, but her pulse hammered wildly beneath his thumbs. He could feel it. A trapped bird.
He released her wrists. He didn’t move. “This is insane.”
“Probably.” She brought her freed hands to his face. Her palms were damp. She traced the line of his jaw, the stubble rough against her skin. “But remember that time you convinced me to put ketchup in my chocolate milk on a dare? And I did it, because it was you asking?”
A baffled laugh punched out of him. “You puked on my shoes.”
“Right. And you carried me home. And you didn’t even get mad.” Her thumbs brushed the corners of his mouth. “This is just… a different kind of dare. A different kind of mess. And I’m saying yes.”
The whimsy, the sheer absurdity of the analogy, dismantled another brick in his resolve. He shook his head, a slow, weary motion. “It’s not the same, Ash. This isn’t chocolate milk. This is my dick. And you’re my little sister.”
“Step,” she corrected softly, her gaze dropping to his mouth. “And I’m not little. And I’ve thought about it. A lot.” Her admission hung there, stark and undeniable.
“Thought about what?” The question was a guttural pull, though he knew.
“Sucking your cock.” She said it plainly, the crude words somehow delicate in her morning voice. His entire body clenched. “Wondering if you’d taste like salt. Like skin. If you’d make that face you make when you’re concentrating really hard, but… softer.”
“Jesus Christ.” He dropped his forehead against hers, his eyes squeezing shut. A furnace roared in his gut. “You can’t just say things like that.”
“Why? Because it’s true?” Her voice was a whisper now, her lips almost touching his. “Because it’s taboo? That’s what makes it so hot, Kevin. Don’t you think? That it’s wrong? That I shouldn’t want to get on my knees for my big, handsome stepbrother and see how much of that nine-inch cock I can actually take down my throat?”
Every word was a lightning strike. The clinical measurement, the depraved fantasy framed in her sweet tone
The air between them vanished, replaced by something combustible and thick. Her words, that filthy, perfect admission, echoed in the silence of the sunlit room. He could feel the vibration of them against his skin where they touched.
All his objections were ash. The dam broke.
A low, wounded sound escaped him, part surrender, part fury. He shoved himself up, kneeling back between her splayed thighs. The morning light glazed the taut muscles of his abdomen, the dark trail of hair leading down. His cock stood rigid against his stomach, a thick, veined arc of flesh that made her mouth water.
"Okay," he said, the word clipped and final. "You win. But we set rules. My rules."
He wasn't looking at her face. His gaze was fixed on her body, a visual possession. He reached down, his fingers closing around the base of his shaft. The sight of his own hand, large and tanned, gripping his erection, was profoundly raw.
"Rule one," he stated, his voice devoid of its earlier warmth. It was a banker's voice, outlining terms. "No kissing. That's… too much." Too intimate. Too much like lovers. This isn't that.
Ashlee’s breath hitched, but she nodded, her red hair fanning on the pillow. A strange thrill shot through her at his cold efficiency. This was the threshold. She was getting what she wanted, but on his brutally clinical terms.
"Rule two," he continued, his eyes lifting to hers now, blue and hard as ice. "We are not fucking. Not your pussy, not your ass. That would be… personal. This isn't personal."
The contradiction was so stark it stole her breath. He was fully naked, fully hard above her, telling her this act they were about to perform was impersonal. It was the most intimate lie she’d ever heard.
"Understood?" he demanded, giving his cock a slow, deliberate stroke.
"Yes." Her voice was a thin whisper.
"Good." That single word held a world of pent-up hunger. He moved then, not towards her mouth, but shifting his weight. He brought his other hand up, not to touch her face with tenderness, but to frame her jaw, his thumb pressing into the hinge to part her lips. His grip was firm, unquestionable.
This is a transaction, he told himself, the mantra a desperate anchor. An itch. A physical release. Nothing more. The head of his cock, slick with pre-cum, bumped against her parted lips. The heat of it, the salt-tang smell, was overwhelming. He watched, mesmerized, as her pink tongue darted out to taste him.
The contact was electric. A jolt went straight to his core. Impersonal. Just a mouth.
"Open wider," he instructed, his tone rough. She obeyed, her eyes glazing, her lips stretching around him. He guided himself inward, the broad crown pushing past her resistance. The wet, tight heat of her mouth was a blinding shock. His head fell back, a tendon in his neck standing out.
Just a mouth. Just a hole. He fed her another inch, then another, feeling the constricting squeeze of her throat muscles at the intrusion. The visual was utterly debasing, utterly perfect. His little stepsister, gagging softly around his cock, her eyes watering.
He pulled back, just to watch the shiny, spit-slicked length of him slide from her lips. Her breath came in ragged pants. He adjusted his stance, looming over her where she lay helpless.
Then he remembered. The tickle fight. The submission. Say uncle.
A dark, twisted idea cemented itself. It was perfect. It maintained the dynamic, the hierarchy. It was cruel enough to keep it from feeling like love.
"Rule three," he growled, his voice thick with lust. He lifted his cock, aligning the swollen, purple head with her cheek. He let the heavy weight of it rest against her skin, a hot, alien brand. "You don't get to control this. I do."
He drew his hips back slightly, then brought his shaft forward in a swift, firm tap against her cheek. It wasn't a brutal hit. It was a possessive smack, a claiming. The sound was a soft, wet thud.
"Say it," he commanded, his breath coming faster now.
A tear escaped the corner of her eye, tracing a path through her freckles. Confusion, shame, and pure, undiluted arousal warred in her expression. "Say… what?"
He did it again, a little harder this time, the slick underside of his cock slapping her skin. "You know what. From before. You lost. You say uncle."
The absurdity of it, the infantilizing command paired with the intensely sexual act, shattered something in her. This was their history, perverted into a new, dark ritual. The power dynamic of their childhood games, now rendered in flesh and need.
"Uncle," she whimpered, the word muffled.
He shook his head, a predator enjoying its meal. He dragged the head of his cock from her cheekbone down to her lips, painting her with pre-cum and her own saliva. "Again. Mean it."
He poised himself, the thick rod hovering. She saw the determination in his eyes, the absolute commitment to this degrading game. It was the most honest he’d been with her since she moved in.
"Uncle," she said, louder, her gaze locked on his. She let all her longing, all her submission, pour into the word. It wasn't a plea for him to stop. It was a surrender to whatever he wanted to do.
A gratified, harsh sound rumbled from his chest. "Good girl."
With that, he guided himself back to her waiting mouth, not with the tentative push from before, but with a single, relentless thrust of his hips. He buried himself to the hilt, the entire nine inches filling her mouth and stretching her throat until her nose was buried in the coarse dark hair at his base.
She gagged violently, her body convulsing beneath him. He held there, feeling the frantic, fluttering pulse of her throat around him, watching her eyes roll back. Impersonal. Just a throat.
He began to move.
He began to move, and the world narrowed to the raw, rhythmic choke of her throat around him. There was no finesse, no practiced technique, only the brutal, piston-like drive of his hips and the wet, obscene sounds of her struggle. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, then at his thighs, leaving white streaks on his skin. Tears carved clean paths through the mess on her cheeks. He watched it all, his own breath sawing through clenched teeth, a spectator in his own debasement. This was wreckage. This was perfect.
“That’s it,” he grunted, his voice strangled. “Take it, Ash. Just take it.” The words were encouragement and condemnation fused together. He could feel his orgasm coiling, a tight, dangerous spring in his gut. The image of his load shooting down her throat, of her swallowing every drop while looking up at him with those wrecked, green eyes, was a final, blinding lure. But a last shred of something—not conscience, but control—snapped taut.
He yanked himself out of her mouth with a savage pop, his cock glistening and monstrously hard. Her body jerked with a ragged, coughing gasp, air whistling into her bruised throat. She blinked up at him, dazed, drool and spit webbing her chin. Before she could form a word, he moved.
He brought his shaft across her face. Not a caress. A slap. The solid, wet impact snapped her head to the side. A sharp, startled cry left her lips.
“Get your head in the game,” Kevin snarled, his tone low and vicious. He did it again, the other way. Thwack. The sound was crisp, alien. Her cheek flared red. “You’re just lying there. My best friend is a boring cocksucker.” He said it almost conversationally, as if noting the weather, while his eyes burned with a feverish intensity.
He struck her seven, eight times in quick succession, the heavy, heated flesh of his cock cracking against her skin, marking her with the intimate violence of it. Each impact was a jolt through both of them. She whimpered, but her hands stopped pushing at his thighs. They lay open, palms up, on the rumpled sheets. Something in her gaze shifted, the glazed shock focusing into a dark, accepted clarity.
Then he used his hand. Five hard, solid cracks of his open palm against the same flushed skin. The sharper, cleaner sound echoed in the room. “I said, get in the fucking game, Ashlee.”
The sting was bright and clarifying. It burned away the last of her tangled thoughts—the shame, the fear that she was ruining everything. It left only the physical truth: his heat, his smell, his dominance, her surrender. She turned her face back to him, meeting his wild eyes. “I like it,” she whispered, her voice shredded. “The slaps. It… it helps. Do it more.”
A fractured sound, half-laugh, half-groan, escaped him.
A fractured sound, half-laugh, half-groan, escaped him. “You like it.” It wasn’t a question. It was a grim acknowledgment of the new territory they’d scorched into existence. His hand, the one that had just struck her, came up to cradle her burning cheek. The contrast was dizzying. “My fucking best friend likes getting her face slapped with my cock. Christ.”
He guided himself back to her lips, and this time she was ready, her mouth opening hungrily before he made contact. She took him deep, her throat working overtime to accommodate his girth, but the resistance was different now—a willing struggle. He set a relentless, shallow rhythm, fucking her face with measured, punishing thrusts that prevented her from finding a breath. Each withdrawal was just enough for a wet, gasping inhale before he filled her again.
His internal monologue was a shattered record. My little sister. My best friend. I’m in my little sister’s throat. The words looped, each repetition fueling the fire, making his balls draw up tighter. He looked down at the obscene picture they made. Her red hair fanned across his dark sheets, her lips stretched obscenely around his base, a glistening ring of spit and pre-cum. Her eyes were open, locked on his, streaming tears that now seemed less about pain and more about a profound, unsettling acceptance.
“Look at you,” he rasped, his hips never stopping their brutal cadence. He threaded his fingers into her hair, not to guide, but to anchor himself, his knuckles white. “My best friend looks so perfect like this. Those red pillow lips were made for this, weren’t they? Just for wrapping around my dick.”
She made a wet, affirmative sound around him, her tongue flattening against his shaft. The vibration nearly made his knees buckle. The affirmation was a key turning in a lock.
His control began to splinter. The careful, impersonal rhythm broke. He started to thrust deeper, harder, chasing the feel of her tight throat milking him. “Can’t believe it,” he panted, his voice dropping to a confidential, filthy whisper meant only for her. “Can’t fucking believe I’ve got my little sister’s throat impaled on my cock. All the way in. You’re taking all nine inches, you hungry bitch.”
The vulgar endearment, paired with the taboo label, made her moan. The vibration traveled straight to his core. He was close, a pressure building at the base of his spine that was atomic.
He pulled out completely, letting his slick, angry-looking cock slap wetly against her swollen lips. “Open your eyes. Look at me.”
She did, her gaze hazy but focused.
“I’m gonna come,” he stated, his voice gravel. “I’m gonna come into my little sister’s throat. And you’re gonna swallow it. Every fucking drop. You’re gonna take the largest load of cum you’ve ever experienced.”
He wasn’t asking. He was narrating the inevitable. He saw the flicker in her eyes—awe, fear, raw need.
“And when I come,” he continued, his hand moving to her nose, his fingers pinching the bridge gently, a terrible preview, “I’m gonna plug your nose. You understand? I’m gonna own that throat completely. You’ll have no choice but to swallow it. It’s yours. You’ve earned it.”
He didn’t wait for a response. He pushed back into the wet heat of her mouth, setting a brutal, final pace. His thrusts lost all rhythm, becoming frantic, animalistic lunges. The slick, gagging sounds were loud in the quiet room. His breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. The coiling tension in his groin was a white-hot wire about to snap.
“Here it comes,” he warned, his voice cracking. “Right down your throat, you filthy girl. My best friend.”
His fingers pinched her nose shut, cutting off her air. Her eyes flew wide, a final flash of panic that somehow deepened the twisted intimacy. He drove in to the hilt, burying himself in the constricting, velvety darkness of her, and let go.
The orgasm ripped through him, violent and total. He shouted, a raw, wordless sound, as the first jet of cum shot directly into her esophagus. He felt the convulsive flex of her throat as she tried to swallow around the torrent. He held her nose, holding himself deep, pumping pulse after pulse of hot semen into her. It seemed endless, a flooding release of every suppressed glance, every forbidden thought from the last decade. He watched, mesmerized, as her throat worked frantically, as her face flushed a deeper red, as she took what he gave her because she had no other option.
When the last shudder passed through him, he released her nose, withdrawing slowly. She dragged in a huge, wheezing breath, followed by a choked cough. Her mouth was messy, but empty. She’d swallowed it all.
He collapsed onto his back beside her, the room spinning. The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by their harsh, synchronized breathing. The morning sun felt accusing now, highlighting the sweat on their bodies, the red marks on her face.
After a long minute, he spoke to the ceiling, his voice stripped bare. “Actually… this changes nothing.” He turned his head to look at her. She was staring up at the same ceiling, tears drying on her temples. “We will always be friends. Best friends.”
She turned her head toward him. Her green eyes were exhausted, profound. “Okay.”
“This,” he said, gesturing weakly between them, at the damp sheets, at everything. “This will be our little secret.”
A ghost of her old smile touched her ruined lips. “Okay, Kevin.”
He reached out, not for passion, but for familiarity. He took her hand, lacing his fingers with hers. They lay there in the wreckage, holding hands like they had when they were kids, the taste of him still in her throat, the weight of what they’d done settling over them for good.