"Don't cry, Fumi-chan. That's not very sexy."
The words quelled Fumi's hiccoughs but not the thin tears that traced her cheeks as Chizu stroked her bare skin.
"Stop it. Do you think I'm turned on by that?"
She trembled and bit her lip as Chizu's tongue made contact with her nipple and her hands caressed her reluctant thighs.
"That's it," she hissed, making her way from breast to stomach. "Be a good girl and let me."
Her skin hummed. Part of her really did like it, more than she had expected. She wanted to keep from crying, to moan like Chizu did, to be sexy and please her.
Sometimes she thought about Chizu wearing a white dress and kissing her in front of their families. Sometimes Chizu thought about tying Fumi's wrists and ankles to the bedposts. The fantasies were equally enticing to those who held them.
Fumi's skin gradually became accustomed to Chizu's touch, and her thighs began to part more willingly, begging to feel something stronger than apprehension. She gradually learned not to cry and thought she might have been able to make herself sexy for a while with a touch of lip gloss and mascara. It was inconceivable to the untrained eye that she had altered her appearance, but Chizu saw it and relished in the naïveté it represented, though thinking it was fortunate that she rarely looked at Fumi's face when they fooled around. The long, slender body would have had a different head attached - one that didn't cry so much or try so hard - if Chizu had had her way. She enjoyed Fumi's inexperience for the most part, but it irritated her to see the girlish pout of her lips and the purposeful fluttering of her eyelashes. Fumi should have always been the skinny girl who let her body be taken over by her cousin. Instead she whined at first and eventually became an accepting sexual being, silently pleading for Chizu to touch her one more time.
Maybe it was the reluctance that turned her on. The idea that she could overpower the weak crybaby she had held as an infant. Perhaps the knowledge that she could make her scream if she really wanted to was why she so desired her silence.
"Just shut up, Fumi-chan. I need you to be quiet."
Maybe it was Fumi's fear that led her to comply, and maybe she really did like it in spite of that. When Chizu touched her, she felt alive. When Chizu's cold palms pressed under her shirt and her thin lips grazed her neck, she thought she would die and probably enjoy the process. She became hopeless, overcome with passion and anxiety, when Chizu caressed her jutting hips and eager thighs. She prayed both for her to stop and to never let go.
Eventually she stopped, and Fumi felt that her naïveté was again painfully present. She was Chizu's doll, and Chizu had gotten too old for dolls. So Fumi stood up and tried to smile as she walked away.