Chapter 10: To Love a Little Sister (More)
The grey light of dawn had not yet penetrated the thick curtains of his room. Noah swam up from a sleep dense with fractured dreams—Diana’s tears, the cold leather of his family’s old car, the warm, clutching pressure of Emma’s body. He was floating in that viscous space between unconsciousness and waking when he felt the dip of the mattress.
A small, warm shape molded itself against his back. He knew it was her from the scent—laundry soap and the faint, sweet strawberry of her shampoo. He didn’t move. He held his breath, feigning sleep, a coward’s retreat.
Her hand slid over his hip, tentative at first. Her fingers traced the band of his boxers, then dipped beneath the elastic. They traveled through the coarse hair at his groin, and closed, soft but sure, around his already hardening cock. He’d been semi-erect upon waking, a stupid, automatic response to the sensation of another body in his bed. Her touch solidified it into aching, full attention.
“I couldn’t sleep,” her voice was a husky scrape in the silence, her lips against the knobs of his spine. “I kept thinking about your taste. The way you feel inside me.”
Her hand began to move, a slow, maddening stroke from root to tip, her thumb smearing the bead of moisture that had already gathered at the slit. He bit back a groan. His body betrayed him, thickening further in her grip.
“I dreamt about this,” she whispered, her other hand sliding around his waist, splaying possessively over his stomach. “About being in your bed. Having you all to myself in the dark.”
He finally stirred, turning onto his back. In the deep gloom, he could just make out the pale oval of her face above him. Her eyes were wide, black pools. She didn’t stop stroking him.
“Emma,” he said, his voice gravelly with sleep and unwanted desire. “It’s not even morning.”
“It is for me.” She swung a leg over his hips, straddling him, the thin cotton of her nightshirt riding up. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath. The warmth of her sex pressed against his abdomen, a searing patch of dampness. “I need you, Noah. Right now. Before the world wakes up and tries to take you away again.”
Her free hand went to the hem of her shirt, pulling it over her head in one swift motion. She tossed it aside. She was pale and slight in the darkness, her small breasts peaked with tight, pretty nipples. She leaned forward, bracing her hands on his chest, and kissed him. It was deep, hungry, all tongue and teeth. He kissed her back, his hands coming up to grip her narrow waist, the feel of her skin like hot silk.
She broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “I’ve had so many fantasies,” she confessed, her voice low and frantic. “For years. When I’d bring you a soda and you’d be playing games, your hands on the controller… I’d imagine them on me. When you’d laugh at something on TV, I’d imagine that mouth between my legs.”
As she spoke, she positioned herself, guiding him to her entrance. She was dripping wet, her slickness coating the head of his cock. She didn’t sink down. She rubbed herself against him, coating his length in her arousal, a slow, torturous grind that made his thighs tense.
“I’d fantasize about catching you in the shower,” she breathed, her hips making small, tight circles. “About dropping the towel and just watching your face. About getting on my knees while the water ran down your back.”
With a sharp, controlled sigh, she finally lowered herself, taking him inside in one inexorable, tight glide. She was even tighter than last night, a hot, velveteen vise that stole the air from his lungs. She gasped, her head falling back, a string of dark auburn hair sticking to her damp neck.
She began to move, a slow, deep roll of her hips. Each rise was a tantalizing near-escape, each fall a breathtaking capture. Her inner muscles fluttered and clenched around him, as if trying to memorize his shape.
“I thought about your hands,” she moaned, her pace increasing infinitesimally. “Wrapping them in my hair. Pulling it. Fucking my face until I choked. I wanted you to use me. I still do.”
Her words were a dark, intoxicating fuel. He gripped her hips harder, his fingers digging in, helping her set a rhythm. The bedsprings let out a faint, rhythmic creak. The sound was obscenely loud in the silent house.
“I’d sit on your lap during movie night,” she panted, her breasts bouncing with her movements, “and I’d be so fucking wet, Noah. I’d pretend to adjust myself just so I could grind against you. I wanted you to feel it. I wanted you to get hard for me and not even know why.”
Her confession was a landscape of stolen moments, a secret history of longing that reframed every innocent touch, every offered plate of food. He was a monument in the center of her private worship. The sheer scale of her obsession was terrifying. And exhilarating.
He thrust upward, meeting her descent, driving deeper. She cried out, slapping a hand over her own mouth, her eyes wild. He pulled it away. “No,” he growled, the first word he’d spoken with clear intent. “I want to hear you.”
She obeyed, a high, broken whine escaping her lips. “Yes… fuck, yes… just like that, big brother. Give it to me.”
Her rhythm shattered into something desperate and grinding. She rode him with a ferocious hunger, her tight little body taking every inch, sweat slicking the space between them. The smell of sex, of her, filled the air—musky and sweet and profoundly intimate.
“I’m gonna come,” she whimpered, her movements becoming erratic, frantic. “I’m gonna come on your cock, Noah. It’s all I’ve ever wanted. Please let me come on it.”
Her words were the trigger. The coiled tension in his gut snapped. With a guttural groan, he arched beneath her, pumping his release deep into her clutching heat. The sensation triggered her own climax; her body seized around him, a series of violent, rhythmic spasms that milked him dry. A silent scream twisted her features, her mouth a wide ‘O’ as she trembled, collapsing forward onto his chest.
They lay like that, fused, drenched in sweat, hearts hammering against each other. The room was slowly lightening, thin blades of steel-grey cutting around the edges of the curtains. The reality of the house, of the waking world, began to seep back in.
Her weight was a comfortable burden. She nuzzled into his neck. “Now you know,” she murmured, her voice thick with satisfaction and sleep. “Every dirty secret.”
He stared at the ceiling, his hands resting on the damp skin of her back. He did know. And the knowledge was a collar. Soft, perhaps. Adoring. But unbreakable. He was hers in a way he was no one else’s—not by contract, not by mutual using, but by the sheer, consuming force of a love that had watched and wanted and waited.
Down the hall, a door clicked open. The familiar sound of his aunt Julia’s morning cough. The flush of a toilet. The mundane world was stirring.
Emma didn’t move. She held him tighter, as if she could physically anchor him to this bed, to this secret dawn. But her breathing had evened out. She was drifting.
He remained awake, motionless, feeling the slow seep of his own release inside her, a stark, physical claim. The first true rays of sun began to paint a faint, gold line across the foot of the bed. It felt less like a new day and more like the end of a long, private night he could never get back. Her fantasies were now their shared reality. There was no unknowing it. No returning to what was before. The weight of her love, and the brutal honesty of her desire, pinned him to the mattress more completely than her small body ever could.
The weight of her love, and the brutal honesty of her desire, pinned him to the mattress more completely than her small body ever could. He lay there for a long time, listening to her breathing soften into sleep, feeling the crust of dried sweat on his skin. Her fantasies were now a script he could choose to follow.
A cold, sharp curiosity cut through the post-coital haze. I wanted you to use me. Her whispered confession in the dark hung in the air. It was an offering, a test. Was it just dirty talk, or was it the unvarnished truth? He needed to know the shape of her devotion, its actual limits.
He waited until the house had settled back into silence. Then he moved. He gripped her shoulder and shook her, not gently. “Emma.”
She startled awake, eyes blurry with sleep, immediately soft and searching. “Noah? What’s wrong?”
“You said you wanted it.” His voice was flat, devoid of the tenderness from minutes before. “You said you fantasized about me using your throat.”
Her sleepiness vanished, replaced by a wary, electrified awareness. She swallowed, her gaze flicking down to where his cock, softened but still substantial, lay against his thigh. “I did,” she said, her voice small but clear. “I do.”
“Show me.” He sat up against the headboard, the sheets pooling at his waist. He didn’t touch himself. He just looked at her, a silent command. “Now. Like you meant it.”
For a second, he saw a flicker of something raw—not fear, but a profound, vulnerable acknowledgment of the line they were crossing. Then it was gone, buried under a fervent determination. She scrambled off of him, her movements eager, and settled on her knees between his legs on the rumpled sheets.
She didn’t hesitate. She took him into her hand, stroking him to full, rigid hardness. She looked up at him, her pupils blown wide in the dim light, and licked a broad, wet stripe from his balls to the tip. Then she opened her mouth and took him in.
It was more skilled than before. She’d been practicing in her mind for years. She hollowed her cheeks, creating a tight, sucking vacuum as she bobbed her head. Her hand worked in tandem with her mouth, a slick, twisting motion at his base. The sounds were obscenely wet, gloriously filthy. She moaned around his girth, the vibration traveling straight up his spine.
He let his head fall back for a moment, a rough sigh escaping him. It was good. Technically, desperately good. But it wasn’t what he’d asked for. He looked down at her. Her eyes were closed in concentration, in worship.
“No.” The word was a crack of ice.
She stopped, pulling off with a gasp, a string of saliva breaking on her chin. Her lips were swollen and glistening. “Did I—?”
“You’re worshipping,” he said, his tone analytical, cold. “I said use. You said throatfuck, Emma. Do you know what that means?”
She blinked, breathing hard. Then she nodded, a sharp, definitive jerk of her head. “Yes.”
“Then stop making love to my dick. Take it.”
The shift in her was immediate. She braced her hands on his thighs, opened her mouth wider, and let her jaw go slack. She looked up at him, waiting, offering total control. He placed a hand on the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her hair. Not gently.
He guided himself back to her lips, nudged the head past her teeth, and then pushed. He didn’t thrust, not yet. He just fed his length into her mouth, deeper, watching her throat convulse as he breached it. Her eyes watered instantly, but she didn’t pull back. She let out a choked, guttural sound of acceptance.
He pulled back almost all the way, then shoved forward, setting a brutal, punishing rhythm. This was nothing like her eager sucking. This was a taking. His hips pumped up from the mattress, driving his cock into the tight, resistant channel of her throat. Gagging sounds punctuated each thrust, wet and raw. Spit dripped from her stretched lips, coating his balls.
Her hands flew up to grip his wrists, not to pull him away, but to hold on, her nails digging into his skin. Tears streamed down her flushed cheeks, cutting through the sweat. She was a mess of helpless, beautiful degradation. And through the tears, her eyes stayed on his, wide and unblinking, full of a love so extreme it had twisted into this.
“You fucking love this, don’t you?” he grunted, his rhythm becoming rougher, deeper. “This is what you dreamed about on the couch. This is your ‘simple love’.”
She couldn’t speak, but her eyes screamed yes. She managed a frantic nod around his shaft, her throat working violently to accommodate him. The submission was total, annihilating. It was the most honest thing she had ever given him.
He felt his orgasm building, a turbulent storm gathered from a place of dark possession. He drove in one last, searing time, hilting himself completely, his pubic bone pressed against her nose. He held there, throbbing, as he came in hot, pulsating jets down her constricted throat.
She swallowed desperately, her body shaking with the effort, her eyes rolling back for a second before locking onto his again. He waited, spent, watching her struggle, testing her commitment to the very last drop. Finally, he pulled out with a soft, wet sound.
She collapsed forward, coughing, dragging in huge, ragged breaths. Strings of spit and come hung from her lips. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, then looked at the mess on her skin. Instead of disgust, a tremulous, radiant smile broke through her tear-streaked face.
“Thank you,” she rasped, her voice shredded and hoarse. She crawled up his body, pressing her sticky face against his chest. “Thank you, Noah. That was… you’re perfect. You’re everything.”
Her gratitude was a narcotic, more powerful than the orgasm. He stared at the ceiling, his hand resting on her head. The test was complete. She had passed, utterly. The knowledge was a cement block in his gut.
Then, a darker, more curious thought emerged. She had accepted the violation with praise. But for how long? Where was the line she wouldn’t cross, if one even existed?
He waited until her breathing had almost steadied. Then he nudged her. She looked up, her expression still dazed, worshipful.
“Again,” he said, his voice quiet.
Her breath hitched, but she nodded, moving to slide back down his body.
“No. Not like that.” He guided her, turning her so she lay on her back, her head hanging off the side of the bed. He stood beside the bed, looking down at her upside-down face, her throat exposed in a long, vulnerable line. Her hair pooled on the floor.
He positioned himself at her lips. “Don’t move your head. Don’t use your hands. Just take it. Look at me.”
He entered her mouth, her throat opening more easily in this position, already used and pliant. He set a slow, deep, relentless pace, each thrust a solid, full-stroke invasion. Her hands clenched at the blankets, but she didn’t reach for him. Her eyes, wide and streaming new tears, remained locked on his.
He watched her face contort, the struggle for breath, the fight against her own gag reflex. He saw the moment true panic flickered in her gaze, a primal animal signal. He held her there, buried to the hilt, maintaining unbroken eye contact. He counted the seconds in the thrum of his own pulse.
Her body began to buck, a faint, gurgling sound escaping her. Her fingers scrabbled at the sheets. The panic in her eyes screamed stop. But her hands never moved to push him away. Her body was betraying her, but her will, her terrifying love, was not.
He pulled out just as her flailing became uncontrolled. She erupted in a fit of coughing, rolling onto her side, gasping for air like a drowning woman hauled onto shore. He stood over her, watching the violent, shuddering tremors that wracked her small frame.
When she could finally breathe, she turned her head toward him. Her face was a crimson mask of tears and strain. She offered him that same, broken, radiant smile.
“How… how long was that?” she choked out, her voice barely a whisper.
He didn’t answer. He just looked at her, at the absolute victory of her submission. She had let him drown her, and her first words were to ask for his approval. The weight of it, the sheer, terrifying ownership, settled over him. He had tested her desire, and found it bottomless.
He turned and walked into the adjoining bathroom, closing the door softly behind him. He leaned against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. His own eyes looked back, foreign and cold. The sound of her coughing, soft and pathetic, seeped through the door.
He had wanted to find a limit. A boundary. Something to make her devotion feel human, and therefore manageable. He had instead found an abyss, and she had begged him to let her fall into it. The momentum of her obsession was now his to carry, and it felt like hurtling forward in the dark, with no idea of what lay ahead, or how hard the eventual impact would be.
The momentum of her obsession was now his to carry, and it felt like hurtling forward in the dark, with no idea of what lay ahead, or how hard the eventual impact would be. The cold porcelain of the sink pressed against his palms. In the mirror, a stranger’s eyes—flat, assessing—stared back from a face that seemed suddenly older. From the bedroom, the sound of her coughing had subsided into wet, hiccupping breaths. He had done that. He had turned her love into a physical trial, and she had thanked him for the violation.
He turned the faucet on, splashing cold water on his face. It didn’t wash away the image of her tear-streaked, smiling face. Her gratitude was the most unsettling part. It reframed his cruelty as a gift, his use of her body as an answered prayer. The power dynamic he’d explored with a cold curiosity had inverted itself, leaving him feeling oddly empty, the conductor of a symphony he no longer wanted to hear.
He dried his hands slowly, methodically. The silence from the bedroom was complete. He pushed the door open.
Emma was sitting on the edge of the disheveled bed, her back to him. She had pulled her nightshirt back on. Her shoulders were hunched, a tremor running through her slight frame. She was staring at the floor where her hair had fanned out during the final, brutal test. She heard him and went very still, waiting.
He crossed the room. He didn’t speak. He simply sat beside her on the rumpled sheets, the mattress dipping under his weight. The space between them hummed with everything unsaid—the choked sounds, the panic in her eyes, her whispered thank you.
He looked at her profile. A fresh tear traced a path through the drying salt on her cheek. Without a word, he reached for her. He turned her gently, pulling her stiff body into his lap. She came reluctantly at first, a bundle of fragile, shocked bones. Then he wrapped his arms around her, enveloping her completely, pressing her face into the hollow of his neck. He hugged her tight, so tight he could feel the frantic rabbit-beat of her heart against his chest.
A shuddering sigh escaped her, hot against his skin. Her arms, trapped between them, slowly unfolded to cling to his back, her fingers gripping the fabric of his t-shirt. She wasn’t crying now. She was dissolving, the last of her defenses melting under the sheer, unexpected warmth of the embrace. He held her, one hand cradling the back of her head, his fingers gently working through the tangled strands of her hair.
“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. The words were alien on his tongue.
She shook her head violently against his shoulder. “Don’t. Don’t be sorry. You gave me exactly what I wanted.”
“It wasn’t about what you wanted,” he said, his voice low. “It was about what I needed to see.”
“And what did you see?” Her question was muffled.
He paused, choosing the raw truth. “That you have no bottom. And that scares the living shit out of me, Emma.”
She tilted her head back to look at him, her eyes searching his. The worship was still there, but tempered now by a dawning understanding. “You’re scared of my love?”
“I’m scared of what it lets me become,” he admitted. His thumb brushed a fresh tear from her cheek. “I just wanted to find the edge. A place where you’d say ‘no.’ You didn’t.”
“I won’t,” she whispered, with a terrifying certainty. “Not with you. Never with you.”
The declaration hung in the morning air. He believed her. The finality of it was absolute. He hugged her tight again, pulling her close as if he could absorb her, or she could anchor him. In this quiet clutch, the frenzy of the last hour receded, replaced by a profound and exhausting intimacy. Her body, which had been a site of such fierce taking, now felt small and breakable in his arms. He was responsible for both states.
His hand slid down her back, over the thin cotton, and came to rest on the curve of her hip. A different kind of tension sparked in the air, slower, warmer. She felt it too, shifting in his lap. The earlier violence had been a storm; this was the heavy, fertile calm after.
She nuzzled into his neck, her lips brushing his skin. “Can we just… be quiet for a minute?” she asked, her voice hoarse.
He nodded, his chin resting on her head. They stayed like that, listening to each other breathe, as the room grew brighter. The hug was no longer just an embrace; it was a truce, and a negotiation, and a promise all at once. His hand on her hip began to move, a slow, gentle circle of his thumb through the fabric.
Her breathing hitched. She leaned back again, her gaze cloudy. “What are you doing?”
“I don’t know,” he said truthfully. His other hand came up to trace the line of her jaw, her swollen lips. “Something else.”
He kissed her then. It was nothing like before. It was soft, questioning, a bare press of lips that spoke of regret and a desperate need to reconnect on any other terms. She kissed him back with a aching tenderness, her hands coming up to frame his face.
When they parted, he eased her back onto the mattress, following her down. He settled between her legs, his weight on his elbows. He looked down at her, at the trust wide open in her eyes. This time, there was no test. Only a silent, urgent need to overwrite the memory of her choking with something gentler, to see if that was even possible between them now.
He pushed her shirt up, exposing her small breasts, her pale stomach. He bent his head and took a nipple into his mouth, suckling gently, flicking his tongue over the peak until she whimpered. His hand slid down her stomach, past the thatch of auburn curls, and found her wet and impossibly swollen. She gasped as his fingers parted her, tracing her slick, sensitive folds.
“You’re so wet,” he murmured against her skin. “Even after all that.”
“It’s for you,” she breathed, arching into his touch. “It’s always for you. It doesn’t stop.”
He pushed two fingers inside her, curling them, finding a rhythm that made her legs fall open wider. He watched her face as he fingered her, her eyes fluttering closed, her mouth falling slack. This was different. This was giving, not taking. He added a third finger, stretching her gently, scissoring them open. The soft, slick sounds of her arousal filled the quiet room.
“Noah, please,” she begged, her hips rocking against his hand. “I need you inside. The right way. Just… the right way this time.”
He positioned himself, guiding his cock to her entrance. He pushed in slowly, inch by careful inch, watching her face for any sign of pain or hesitation. There was none. Only a deep, relieved exhale as he filled her. He sank in to the hilt, buried in her clutching heat, and stilled.
He was kissing her again, swallowing her soft moans. He began to move, a slow, deep, rolling thrust of his hips that was entirely for her. Each stroke was long and deliberate, grinding against the spot inside that made her cry out. He held himself above her, his silver dreadlocks forming a curtain around their faces, their breath mingling.
“Look at me,” he whispered.
She opened her eyes, glassy with a pleasure that was undiluted by pain or fear. Her hands came up to clutch his shoulders.
“This is me, too,” he said, his voice rough with effort and emotion. He punctuated each word with a deep, driving thrust. “Not just the other guy. This. Remember this.”
“I will,” she choked out, her body beginning to tighten around him. “God, I will. Just like that. Don’t stop.”
Her orgasm built slowly, a rising tide rather than a crashing wave. He felt it in the fluttering grip of her cunt, in the way her heels dug into the small of his back. When it broke, it was a silent, shattering thing. Her mouth opened in a soundless scream, her body bowing off the bed, her internal muscles milking him in relentless, rhythmic pulses.
The sight of her coming undone from pleasure alone, from this tenderness, undid him completely. He followed her over the edge, his own release a hot, pouring surrender deep inside her. He collapsed onto her, careful to keep his weight on his forearms, his forehead pressed against hers.
They lay tangled, spent, the scent of sex and sweat and something like grief hanging in the air. He was still inside her. He didn’t want to move. To move would be to re-enter the world where choices had to be made.
Finally, he softened and slipped out. He rolled to the side, pulling her with him, tucking her back into the curve of his body. He wrapped his arms around her from behind, holding her close. He hugged her tight, his face buried in her hair, breathing her in.