Chapter 3: The First Meeting
The neon buzz of the bar felt like a headache behind Ritchie’s eyes. He swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the sickly glow from a Bud Light sign. Every time the door opened, his shoulders tightened.
Vanessa’s foot hooked around his ankle under the table. “Relax,” she murmured, her smile a slash of red in the dim light. “She’s just your sister.”
“Don’t,” he said, the word coming out sharper than he intended. He’d been saying that a lot lately. Don’t show me. Don’t talk about her like that. Don’t. But he hadn’t stopped her. He’d finished his whiskey in his apartment and texted Aurora an hour later: Meet us at The Lockout.
Vanessa was a current, pulling him inexorably toward a cliff. He was too tired to swim back.
The door opened again, bringing a burst of humid night air and the scent of cheap perfume.
There she was.
Aurora hovered in the entryway, a vision of pink against the bar’s gritty brown. The dress was sinful—a stretchy fabric that clung to every new curve, the neckline diving to show the soft swell of her small breasts, the hem riding high on thighs that had filled out, lush and inviting. Her strawberry-blonde hair cascaded over her shoulders. She looked like a mistake, something beautiful and fragile that had wandered into the wrong story.
Ritchie’s throat went dry. The image from the video—the kneeling, the tears—slammed into the reality of her standing there, biting her glossed lip. His protective instinct flared, a desperate shout to get her out of this place. It was immediately drowned out by a quieter, darker voice that noted the way the fabric pulled across her hips.
“Rory!” Vanessa called, waving with a cheerful flourish that felt staged.
Aurora’s eyes found them. She navigated the sticky floor with hesitant steps in her chunky heels, drawing glances from a few guys at the pool table. Ritchie’s hand clenched around his glass. He had the sudden, violent urge to put his fist through a wall.
“Hi,” Aurora breathed, arriving at their booth. Her voice was higher, softer than Austin’s had ever been. “You guys look… good.”
“Scoot in, sweetie,” Vanessa said, patting the vinyl seat next to her, directly across from Ritchie. “Get you a drink. You look parched.”
Aurora slid in, the movement forcing her knees to brush Ritchie’s under the small table. He pulled his back as if shocked. “Just a vodka soda,” she said to the waitress who appeared.
An awkward silence descended, filled only by the synthwave drone from the jukebox.
“So,” Ritchie finally said. He couldn’t look at her directly. He stared at a water stain on the table instead. “How’s… things?”
“Good,” she chirped, too quickly. “Busy. You know. Work stuff.”
Work stuff. The phrase hung in the air, throbbing with implicit meaning. Ritchie took another burning swallow of bourbon.
Vanessa jumped into the gap, a master of ceremonies for the evening’s unspoken drama. She talked about her job, a funny story about a customer, her laughter a bright, forced sound. She asked Ritchie about a construction site, her hand resting on his forearm, claiming him. All the while, her eyes flicked between them, missing nothing.
The drinks came. Aurora sipped hers, her fingers trembling slightly on the glass. Ritchie could smell her perfume over the scents of beer and bleach—something sweet and vanilla, childish. It didn’t match the womanly body in the pink dress.
“You look really different, Rory,” Vanessa said, her tone dripping with faux-innocent approval. “I mean, wow. That dress is killer. Doesn’t she look amazing, Rich?”
Ritchie’s gaze was dragged upward, meeting Aurora’s. Her eyes, a clear blue he remembered from childhood, were wide with a naked hope for validation… and something else. A shadow of the hunger he’d seen on screen. He felt the memory of Vanessa’s hand on him, pumping in time to the video.
“Yeah,” he grunted, the word scraped raw from his throat. “Different.”
Two more rounds melted the sharp edges. The awkwardness didn’t leave, but it changed, fermenting into a thick, palpable tension. Aurora’s laughter became easier, her gestures looser. She’d finish a story and her gaze would linger on Ritchie, searching. He found himself staring at the hollow of her throat, at the way her lips moved.
Vanessa excused herself to “powder her nose,” a gleam in her eye that promised conspiracy. The second she was gone, the air between the siblings turned to charged static.
“She’s great,” Aurora blurted out, nodding toward the restrooms.
“She is.”
“I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.” Aurora traced a pattern in the condensation on her glass. “You were always the best, you know? To me.”
The old words, the big brother code, felt like a lie now. He wasn’t being the best to her. He was sitting across from her, hard again just from the proximity, from the memory of her online moans. “Someone had to look out for you,” he managed.
“You don’t have to anymore,” she whispered, and it sounded like an invitation.
Vanessa returned, a fresh wave of perfume announcing her. “Last call, kids!” she sang. “I think our girl here might be past her limit.” She nudged Aurora, who giggled, leaning into the touch.
Ritchie paid the tab, his movements mechanical. They spilled out onto the sidewalk, the night air cooler, a relief that didn’t reach inside him. Aurora wobbled on her heels. Instinctively, Ritchie’s hand shot out, grabbing her elbow to steady her. The skin of her arm was fever-warm, impossibly soft.
“I’m okay,” she said, but she didn’t pull away.
“Where’s your car?” Ritchie asked, his voice low.
“Around the corner. In the lot.”
“I’ll walk you.”
Vanessa linked her arm through Ritchie’s other one. “We’ll walk you.”
The three of them moved down the deserted street, a grotesque parade. Vanessa hummed. Aurora’s shoulder bumped against Ritchie’s with each step. The parking lot was a pool of shadows under a single broken light.
“Here,” Aurora murmured, stopping beside a beat-up sedan. She fumbled in her tiny purse for her keys, the jangling loud in the quiet.
She found them. Turned. Looked up at him.
The broken light carved her face into something ethereal—the pouty lips, the long lashes, the vulnerable curve of her neck. All the bourbon, all the twisted images, all the years of confused duty coalesced into a single, undeniable want.
Vanessa’s grip on his arm tightened, a silent command.
Ritchie broke.
One of his big hands came up to cradle Aurora’s jaw, his thumb rough against her cheek. A small, shocked gasp escaped her. He saw no resistance in her eyes, only a dizzying, willing surrender.
He kissed her.
It wasn’t brotherly. It was deep, possessive, and hungry, all tongue and heat and the bitter taste of whiskey and lip gloss. A noise, a faint whimper, vibrated in her throat. Her small hands came up, not to push him away, but to fist in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer.
His other hand dropped, palming the full, round curve of her ass through the thin dress. He squeezed, feeling the unbelievable give of her, the sheer feminine abundance of her. It was better than he’d imagined. She melted into the touch, arching against him, her body aligning perfectly with his as if she’d been designed for it.
The world narrowed to the wet heat of her mouth, the scent of her, the desperate little noises she was making. He was lost in it, in the rightness and the profound wrongness.
Vanessa’s voice cut through the fog, whisper-close, triumphant. “See? Told you you’re perfect for her.” A beat. Then, practical, perverted. “She’s in no state to drive, Rich. She should come home with us.”
Ritchie pulled back, breathing ragged. Aurora’s lips were swollen, her eyes glazed and dopey with desire and booze. She swayed, still holding his shirt.
He looked at Vanessa. Saw the wild excitement there. Looked back at Aurora, his sister, pliant and waiting in his arms.
The decision was already made. It had been made the moment he clicked on that video.
“Get in the car, Rory,” he said, his voice a graveled promise. “You’re coming with us.”
“Okay,” Aurora whispered, the word swallowed by the dark. She didn’t look at her car again.
Vanessa already had the keys, jingling them in her hand. “I’ll drive.” Her smile was a ghost in the poor light. She headed toward Ritchie’s truck, her hips swaying with purpose.
Ritchie guided Aurora to the back passenger door, his hand a firm brand on the small of her back. He opened it. She climbed in, a sweep of pink fabric and long legs. He followed, the cab suddenly intimate, saturated with the smell of her perfume and his own nervous sweat. The door thudded shut, sealing them in.
Vanessa started the engine, the radio blasting static before she killed it. Silence, thick and expectant, filled the space.
Aurora just looked at him, her chest rising and falling fast. Then she moved. In one fluid, clumsy motion, she swung a leg over his thighs and settled onto his lap, facing him. The dress rode up. The heat of her, even through their clothes, was a shock.
“Rory,” he breathed, a warning he didn’t mean.
She answered by kissing him again, her mouth desperate and sweet. Her arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in the short hair at his nape. He groaned, hands finding her hips, holding her there as she began to grind down. The rough denim of his jeans did nothing to hide the hard, thick line of his arousal, and she rolled against it with a soft, broken sound.
They were lost in it. Her gentle rocking became more insistent, a slow, sinful rhythm that fogged the windows. Ritchie’s hands slid under her dress, gripping the bare skin of her ass, kneading the soft, generous flesh he’d only palmed through fabric minutes before. She gasped into his mouth.
Vanessa watched them in the rearview, her eyes dark pools of satisfaction. She drove with one hand, the other resting between her own legs. She didn’t speak. The city lights slid past the windows, streaks of color that neither Ritchie nor Aurora noticed.
The truck eventually slowed, stopped. The engine cut.
Vanessa turned in her seat, watching them for a long moment before she spoke. “We’re here,” she said, her voice husky.
They broke apart, dazed. Ritchie’s apartment building loomed outside. Aurora’s lipstick was smeared, her hair a chaotic halo. Ritchie’s stubble had reddened her chin. He helped her off his lap, his own movements unsteady. They stumbled out into the cool night, Vanessa leading the way with a predator’s quiet grace.
Inside the apartment, the stark reality of the concrete floors and neutral walls was a shock after the heated dark of the truck. The door clicked shut behind them. Ritchie didn’t turn on the main light, just a single lamp by the sofa that threw long, anxious shadows.
He turned to Aurora. Her eyes were wide, pupils blown. She looked every bit the curated fantasy from her OnlyFans, but here she was real, breathing, terrified.
“Come here,” he said, his voice softer than he intended.
She stepped forward. His big, calloused hands went to the thin straps of her pink dress. He pushed them down her shoulders. The fabric sighed, pooling at her feet in a glittering puddle. She stood before him in simple white cotton—a bra that emphasized the gentle swell of her small breasts, matching panties that hugged the flare of her hips. She was trembling.
“So pretty,” Vanessa murmured from a corner by the kitchen, leaning against the wall. She made no move to join. This was her show.
Ritchie just looked, his gaze a physical touch. He saw the smooth plane of her stomach, the curve of her waist, the enticing fullness of her thighs. All the screenshots, all the thumbnails, were a pale imitation.
Aurora’s breath hitched. Then, slowly, she sank to her knees on the cool concrete floor. She looked up at him, a world of submission in that blue gaze. Her delicate hands went to his belt buckle. The metal clinked loudly in the quiet room.
She undid his jeans, her fingers fumbling. She pushed them down over his hips, along with his boxers. His cock sprang free, already fully erect, and Aurora froze.
A soft, involuntary “oh” escaped her lips. She was shell-shocked. It was thicker, longer, more intimidating than anything she’d ever encountered online or in her messy pink bedroom. The reality of her brother’s size, the heavy, veined weight of it, was a breathtaking promise of both pleasure and pain.
But she was a brave girl. She’d built a life on swallowing fear.
She leaned forward, nuzzling into the coarse hair at his base. Her lips, still sticky with gloss, pressed a kiss to his scrotum. She took one heavy orb into her mouth, gently, then the other, her tongue soothing the skin. Ritchie’s whole body tensed, a muscle in his jaw jumping.
She began to kiss her way up his shaft, applying long, flat licks along the underside. Each pass of her tongue was an act of worship. She traced a prominent vein with the tip, her breath hot and unsteady against his skin. When she reached the broad, flushed head, she paused, her face centimeters from it.
Then she looked up, meeting his eyes. She opened her mouth.
She took him in, not all at once, but with a slow, determined slide that made Ritchie hiss. Her lips stretched into a perfect ‘O’ around his girth. She descended, her throat working, tears immediately springing to her eyes as she fought her reflex. She got about halfway before pulling back with a wet pop, gasping.
“It’s okay,” Ritchie murmured, his hand coming to rest gently on her head. The gesture was somehow more intimate than the act itself.
She dove back in with a desperate passion, bobbing her head with increasing rhythm. She used her hand to work the base she couldn’t take, twisting in time with her sucks. The sounds were obscenely wet, punctuated by her choked breaths and his low groans. Saliva dripped down her chin, onto her chest, soaking the cotton of her bra. She was lost in the effort, in the taste of him, in the monumental task of pleasing him.
Vanessa watched from the corner, one hand slipped inside her own jeans, her lips parted. She saw the tears streaking Aurora’s mascara, saw the absolute devotion on the sissy’s face, saw Ritchie’s large hand fisting in that strawberry-blonde hair, not forcing, just holding, as his hips began to make tiny, involuntary thrusts.