Sister is a Showoff Ch. 02

I briefly smirked, reveling vicariously in her pain. I was thrilled to know she hurt just like I did.

"He said you cried."

"What?" she demanded, "That ignorant troglodyte! I barely cried at all."

"But you cried?"

"Yeah," she said, "But I'm a girl. And! He cried first."

"What?" I asked.

"Yeah," she said, "It was weird."

"So why did you do it?"

"Cry?" she clarified. "Because I was sad. I felt unsexy. I felt unloved. I felt desperately lonely and unlovable and unsexy and I only wanted to feel sexy and loved and together, and all I got was cold fish."

"No," I said, "I mean why did you have to try and fuck Joel?"

She sighed.

"I wanted to feel in control of something, I guess," she said, "I don't know. Like I said, I wanted to feel sexy, but all I was feeling was aging virgin turning to dust, and for like forever all I've ever known is that boys liked your sister quite a lot. I got to see out my window every different boy she brought home through her bedroom window. There sure were a lot of boys that liked her. But nobody was coming through my window. Nobody but you, and you were just looking. And all I wanted was to feel wanted. I wanted to feel like someone wanted to feel me. And when I felt like I lost you to her too, like you were just another insect in her spider web, I cast a web of my own. Joel was just my first insect."

"First?"

"First," she said, "And only. Except for you."

"Except for me," I said, more brightly than I'd have liked.

"Yeah," she whispered, her voice adopting a more seductive tone, "Are you caught up in my web?"

Almost without me noticing, she'd begun rubbing her breasts together, pressing on them firmly, accenting her newly highlighted cleavage.

"I'm not just caught up in it," I said, "I'm breaking ground and building a condo there."

I would have said house if I was certain I was the only man on the plantation.

"Yeah?" she asked, "Do you want to see more?"

"You know I do," I said, unbuckling my belt in like a muscle memory type reaction.

"Okay," she said, "Because I want you to see this."

Like I said, I pretty much already had my dick in my hand. I was ready to watch whatever she had in mind, and previous experience with Lauren in this type of mood had me hyped. So I was ready when she backed away from the camera, slid her rolling chair violently away from the camera's view, and started dancing. Lauren had always had a natural dancing ability. Music was streaming, either from one of our speakers or in my head. It was The Divinyls. She swayed her hips, wider and more swaying than I had ever seen them. She ran her hands up the sides of her loose-fitting blue V-neck. Again her hands were at her breasts, pushing her vainglorious cleavage together. I was stroking openly to her, just like I used to when I would watch her strip at her window.

I watched her hands drop to the opposite sides of her shirt, pulling it off over her head in one smooth silky motion. It peeled off of her like the rind of a banana. I was as totally rapt in anticipation as I was the first time I saw Alexandra Daddario in True Detective. And then her shirt was off. Her bra was something special, probably from VS or somewhere, and it looked like a very intensely just-for-you kind of lingerie purchase. I liked the color, at least: dark purple and black.

But then I saw how her smile had turned from playful and fun to both playful and fun and kind of wicked, and my eyes dropped, and I noticed what it was that she was really showing off to me.

There was an unmistakable pregnant bulge in her belly. It was small, but it was very pointedly real.

"You have to be fucking kidding me," I said.

"Nope," she answered, "We're pregnant."

"Um," I said, "Well you still kind of have to show me your tits now."

And so Lauren did as she was told, and they were fantastic: swollen in anticipation of feeding, heavy looking and squishy, promising to me the milk of my sons and daughters. Lauren was just delicious looking.

But then when I was done jacking off, and my come had stained the bottom of our cheap plasticky computer table, the reality of the situation dawned on me.

"It's a miracle, Ricky," Lauren said. "Remember how you told me about your narrow urethra? You said it would take a miracle to get me pregnant."

"What?" I asked, deadpan.

"I'm your miracle," she said, smiling widely, and oh god she had the second most beautiful smile. "We're going to have our own little baby Jesus!"

"What?" I asked again, and the pan was so dead it was in the grave.

"We're going to have a baby!" she squealed excitedly, "Now, it's almost three months, so-"

"No," I said.

"What?"

"No."

"Are you getting cold feet?" she asked.

"Cold feet?! Woman, I'm getting fucking frostbite. We are not having a baby."

"But you said it would be a miracle," she whimpered.

"Bad things can be miracles too," I said.

"Bad things can't be miracles," she said. "Nobody prays for bad things to happen."

"Don't you think that depends on the prayer?"

"Forgive us our trespasses," she recited from memory, "As we forgive those who trespass against us."

"I didn't pray for this," I said, "You didn't pray for this. You can't have wanted to have a child. What are you going to do about school? Who would want this?"

"I didn't pray for a baby," Lauren said, "I prayed for a miracle. I just wanted a reason to believe. I know there's not a lot of proof about God. I know if I think about it too hard, it gets difficult to reconcile my faith with what I know about the universe. But I couldn't give it up. I prayed, every night of my life, for a miracle. Even just a little one. All I wanted was a reason to believe."

It is difficult to find sexy the hot naked breasts of a woman in tears.

"I prayed for a miracle," she said, "And I got a baby. This is my miracle. This is my God."

I snapped.

"Don't you know how fucking stupid you sound right now?" I demanded. "For someone so smart you sure can be fucking stupid. This isn't a miracle. You're not a miracle, and I'm not a miracle. We're the logical conclusion of our parents' worst decisions. Nobody should want a child, least of all you. A child is not a miracle. You sound like you're tetched in the head."

"Why are you being so mean?" she asked. "You're really hurting my feelings, Ricky."

"Patrick," I corrected her.

"Oh, whatever."

"Listen," I said dead seriously, "Get this taken care of. We're not having a baby. You're not having a baby."

"Fuck you, Ricky."

"Fuck you right back!"

I ended the call, without listening if she had a cleverer retort than mine.

***

We took off with Toby Monday morning. He hadn't made it in clear in negotiations that he'd be flying business and we'd be flying coach, but there you go. Not being entirely comfortable with air travel myself, I quickly did myself in sneaking Britt's helpings from the drink tray to wash down more than a healthy dose of my ill-gotten painkillers. The flight, for me, was more dream than reality.

I was totally unconscious and yet hyper-aware. Britt was naked. They were strapping her down to a long phallus with those industrial-type crank straps that are too tight to undo unless you know more-or-less exactly what you're doing. I tried to reach out but couldn't make my hands move. Worse, couldn't even see my own hands. And the only hands that I could see were disembodied little ones in white Mickey Mouse gloves, hovering about and tightening the straps over Britt's naked chest. The fat in her breasts ballooned disproportionately.

I was vaguely certain that I was strapped down also, except that I was free to walk around. Mostly free, because I was walking, but I was on tracks and couldn't direct myself anywhere I really intended to go. And when I tried to turn and run I only walked further down the long steely phallus Britt was strapped onto, until I came to uneasy rest at its very end. The phallus revealed itself to me: no less a disembodied cock than a giant steel rocket, laying on its side.

Hands that may have been mine, that were right in front of me but disembodied and wearing Mickey's white gloves, were striking matches. I didn't want to see fire. But damn if one of the matches didn't light, and maybe I lit it, and with unshaking precision, the little floating gloves alighted the fuse on Britt's rocket.

I wanted to scream at her but I couldn't. Whatever hands were present before were now clasping at my throat. They wanted me not to speak. And as the fuse burned to its igniter at comically slow speeds, and as the ignition began and flames started shooting at me, past me, through me, I finally understood the nature of my strapping. As the rocket took off, shooting across a cartoon map of our fine nation, it dragged me along behind it, roasting me in its afterburn.

***

"I want to be in your dreams," Britt remarked as were getting off the plane, "You were shouting at Mickey Mouse, it sounded like. You wanted to tell him mice can't breathe in space."

"Must have been the booze," I said, "I don't remember a thing. Slept like a baby."

"Yeah," Britt said, "Or the Oxy. Could be that."

We took a cab to the hotel where Gibbons had rented us a little room with two double beds. Britt immediately seemed comfortable and at-home, tossing her suitcase on the far bed and opening it. It didn't take her long to shed her little sundress, bra, and panties, to stand naked before me, shoveling through her belongings.

Taking the cue that we were getting undressed for a quiet night in, resting up for the shoot tomorrow, I also started undressing. Watching Britt strip bare was obviously working its effect on me, so that when I dropped out of my shorts, I was sporting a full erection. In need of some release from the tension of the plane ride and uneasy dreams, I started gently massaging my boner into preparation for action. I watched in total awe of Britt's unceasing ability to get me hard and desperate, how the gentle sway of her breasts totally disarmed me, drove me to madness, inspired me to hostile lust.

"Ricky! Ew!" Britt said when she caught sight of me out of the corner of her eye, "What are you doing?"

"What?" I asked, masturbating openly, "I figured maybe we'd get a rehearsal in before the shoot tomorrow."

"Ugh, no," she said, fishing from her suitcase a tiny bikini she'd had stowed in there. "I'm going to go catch the last of the sun. I want to look my best on camera tomorrow."

"What?" I asked, "Well then what the fuck am I supposed to do about this?"

"I don't know," she shrugged herself into her bikini top, bald pussy still winking at me, daring me to try. "Take care of yourself."

"You can't even give me a hand?" I plead desperately, "Not even just a quick little suck? Lube me up some. Come on."

"Gross," she said, "No. And actually, you probably shouldn't play with yourself either. We want you to have a big cum shot loaded up for the shoot tomorrow."

"What?"

"You heard me," she said, finally stepping gently into her tiny bikini panties, "No orgasms for you."

"Well," I said dumbly, stuck with my still-engorged cock in my slowly stroking hand, "What the fuck? I'm all hard and horny here."

"Take another oxy," she said, "You'll be fine."

I did. I wasn't.

***

Gibbons had rented a big-ass house for us to shoot at, which I gather is the way in porn. It's a lot like a mullet, really. Business in the front, party in the back.

He greeted us in the Clue-mansion-like welcome halls, spacious and round and with two complementing spiral staircases that each lead to the same place for some reason; he shook my hand and took me to wardrobe up the right side, and some gay guys took her to hair and make-up up the left side, and then we all met at the top and walked down the same hallway in the same direction. It was a weird dance of formalities that kept us briefly separate.

"Here, sport," Gibbons said while he had me aside, forcing a script into my hand, "I'd have given this to you on the plane, but I didn't want it to get inside your head. That's your doin'-it muscle!"

I flipped through the three-and-a-half page double-spaced and centered excuse for a script and gathered its essence like a rolling stone gathers moss, which is to say that there was no moss to be gathered at all.

"This?" I asked, "This is your original script? This is hot garbage! Who could believe this nonsense? Nobody talks that way, and it's confusing as all hell!"

"People talk all kinds of ways."

"This is unreadable," I protested, "I should know. I'm a first-year literature major. This needs a major rewrite."

"Our producer is quite insistent," Gibbons insisted, "He says this little flick is gonna be hotter than bacon on the griddle."

"Well whatever," I said, "As long as the money's on the table."

And then we were at the crest of our circle staircase dance, and Britt and I faced each other. She was wearing her best porn audition outfit, a high-cut halter-T, and I was wearing my very comfortable navy cotton shirt and short pants. We were the picture of a redneck wedding ceremony. She met my eyes, and I met hers, and you could barely tell there were tears there or why.

They split us up at hair and make-up, and took me a few doors further down to wardrobe.

"But why?" I asked.

"Ricky, nobody cares what the woman is wearing. The woman only has to look pretty. The less clothes she has to choose from, the better."

I could only look puzzled to them.

"We gotta get you specially outfitted, Ricky!" Gibbons explained, "It's crucial to the scene! Nobody will care if they don't understand the scene!"

"Okay," I said.

And damn if they didn't spring for wardrobe. I was outfitted with prosthetic appendages complete with snap-away hinges, plastic casing and papier-mâché overlay. They made me look good and fucking handicapped, and then they wheeled me onto set and laid me down on a bed in front of a camera or two and a crew full of people.

"Okay," some guy said, "Lights!"

Oddly, the lights dimmed when he said it.

"Camera!"

Nothing to report.

"Action!"

And then SLAM! And Brittany had burst in through a heavy wooden door. It wasn't even acting, my eyes were just drawn to her. She was wearing the most stereotypical schoolgirl outfit there was, and with an extra dash of slutty to boot.

"Well damn, Sonny!" Brittany read, awkwardly and out of time, "Your teacher sure wanted me to bring you your homework real bad."

"What you say, sis?"

"Mr. Ramirez," she said, "I mean he like, 'really' wanted me to remember."

"Brittany, are you retarded?" I asked, and I swear this all according to the dumb script. "Mr. Ramirez isn't my teacher. He's our principal."

"Oh god," she said, "Are you sure?"

"Woman! Am I sure? My teacher is Mrs. Oldsmobile, and her pussy is drier than a bread sandwich in the Sahara Desert."

Again, I swear, this was all according to the script.

"Well then why did the principal fuck me?" she asked.

"Because of the way you dress, sis. You dress like a nasty woman."

"You don't like the way I dress?"

"Hell no!"

"Do you think it's... naughty?"

Cue Britt's real entrance. No slamming of the door, no dimming of the lights. All the lights were shining now, but they were on her. She loped slowly into the room, with short tight steps in her big and tall high heels, and leaned right over me, deliberately dropping the heavy weight of her breasts til they were pretty much riding on my chin.

"You don't think I'm naughty, do you?" she asked.

"You look a little naughty to me."

Britt popped up in exaggerated movements, her tits bouncing obscenely in her low cut sweater vest.

"But why? Is my shirt too low? A button popped." She twirled around, and her plaid skirt swung up, revealing innocent-white panties underneath.

"My skirt's not too short, is it?" She asked, looking over her shoulder at me. "It's not my fault! I just have really long legs."

"It makes you look naughty," I said.

"Yeah?" she asked with a wicked grin, "Do you want to spank me?"

"I can't spank you," I said, "I've got two broken arms."

I held up my arms, bound weakly in their weird metal-and-plaster fake cast, as proof. Britt tittered insincerely.

"Poor boy," she said, "That must be hard."

"Baby, you have no idea."

This was supposed to be like the cue, give or take, for my erection to make itself visible. But of course not being able to make myself come erect at a specific moment - and for that matter being considerably erect already - the effect was achieved by having a grip or somebody hiding underneath the bed pull on the sheet that was covering me. I never saw the footage, but it felt like the whole effect came together pretty laughably.

Now cue Britt's exaggerated face of shock, complete with fake-sounding gasp.

"Brother," she called me, "Are you getting a boner?"

"I already have one, Sis!" I moaned, "Please! You gotta help me!"

"I'm not helping you with your stupid massive boner," she said, "Gross!"

"But it's your fault!" I protested, "Please. You've got me all hard and horny and I can't do anything about it because I've got two fucking broken arms."

The script hadn't called for me to be profane but there was no other way you could make something so incredible sound so at least desperately credible.

"You do have two broken arms," Britt repeated unnecessarily, but that was the script we were given.

"Yeah I do," I said, "You've got to help me."

"What do you need me to do?" she asked.

"Just touch me a little," I plead, and maybe that's my Oscar moment because I really did need her to touch me. Maybe it was being restrained from actually touching myself that was making her look so much damn sexier than she'd ever seemed before. She was going to like Super Saiyan levels of sexiness.

"Just touching?"

"Yeah, I'm already so hot for you, I'm probably going to blow right away anyways!" Again, this felt true to say.

She leaned into me, her breasts hanging and exposing lethal amounts of cleavage. She pulled gently on the sheet, which the guy hiding under the bed had to let kind of stream through his fingers, until my big throbbing veiny cock popped out of hiding with a mighty bounce.

Britt again dropped her jaw into her unnatural gaze of composed shock.

"Wow, Brother," she said, "That's the biggest cock I've ever seen."

I deliberately bounced it, and she giggled.

"You got me all hard for you," I said, "Just touch it. You'll like it."

She reached out slowly, very convincingly tentatively, as if her delicate little hand were ready to dart back in an instant. But I watched as it crept like a lily butterfly slowly through the air until it found itself wrapped around my aching cock.

From there, it's pretty much just a game of trying not to come. Britt has that kind of hold on me, and it's not always to do with the fact that she's got my dick in her hands. Her gentle first strokes were already driving me to ecstasy, and that's before she even starts really pumping.

"It's so big," she said.

"All for you, Sis," I said.

"Do you think I could fit it in my mouth?"

I did a sharp double take on her, as the script called for.

"I think you'd be brave to try."

"Yeah?" she asked, "Watch this."

And then she did just that, leaned in, took me in her mouth, without even the introductory lick she usually offered. I felt the warm touch of her lips as they grasped the head of my cock lightly, trailed their way halfway down my engorged shaft. Her lily little hand returned to the base of my shaft, pumping thoroughly, while she dragged her moist lips up to return to my head, finishing the maneuver with a lick around the whole head.

"Come on," I said, "Try the whole thing."

She eyed my cock suspiciously, even though I knew from experience she was able to take the whole thing and then some. But she played up the uncertain angle, and then suddenly she stopped pumping me with her hand.