Random futa things

by Jokiba

Just as the title says pure smut

118. In The Shadow of A Giant

In The Shadow of A Giant

SecundusPublius

Summary:

Kyle's little sister is a futanari. One day, she discovers sex, and it changes his life forever. He is cursed, now: to be the constant witness to a sex god the likes of which he will never be.

Notes:

This is horni smut with no merit beyond horni smutness. Read at your own peril.

Chapter 1: The Past, or when it all began.

Chapter Text

It all started when I was twelve, and Stacy was seven. I wasn't that interesting of a guy. In all honesty, I was a really boring guy. I liked comic books, but in a non-creepy, BO-kind of way, and I had a thing for hikes, and I was pretty damn good at sports but with zero inclination to ever go anywhere with it. I was kinda lanky, no fat, and looked rather muscular for my age. I was just… hanging around, you know? I was kinda basic. My friends were kinda basic, too. John once brought a six-pack of Buds to a hangout and became a god for a week. That kinda basic.

Stacy was anything but basic. She was still tiny - seven ain't that much in terms of age, you know - but she had strange, elongated proportions, promising she'll be giant when she grows up. She was… kind of a cute kid, I guess? I fail at describing children. They all look like children. She was my sister, which makes her even harder to define in any special terms. She always smiled, but it was a sly smile, and mom cut her hair into bobcuts and was really anal about it, so Stacy never looked sloppy. She was a cared-for kid.

She was also a futa. You know, a girl with that and this, at the same time. At twelve, I had a very definite knowledge of what's that and what's this, and the interplay between them. Stacy befuddled me. We never talked about it; I, of course, was entirely enlighted, having discovered porn ads two years prior and the rabbit hole beneath them, but Stacy was just a kid, you know? You don't come up to your sister and hit her with that "hey, dick AND vagina, huh?" out of nowhere. Maybe I should've. It would be easier that way.

I was kind of uncomfortable around Stacy, to be honest, ever since she was born. She had a strange way of holding herself, a kind of bouncy, energetic confidence usually found in casual Ferrari drivers tripping their balls off on steroids and opiates. Stacy always knew what she wanted, always knew how to get it, never had tantrums, never cried, never whined. Anything she did looked easy - fucking remarkable for a seven years old, huh?

Also, there was also the fact that she was absolutely gigantic. Down there, I mean. At this age, I was an avid masturbator, and knew how erections worked; my dick was, well, the dick of a twelve years old - kinda cute and petty. Stacy… Stacy was not an avid masturbator. The flowers and the bees were still above her paygrade, so to speak. But we had baths together, and used the family pool together, and I knew that the thing that slapped against her thin, long thighs was scary. It was at least an eight-incher, most likely nine, silky-smooth, covered in foreskin all the way to the tip. It was a kiddy dick the size of a beer can. And it was that size completely flaccid. Stacy had no idea. She didn't care. She didn't flaunt it or anything. It hurt my pride a little, though I didn't get mad. I mean, it was just my sister, right?

…

Back then my studies were slumping; dad was angry, mom didn't care. My math was really up the gutter, my english scores were okay. I tried pulling through history, did all the goody good shit, sucked up to the teach and everything. There was a big pair project coming up - and I scored. He put me in a group with the hottest girl in our class - Clarissa Sanders.

Clarissa, in my twelve-years old mind, was a perfectly tuned mix between a cruising missile and a lynx. She was tight. Her dad was some rich asshole and forced her to play tennis; she was a daddy's girl and did as she was told, and between that and puberty hitting like a truck she was the hottest piece I've ever seen up to this point. Juicy thighs and tight, plump ass, jet fuel all the way down. Gentle demeanor and pouty face. Good grades, too. Untouchable for someone like me; but fuck if I didn't fantasize. And suddenly, history teach hands me a golden ticket. I couldn't believe my luck. My bros, Steven, John and Bobby "Nailbiter", couldn't either; they almost beat me up when I told them. I guess I was really smug about it.

I was soon reminded, however, that I was actually supposed to do a project with Clarissa, not just rub my chubby. And you know what? Fuck, it was fun working with her. We had to make a presentation, ancient history, winged helmets, greeks and minoans, that kinda jazz, and she'd come over, suck on a pencil, shake her head, offer ideas, and I just sat there, mesmerized, doing my best, actually reading and studying. I mean, I was horny, too. But it's one thing to ogle the girls in PE and another to actually be next to them, you know? You puff up, try to be impressive, suave, even, though fuck if there wasn't a canyon between me and any kind of coolness back then. She was so fucking pretty. Big lips, small nose, short, brown hair with two tiny braids… and we spent hours together. I was hoping that something's gonna happen so badly.

Well, I was right. But fuck, I didn't imagine what specifically was gonna happen.

…

It was a lazy day. Hot and humid, the worst shit. Clarissa came over; we were close to finishing our presentation, working out slide styles and all that. Stacy was home, busy with her own studies; she wasn't a genius student or anything, but she passed everything decently and never needed any help, which our parents really appreciated. She met Clarissa before, when she just started coming over. Stacy was polite, straightforward, told us to have fun, just normal things, you know? I didn't think anything about it; there was a big fat zero reason to ever think anything about it. Clarissa was, eh, kinda of my thing. Stacy didn't figure into it. Until suddenly, she did.

It was something like 3PM. We were in my room. Clarissa was looking through our last couple slides, biting the eraser on her pencil and caressing her upper lip absentmindedly; my attention was really torn between her and the notebook PC we worked with. She was moving things around, looking for good placements. She really liked doing the visual stuff, so I was not interfering too much.

"I can't!" - she suddenly declared, and sighed. - "I can't. It looks wrong. Maybe we screw… maybe we've made a mistake with the color pick? I really like those photos you've found of that greek dig, but I just can't place them without distorting the slide… Guh! So frustrating!"

"Hey, it doesn't have to be perfect, right? It looks pretty good already." - I argued, carefully.

"Yeah, yeah, but when you've got something good going on, you really wanna make it better, right? As good as it can be. No, I can't wrap my head around it." - Clarissa sighed again and shook her head.

"Hey, maybe it's the heat. You know, messing with our heads. Let's go for a break, huh? Drink something cool." - I proposed. Clarissa closed her eyes, balanced the pensil on the shelf of her pouty lips, and nodded.

"Yeah, good idea. A small breather between sets. Do you have coke?" - she asked, looking me in the eyes, inquisitively. She had really pretty eyes, blue-grayish in color.

"Hey, I thought your dad doesn't let you have pop!" - I laughed. Clarissa frowned.

"Just a cup! Don't you dare tell anyone. Dad is right, you know, that stuff's bad for you, but just one cup twice or thrice a week is not that bad. But keep it between us!" - she started muttering, talking really quickly. I laughed. She did too, after a small while. - "I'll go get it." - she said, after.

"I'll do it." - I tried to intervene, but Clarissa stopped me with a gesture.

"No way! You always bring the drinks and snacks. I'm not a guest, remember? We're partners. Look through the slides while I'm downstairs, maybe you'll get a bright idea or something."

She stood up. My eyes were glued to her; my, uh, partner was wearing tight white shorts and a flower-pattern buttoned shirt. I guess my face was kind of an open book, because Clarissa gave me this knowing look. She knew what I was up to, but it seems she didn't mind. It was the hottest shit.

"Huh." - was the only response I could produce.

"Something's the matter?" - Clarissa asked with a smile. She knew. She was playing me, but I was twelve, so I wasn't that bright.

"There's, uh, snacks in the drawers near the fridge if you want any."

"Snacks and coke together is a death sentence in my home, big eater. I can get you something if you want, though. Wanna?"

"Uh? No. Maybe… maybe there's something you wanna share, and then we can, right? It's not like YOU had it, it's… like, communal."

She grinned. - "Yeah, sure. Be right back,"

But she wasn't.

…

Mom and dad weren't home; it was my, so to speak, kingdom, though Stacy roamed it free of charge. I was in a kind of daze. Clarissa burned herself into my mind so strongly that I could see her every time I closed my eyes. I tried playing with the slides to find something spectacular that would totally wow her, but nothing really worked. I guess we really needed to change the overall style or something.

Clarissa wasn't back five minutes later.

I didn't pay much attention to it. Our house was kinda big but strangely built; maybe Clarissa got lost, or couldn't choose a snack that she'd like. I got back to the slides and started changing the styles, which fucked up everything everywhere, so I reverted.

When Clarissa wasn't back in ten minutes, I got a bit worried, but the worst I could assume was a sudden toilet break. I didn't have the slightest clue about girl poop routines, so I resigned to give her a grace period of five more minutes; maybe she had a really big log to push and if I found out she'd be really embarrassed or something. I mean, that constituted for an important reason to be late in my mind.

When Clarissa wasn't back in fifteen minutes, I decided to go check on her.

I stood up, opened the door and went down the stairs; it was here when I heard it. A repeating, fleshy, wet sound, a sort of gloopy scrape followed by a loud slap, repeated two or three times per second. In my head I knew what the sound was. I've made an approximation and I was right. I've seen enough porn by this point to know what the sound was. But it was so unfitting, so unreal, that my head neglected to really take the meaning of what I heard in. So I followed the sound, dumbfounded. It led me to the kitchen.

There, near the counter, just next to the snack drawers, Stacy was fucking Clarissa's brain out.

I stood next to the doorsill, mouth open, and watched without making a sound. A kind of pulsating, buzzing void filled my mind as I watched the scene unfold. Clarissa was lying on the floor, face down, expressionless except for a twitching in the lips; her entire body shook each time when Stacy's body collided with hers, at the end of a long, long stroke, until pelvis met ass with a thunderous slap. It was complete, absolute jackhammering, brutal and ruthless. And Stacy was doing it. Like a steam engine going too hot, she was massacring Clarissa's pussy while holding her ass up in the air by the hips. Each motion ejected droplets of wetness from the devastated cunt; there was no sign of slowing down, though. It went on.

But at the same time, Stacy looked strange. There wasn't… arousal in her face. She didn't have a grimace of pleasure, or malice, or anything at all, really. She just looked concerned.

It took me a few seconds to manage some words, but it felt like an eternity. My brain was blowing fuses trying to understand what I was seeing. I couldn't comprehend.

"Stacy, what are you doing?" - I muttered. My voice was flat and emotionless; the buzzing in my head was turning migraine-like.

Stacy turned her head to me, though not for a second the relentless assault of her hips faltered. She looked me in the eyes, and I tried finding something there - anything - that would give a clue. Gloating, happiness, lust. But it was just Stacy. Regular Stacy. My little sister.

"I don't know." - she answered, slight strain in her voice. - "I mean… it feels really good. But I'm not really sure what it is."

"What… how…. How did this happen?" - I continued asking.

"Clarissa was going through the snack place. You know mom doesn't allow opening snacks when she's not around. And I was watching TV and I've seen her do it and I wanted to tell her she's not allowed, but…" - Stacy winced, stopped her hips for a short second, pulled out almost to the tip and then slammed back inside with a echoing slap; the savage push was so strong it forced a strange noise, half moan, half howl, out of Clarissa, who started shaking and twitching.

"But?"

"I've… I don't know. She was rummaging through the drawer and I've seen her butt. And I… I… I pulled her shorts down, and pushed her to the ground. She got really angry, but I felt I was doing something good, and now she's not saying anything now so I suppose she's fine. Do you know what this is? It really, really feels great! I bet you know. I bet you do that all the time." - Stacy gave me a judgemental look.

I continued standing there, watching. Clarissa's shirt slipped up, crumpled by her friction against the tile floor, and I could see her small, shapely breasts rubbing against the tiles, pink, erect nipples engorged and filled out. I couldn't see Stacy's dick from where I stood, but I could see her balls - they were stretched taut, ballsack completely filled with no loose skin at all, so they didn't jiggle, and slapped against the Clarissa's pussy in perfect unison with the deepest point of each thrust. Her belly changed shape during this - a mound, noticeably rounded and wide, appeared each time.

"No… No, I don't do that." - I mumbled.

"Huh? But you know what this is? Can you explain?" - Stacy asked, smiling.

"Yeah… yeah, I guess."

"Thanks! It feels so-o-o good! It's like… hmm. I don't know. It's really different. Hey, I head that word in a cartoon... Uh, something like… avenguard?" - Stacy hummed.

"Avant-gard." - I corrected her absent-mindedly. The buzzing in my head was overbearing. Thoughts failed to form; I was in a strange, animal state. Couldn't do anything. Just stood there, frozen, like an animal in front of a super-predator, afraid to even move. Can't explain it. Sorry.

"Yeah! Yeah, that. Hey, bro?" - Stacy asked, breaking me out of my stupor.

"Yeah?"

"Do you know what's for lunch? I'm kinda hungry. I'm done with my studies, too, but I don't want to snack before lunch."

"Yeah. Yeah, mom… mom left us some money to order take out."

Stacy gleamed with simple, bright happiness; her thrusting increased in speed, making Clarissa squeal like a small animal, shaking with orgasm that never seemed to stop.

"Can we get burgers? Monica was telling me about that burger place her dad took her just today! It sounded so good! Please? I'll tell you the name! I've written it down somewhere. Please? Please?"

"Huh? Oh, sure. If it's not too expensive…"

"Thank you! Thank you thank you! I love you, bro!" - Stacy grinned. - "Oh. Can you… can you wait just a second? I think… uh…"

Stacy's face changed; her grin diminished into a frown. - "I… what is… this?"

It was an orgasm. Stacy came. She held Clarissa by the hands, bringing her up as she did so, completely instinctively, I guess, which gave me a clear view of Clarissa, my first real crush. Her face was twisted in a grimace that I can't really name. Mouth agape, eyes half-closed, heavy, audible breathing. There was no more gentle, smiling Clarissa. There was only fuck hole Clarissa now.

It took a while. It was very audible - first, gurgling pressure, then a clap-like release, then a slap, when the released liquid hit against flesh. Repeated once, then twice, then over and over again. I could see how the outline of Clarissa's stomach started changing; her womb bloated, first, slowly, plugged completely, creating a globe just above her belly button. It grew, shot after shot, until the liquid redistributed itself, forcing the organ down, into a tear-like shape. And it kept going. First, a gut. Then, something like a heavy-set pregnancy. Then the seal broke, pressure overpowering the grip of pussy walls, and streams of semen, like beams, flew out from around the demolished pussy hole.

Stacy released her grip, and Clarissa landed on her distended stomach. She fell to her side right after that; semen started dripping out of her in pulses, pooling on the floor, intermixed with pussy juice into slightly dilated white sludge. Stacy kept standing, though her knees were shaking slightly. For the first time, I could see her dick.

It was caked in liquids and semen, and I can never forget it now. It was at least fourteen inches long, encased in a web of visibly pulsating veins, perfectly smooth, youthful. Monstrous. It twitched, slowly losing hardness. Seeing it was the final nail. Something broke in me. I couldn't say anything.

"I'm… I'm gonna wash my pee pee. I don't think it should be like this. And… we have to wash the floor, bro. It's… mom gonna be angry, okay?"

I didn't respond. I just stood. There was a paradigm shift in my head. I've seen sex before - in porn. But what I've seen here was different. Animalistic doesn't cover it. It was too brutal, too inhuman, too powerful to be called animalistic. What I've seen was a few grades above, beyond both animals and humans, and in the realm of creatures of myth.

…

Clarissa came back to her senses in a few minutes. She didn't say anything at all. Her belly was still bloated, though not to the extreme degree it was before. She put her clothes on and left. When her eyes met with mine, there was nothing in there. Like she didn't see me at all. She went past me without saying a word.

We washed the floor with Stacy in silence. Then we ordered burgers, and they were pretty good. The smell of semen didn't disappear, though. It was always in the air, even after I scrubbed the floor with clorox.

Clarissa didn't come to school the next day, or any day after that, and dropped out soon after. I finished the project by myself and got a passing grade. The teach said the slides could use a bit of a visual flourish.

I didn't care. For a week after that day, there was nothing going on inside my head, only the buzzing, pulsating void, that prohibited any thinking at all. My body was on autopilot. Our parents knew what was going on, I suspect; there was a strange tension in our house after that strange day.

When nine days were past, I got over myself, and tried beating up Stacy. Everything that I felt, every little emotion, came out of me at once, sending me into a rage I've never felt before. I was livid, angry, lost. I've seen rape, I realized. I've seen Clarissa ravaged without consent by my sister. I was watching, and did nothing, and said nothing. It shame and pain hotter than stars. It all came out of me at once, in one wave, concentrated, like a pin-point, in a fist that flew upwards. I tried beating Stacy, but I couldn't. She stopped my hand in mid-air.

I couldn't budge it. It was not a strong grip; she didn't press, didn't cause me pain. She just stopped me. Without any effort at all, the small girl, my little sister, contained all the power my twelve-year old body could muster, and discarded it.

"Come on, bro, mom will have you skinned if we fight. And don't you go around beating girls! That's just wrong!" - she proclaimed, and released my hand.

I never tried to beat my sister ever again. I knew, instinctively now, that never, not once, will I have a chance to succeed.

…

The following weeks were strange. Our parents stopped talking with us all that much. Something happened in Stacy's school; I've overheard dad talking about it. Something about a chemical spill or something provoking an early menarche in girls in Stacy's class. I didn't pay attention; I didn't know what "menarche" was. Two weeks after, Mom made Stacy drop out from school, and started homeschooling her instead. I learned why much later.

I haven't heard much from Clarissa for around three years. Our next meeting was unpleasant, but I'll get to it. Coincidentally, this is the time when our parents divorced. My mother got pregnant three times in a row; I became the elder brother of three, then six, then nine. I know now who the real father was, but I didn't then. Though I suspected. I always suspected. The smell of Stacy's sperm was ever present, now. Wherever she goes. Whomever she meets. They know that musk. After a civil court me and Stacy both went with our dad. I was fifteen, then.

This is when it started getting worse for me.

Chapter 2: Puberty, and Aunt Madison

Notes:

This took way too long to write; those who waited, I salute you, and ask your forgiveness.

In a way, I was gathering inspiration; what better way to learn how to write NTR than being cucked by a wage?

Chapter Text

Clarissa… if I knew how much shit would happen because of Clarissa, I'd never fucking bring her into my house. I guess she's not really to blame: she was on the receiving end of an event so raw and brutal that it changed her into something twisted. Her soul was fucked right out of her, in a way, and when it came back, it didn't sit right. But that's the starting point, and everything else after that is her fucking fault and the shit she did is absolutely, unquestionably evil. I fucking hate Clarissa so damn much. But I didn't, then. For three years, I haven't heard anything about her; after Stacy fucked her into mincemeat, she left, completely gone off the radar, and nobody, not even her friends, heard anything from her.

But I'm getting too far ahead. There's three years between that and this.

…

Let's start with this: seeing Stacy fuck Clarissa left me bad in the head for a month.

That's putting it really mildly. It fucked me up. Stacy being so much fucking stronger than me fucked me up even more. Do I really need to explain this? My head was in a really strange place, and everybody knew. My friends were worried, my teachers asked me if I was fine, mom and dad tried prying what happened out of me - even though I'm sure they did know, even then, but they needed to hear me say it. Putting it bluntly - I was fucking terrified of Stacy. I was scared shitless. I had the shakes when I opened the house door in case I'd meet her right there. I'd walk silently so I won't attract her attention, and I would check the locks thrice each time I'd take a piss - in case she'd open the door. I looked at that tiny girl and something in my brain would scream at me to run, to hide, to make myself as sparse and as inaccessible as possible. In the evenings, when I'd be done with homework, I'd sit in my bed and listen, carefully, for steps. In case she'd come for me. To do something to me.

It was a strange kind of fear. I didn't know exactly what I was afraid of. Stacy - the idea of Stacy, of my little sister - was changed into something amorphous, something strange and wicked exactly because I didn't know what to expect. Or what could happen. I've seen what she's capable of - twice, once on Clarissa, and once on myself. I was afraid to see more. Maybe I thought she was gonna fuck me next, or maybe something else. I don't know. There was no way to know more. It twisted my brain into a shrivelling knot.

I got better. Believe it or not, I got better, though it took some time. In a strange way, Stacy cured my fear of Stacy. It happened a month or so after the entire thing happened. We barely talked during that month: I evaded her like my life depended on it. She tried talking, but I never responded. I was too afraid. I guess that month was bad for her, too: that evening, she rushed me, essentially, while bawling her eyes out. She went past a breaking point of sorts, I guess. She asked me, repeatedly, what she did wrong, and hugged me, and begged me to stop hating her. She told me she loved me. I tried pushing her away; I was assured it was some kinda manipulation, some strange shit to lull me into a sense of security before something terrible would happen. But she just kept crying.

I felt like shit. I guess it also put my mind at ease, at least partially. I still didn't know what Stacy really was anymore, I still didn't know what was normal anymore, but I knew - and felt - that Stacy was still my little sister. That she loved me, and that behaving like I'm the next on the chopping block wasn't right. We started talking again, and having fun again. A few weeks later, everything went back to normal.

Was it a facade? Was I still suspecting, still afraid? Yeah. Fucking hell, I was. But I couldn't live like that, you know? Constantly shrivelled. So I told myself that everything was fine, that shit's A-OK and that the entire Clarissa thing was… eh, some kinda celestial intervention and I should forget about it. It was easy, forgetting about it: Clarissa dropped out, and Stacy never talked about her, trying her best not to upset me.

But somewhere inside, I knew. I always knew. This was just the beginning. Any normalcy now is temporary. Stacy was awakening to what she really is. I had a role - to witness. But it would take years.

…

Surprisingly enough, my studies started to improve around this time. Maybe the shock kicked my brain into the correct socket; whatever it was, school shit felt easier to me now. Maybe I concentrated more easily, or something else. I don't know. My friends were teasing me over it - calling me a nerd, that kinda stuff. The friendliest kind of punches flew. You know the drill.

It wasn't just studying. Shit was on the rise for me. I spent more time outside of the house, ran more, did more stuff in general. Just… fun things, you know? The finals for the year were fast approaching, but I felt cocky and self-assured. No idea why. Maybe I rebounded. Maybe feeling like you're stuck in the deepest kind of gutter and coming all the way back sends you straight up Mount Elation. One thing, though: as I spent less time at home, I stopped noticing what was slowly and steadily happening to my family. I wouldn't notice for a few years, and I wouldn't know the entire truth for even more.

Mom started coming from work earlier to homeschool Stacy. After whatever strange thing happened in her school, she started learning entirely at home, and apparently was doing fantastic. Mom helped her a little, but mostly guided her; Stacy enjoyed learning much more when it was done with someone she loved, so she worked twice as hard. And damn, my little sister was apparently a smart cookie. Mom would talk about her almost every evening; Stacy that, Stacy this. I didn't get too jealous. It was always like this: Stacy was Mom's, and I was Dad's, politically speaking. But Mom was obviously pushing for her faction. She was still happy when I managed my finals for the year with above-average marks - high achievement, if I may say so myself. Dad seemed proud, too.

I don't know when Stacy's home study sessions devolved into fucking. I guess it happened on the cusp of summer, when I was especially busy, dad was still at work for most of the day, and mom and Stacy were together for hours on end. When, specifically, it all began, I have no idea. If there were signs, I was oblivious to them, or mom hid them very well. There were signs, though. I just didn't know how to read them back then.I understand much more nowadays. Mom becomes strangely distant, strangely removed, seemingly always daydreaming, never concentrating on anything. Those were the signs.

Back then, I didn't really suspect foul play. I didn't really care all that much, to be honest. There was another development in my life at that time: when summer break started, my parents sent me to my grandparents, upstate. My home was entirely removed from my scope. Just my old people: and it was the coolest shit ever. Imagine that.

I mean, yeah, they were old, but not that old, and granddad was a combat vet and he had the wildest stories. He taught me how to drive his pickup truck, he showed me his medals, and we shot some of his guns together; I felt like the second manliest man alive receiving tutelage from the first. It was dope as fuck. It is strange, thinking back, that while I tried my best behind the wheel or wincing to the recoil kick of an M1 Stacy was, most likely, busy remodelling my mother's pussy and dumping fresh progeny inside her babymaker by the gallon. At the time I didn't know. Ignorance was bliss.

When I came back, a month and a half later, feeling like the slickest cat on the block, the deed was already done; mom was pregnant, happiest she's ever been, and Stacy looked strangely diminished and ashamed. I didn't pay much attention. I was a bit too deep up my own ass.

…

Mom gave birth in seven months time; a bit early, according to the doctors, but the babies were perfectly fine and came out healthy. Our family increased. I had two new baby sisters; one a girl. One, like Stacy, a futa. Dad was sour. I expected him to be belated, but he wasn't. He tried his best to look the part, but I suspect he already realized the truth of what was happening, and merely refused to accept it as fact. He wanted to believe in something normal. The truth was far too vile for him to accept.

I… I don't wanna go into too much detail about my new sisters. They named them Mia and Olivia. When Stacy was born, I was five; the strangeness of babies didn't register too much in my mind at the time. Seeing them - my baby sisters - as a twelve years old was off putting. They were kinda wrinkly and loud. I was also their uncle and brother at the same time, unbeknownst to myself. Remembering it now is even stranger than witnessing it then.

Mom took maternity leave and soon moved over to her parents, my other granddad and grandma, two states over; she took me and Stacy, too, though I had to be back in two weeks while Stacy stayed. I ended up celebrating my birthday with my friends and my dad. Stacy sent me a big package of sweets, with mom's help, and a hand-written card. As well as filling my phone to the brim with emoji-embroidered celebratory ruckus. I was kinda embarrassed, but also felt kinda bad. Being away from her for so long made me doubt myself and my reactions even more.

It was a strange fucking time. Just… so much moving, and stuff happening, and whatever else. I was fine most of the time, but the constant upheaval was tiring me. I guess I didn't have too much time to wallow in self-pity or some other bullshit. In a way, it was a blessing in disguise.

...

Among other things - which were many, as I said - I was finally hitting puberty in earnest. It was still just starting, but the changes were coming quickly: I was already rather tall and started getting taller. My babyface was finally getting chiseled out. I guess it's strange to really think about your own puberty while you're in the process of it. Those things usually occur slowly enough and in a busy enough time of your life that you don't really care. At least until the armpit hair.

Well, I cared. I had a strange relationship with my body in particular and other bodies in general; I was very conscious of them ever since I've started realizing the differences between me and Stacy. When the Clarissa thing happened, it got worse. I was waiting for my puberty like it would save me. Like if I got different enough from Stacy, if I became distinct enough, I could be my own thing, and I could stop worrying. Well, I was becoming my own thing. I'd watch myself in the mirror every day, taking notice, even writing stuff down and hiding the notebook better than I ever hid anything at all, porn included.

I was getting taller. My balls started taking shape, and I turned slightly wider in the shoulders. My voice was cracking; I sounded like a squeaky toy on testosterone, and I hated it. Hair started appearing in all kinds of places, strangely quickly, too. Finally, my dick was starting to get bigger, changing in shape from kiddy sausage to something meaty.

It didn't then, but puberty eventually shaped me into a bit of a hunk; a lanky, thin hunk, but I'd end up pretty fucking good, compared to many. I ended up pretty big down there, too; eight inches is really, really nothing to scoff at. But I scoffed. Even when I finished going through all my changes, which wouldn't happen for a while, even when I was completely formed, even when I was looking at the mirror and seeing something pretty serviceable there, it never ended up helping my self-consciousness, my strange, unhappy state of underlying moral weakness and confusion.

Because of Stacy.

Around that time - it was early Spring - she came back home from her stay with Mom at her parents'; Stacy was just about to turn eight. She was still the same Stacy. She was fascinated with the fact that I was getting an early beard, and laughed at my changing voice, and was generally around me all the time, allowing me plenty of opportunities to scrutinize her. I didn't want to. I knew I was leading myself into a bad place, but I still did. Stacy, at this time, was still pre-pubescent, still tiny, still cute little sister Stacy.

But her dick was getting bigger. Much bigger, And much quicker than mine.

I speculate now that it was because of all the fucking she did with mom; perhaps her body was responding to that sexual awakening and changing accordingly. I haven't seen my sister for two months while she was away; and in that time, in that really short fucking time, her cock, already gigantic before, got absurd. I haven't seen her erect at this new growth stage, but even what was there soft was terrifying. It was eleven inches, give or take; the head, previously comfortably tucked inside the foreskin, was now stretching it at the crown, too big even when soft to be encased smoothly. The colour, previously cute and pink, got darker, more pigmented; the balls, apple sized before that, started stretching the scrotum down with their new, grapefruit-sized mass. I knew all of this because Stacy stopped wearing panties; at her new sizes, at this absolutely absurd breadth, no children's underwear could fit her otherwise tiny body anymore.

She started masturbating around this time, too. I don't know how she learned about it; maybe it came to her naturally, as an extension of what she was already familiar with. But she was doing it a lot. My fapping sessions, well, you know how it is. I was really fucking young, really quick firing. A pair of big boobs flipped my fire selector to full auto in five to ten minutes. Two tissues later, and I was good as new.

Not Stacy. Stacy…

Well, let me tell you this. When somebody with a gigantic piece of meat masturbates, the sound is different. There is no "fap-fap". That sound is produced by the hand striking the pelvis on the low end of a stroke. There is only the sound of strained skin moving up and down. I know it because I heard it. Stacy was struggling with her cock two, maybe three times a day. She made the upstairs restroom unbearable to be in; she tried to hide it, she cleaned it the best she could, but her cock was overpowering her capacity for stealth. The smell was impossible to hide. The splatters of semen were impossible to hide, too. They were on the ceiling, sometimes. But I didn't know the real extent of it until a bit later, when I found the upstairs toilet clogged.

It was filled, to the brim, side-to-side, with white gunk. The amount was so absurd I failed to understand what it was, at first, even though I knew of Stacy's habits; I looked at it, dumbfounded, mouth agape, until the musk hit me in earnest. Then, I knew.

There were ten gallons in there, easy. Thick as glue, pearl-white in colour. I cleaned it up. I didn't risk trying to flush the toilet; I used a garbage bag and trowel from the kitchen.

Stacy cried, that day, and apologized to me profusely, over and over again, begging me not to tell dad.

…

In April, I learned that mom was pregnant again. Apparently, in the second month. All pretences were lost. Dad knew, now for certain, that the expansion of our family had nothing to do with him. I'm sure he thought it was just cheating, and not what it truly was. Not yet.

It was a really, really shitty time for me.

Dad was barely home those days. He worked from morning to deep evening and drank himself to sleep in the night. The smell of whiskey was omnipresent in the dining room; I stopped eating there completely, because it made me sick in the stomach. I had to spend more time home during the day. I had to learn a bit of cooking to make food for Stacy and myself. I don't want to go into too much detail. It was hell.

It continued like this for about two months, until June. My studies were fucked once again, but I got closer with Stacy, as we had entire days to spend together. My friends - our group was pretty large those days - were coming for visits now and then, but they quickly stopped. I guess they felt the same thing I felt about Stacy. They could see the bulge in her dress, too.

I spoke with mom, once in a while. Her behaviour was strange. She was really apologetic, really touchy-feely, but… distant, at the same time. It's not like she outright didn't care; she did, but more out of obligation than anything else. She always wanted Stacy on the phone. I never asked about the pregnancy, and what was going on with dad. She never talked about it. I had a heavy feeling on my heart and pretty much stopped talking with her soon after. I said my hellos and put Stacy on. It was easier this way; for both of us, I suspect.

…

Among other things, one of the bigger problems at the time was that I had no money. I had a weekly allowance before. But during those days, dad kept forgetting to give it to me, and I was too afraid to ask him about it while he was drinking. So I tried looking for work.

I mean, I was still thirteen. My options were really fucking limited. It's not like newspaper delivery was still relevant, and I was still not allowed to work legally. I just needed some spending cash, anything, you know? So my opportunities were inane. Walking dogs, babysitting. Washing cars. My friends talked me up, offered options. Some were good, some were really stupid. I decided on this: I'll do a walkaround through the block. I'll ask the neighbors. Maybe they need something. Maybe there's something I could do for a crisp tenner once in a while.

Well, it turns out I had to do very little, because there was a spot of luck in store for me: our next-door neighbor, auntie Madison, whom I knew since before Stacy was even around, saved me from my plight.

…

Aunt Maddie - unrelated, but she used to be a close friend of my mom's, and the way I used to call her kinda stuck - was pushing the second half of her thirties at the time. How to describe her? I guess the first word that comes to mind would be "warm". She was easy-going, constantly had a light, effortless smile, and even her movements were generally a bit lazy and happy-go-lucky. Nothing in the world, as far as it came to aunt Maddie, was too pressing or too urgent. Her parents were bona fide hippies, and she inherited their spirit, if not their habits. She had a daughter slightly younger than Stacy, and, as far as I know, she barely knew her dad. It didn't bother her none. She was cool with it. She was always cool with everything.

She was also a bit strange. She was pretty tall, and at the same time wide-built; her taste in clothing was non-existent, and she was always wearing something baggy and floral. Her hair was long and a bit unkempt, sandals and socks were not beneath her, she smoked and wore wide-brimmed reading aviators which concealed half her face. Combine all that with the fact that she was really pretty for her age. She made my heart skip a bit back when the feminine allure started revealing itself to me; but something in the way she held herself was so familiar, so normal and so utterly unsexy that I never really had any fantasies about aunt Maddie. She was aunt Maddie. Just aunt Maddie.

When I ringed her door to ask about work in late May - it took me a lot of courage and a lot of inner strength to overcome the cringe factor - she was booming, absolutely delighted to see me, and I, now more enlightened, wiser and thirteen years old, realized my own past mistakes.

Aunt Maddie was secretly hot.

Her tits were unquestionably large, though how large was completely mysterious beneath the baggy sweater she was wearing in complete disregard for the hot weather. Her lazy movements translated into an alluring gait; her hips were wide, feminine, calling, and even the tent-like ankle-long skirt she was wearing failed to hide that. Her hair was braided, something I've seen for the first time. And her smile - the same old smile, the leisurely smile she always had - was made by plump, wet lips.

I gulped when I saw her.

"Sweet Mary, mother of god." - she uttered, shaking her head slowly. - "I can't believe my eyes. Is that you, Kyle? Is that the scrawny kid from next door?"

I was a bit dumbfounded. She was still taller than me, though not for long, and much wider than me. I was in her shadow, so to say.

"Y… yeah?" - I offered, tentatively.

"How the hell did you turn into that dashing, manly young thing? What are they feeding you next door?! Come here! Come here, you! Come right the hell now! I'm gonna choke you! Come give me the biggest hug of your life!!" - she roared, and pulled me inside the house. She was not joking. That hug compressed my lungs until they were flat as a sheet of paper. To every hell there is a corresponding heaven, though: as air was leaving my body, I could indeed confirm that whatever was hidden in Maddie's sweater, it was absolutely bountiful.

…

She sat me down in the kitchen and treated me to a soda. Her house was peculiar. It was filled… with stuff, everywhere, and everything was presented as if on display. Plates, paintings, posters, memorabilia, photos, CDs and vinyl. I counted three different dreamcatchers on the way to the kitchen. Aunt Maddie liked things. She was kinda discerning about them, too - despite how much she had, it didn't feel like a hoarder's house. Just like a really over decorated one. The only thing that bothered me is the smell; an unpleasant combination of air fresheners and cigarette smoke.

She started asking questions, getting back in touch, so to speak. It was like she was legitimately happy to see me. I felt strangely comfortable, strangely safe. I could finally talk to someone about what was happening. I had a lot to unload.

Still, I didn't want to talk about my current situation with her too much. I was brief, and spared the details where I could. But she felt that I was bullshitting. Adult wisdom, I guess.

"So Lizzie's not around, huh. It's really strange, what you're telling me. Lizzie… Kyle, tell me plainly. I feel you're mincing words. Is Lizzie… is your mom meeting someone? On the side? Other than your dad?" - she asked, sitting next to me across a giant, massive dark wood table that felt out of place in the motley house. She spoke slowly, with calm seriousness. I averted my eyes. Couldn't meet her gaze.

"I… " - I mumbled; I felt her look growing stern, and I tried straightening myself out. - "I think so. I'm not sure. She got pregnant again while she was away, so I think she might."

"Well, I'll be damned. And this is why you're looking for some kinda part-time job? They're divorcing or something? You need money?"

"No! No. At least… at least not yet, they don't. But yeah. Dad's been drinking a lot. He's barely at home. I need… I need some spending cash, you know? He's been doing his best but he's in a really shitty… really bad state." - I said, inspecting my half-empty glass of coke.

"Swear if you want. I don't care, Kyle. You have food at home?"

"Yeah. I started cooking a little. We're not broke or something. It's just… we're alone most of the time."

"And you need a bit of cash to manage. Okay. Okay, I see. Damn, Richard, you've got brought low… your dad used to be stronger than this, you know? Eh, fuck it! Tell you what, Kyle, my boy. What you're telling me is really fucked." - she smiled, and, after opening the windows and turning on the AC, lit a cigarette.

I didn't respond, but it felt good to hear someone else say it. Yeah, it was fucked up. And I finally could share it.

"About a job... " - Maddie took a long drag and continued seconds later, - "I don't want you slinking around, okay? So this is what we're gonna do. You're going to wash my car once a week - pick a day, it doesn't matter. Each time you do, I'll give you a hundred bucks."

I almost went cross-eyed. I'm sure my mouth swung open, too. I held onto my cup of coke like it was about to eject itself away into the stratosphere.

"That's way too much for a car-wash."

Aunt Maddie crossed her legs and took an especially deep drag of her cigarette. She looked me straight in the eyes, as if she was looking for something inside of them. I hope she found it, whatever it was.

"That's 'cus you're going to make that car gleam, Kyle. It's a big car, too. You're gonna wash it, and polish it, and make it so damn squeaky and perfect that Jesus himself would not hesitate to take Buddah on a date in that car."

I pressed my lips. That sounded way too good to be true. I suspected foul play. Maddie felt my doubts, too.

"Calm down, Kyle. Yeah, it's a lot of money. I suspect it's more than your allowance used to be. I'm doing it anyway. Your family and I are close - or used to be. It's a fucking bother to me to see the son of my friends straddling around looking for pennies like an urchin. You'll wash my car, maybe do something little here and there to help me out. You won't be getting that sum for free. That seems fair in your eyes?" - she asked, finishing her cigarette in a last, long drag. I stayed silent for a bit, milling it all through in my mind. It wasn't really fair; not to aunt Maddie. But it was fucking amazing. I was shocked.

"Y… yeah. It sounds really good." - I mumbled.

"Well then! I've never seen you wash your parent's cars, so I guess you don't know how to do it. Go home, return in half an hour, and I'll show you the ropes."

"Half an hour?!"

"Why wait? Get on with it! You sure you have food in the house? Wanna take something with you, maybe give it to Stacy? I've got a quiche I baked yesterday in the fridge, it's pretty good."

"N-no! We're fine! Thank you… thank you very, very much, aunt Maddie! You're a saviour! I really appreciate it! I do! I'll be back!" - I rapid fired my response, running away, essentially, with my heart beating hard. A hundred bucks for a car wash, and from aunt Maddie, who was beyond fantastic company in my young mind. Things were finally looking up.

…

I went back home to change. I had no idea what appropriate car washing apparel was, so I went with gym clothes. They felt about right.

To be honest, half an hour was too much time to wait. I was kinda elated. A hundred bucks was a lot of money; I never had my own hundred buck banknote, not even as a Christmas gift; mom and dad were both making some serious cash, but they were very conservative with spendings. A virtue, I suppose, but it also meant that big money (at least, on a 13 years old's scale) was a rare guest in my pocket, and the idea of getting a hundred bucks now - not to mention once every week - was an exciting one to say the least. There was that.

The other thing was, well, aunt Maddie. I haven't seen her for a long while before that point; years, I think, though I don't remember precisely. When I was younger, she was just another one of my mom's friends, in my mind. Mom had a lot of friends until a point, constantly visiting, giggling, discussing things I didn't understand. But now…

Maybe I was a sucker for sympathy, maybe I just really needed someone to pity me at this specific moment, but aunt Maddie felt like the best person in the world. Like a religious figure, only for real, and with no butt molestation. I really wanted to spend time with her.

Was it a crush? Neh. But it was in the same vein.

…

I was there in half an hour. On the clock. I fucking rushed there. My heart was racing. When I was past the fence and next to the garage, aunt Maddie was standing next to the big door, and she giggled at my sudden, huffing appearance.

"Damn, Kyle. You've been holding on to a stopwatch or something? I thought you'd be late by at least ten minutes! I just changed!"

She did change. I was stopped in my tracks when I saw her; my heart skipped a beat.

She was wearing plain clothes. A band logo T-shirt, from a band I didn't recognize, and old, dirty, naturally ripped jeans with acrylic stains - Madison dabbled in painting, as I later learned.

It was a practical, simple attire. The shit you wear when you don't wanna worry about stains or rips. They weren't sexy, or attractive pieces. Just basic fabric.

But it didn't matter. Because beneath those uninspiring threads was the hottest body I've seen in my life. To this day.

Aunt Maddie wasn't a girl anymore; her body didn't have the freshness or tightness of youth. But it had mature heft. It was robust, and thick, and in its feminine mass it was the most erotic thing I've ever seen. Her tits were massive in the purest sense of the word; they had weight, and they distributed that monstrous mass across her wide ribcage with lewd grace. Those udders were not globes; they were too big, too heavy to be perky. They were matronly, lascivious breasts. The T-shirt tried to suppress them and failed; Maddie's tits forced their form into the fabric with absolute clarity, including the raised hill of the areola and the meaty capstone of the nipple.

I've seen big tits. In porn, I've seen hundreds. I've seen 'em perky, shapely, hanging, bouncing. But it didn't compare, because Maddie's were real. When she breathed, they swayed, redistributing their volume across her chest. When she moved her torso, the distended T-shirt would shift the net of folds her boobs formed, and some new curve would be highlighted, pressing hard against the cloth. It was so close, so clear. They pulled my eyes like they radiated some kinda energy. Maybe they did. Boobs like that just might.

Her entire body was hot. She didn't have a thin waist; she was pretty large and widely built, but it didn't matter, because her hips and ass were dominating her poor jeans completely and brutally.

Most women that age that I've seen in my life were average. Mom was hot in her youth and kinda okay at her current age; teachers at school were ranging from passable to horrid. But aunt Maddie…

I'll repeat myself, because it bears repeating. She is the hottest woman I've ever seen. Not in porn, not in real life, not in drawing or model or whatever else pathetic imitation could anyone make something that could compete with what I've seen on that hot, summer day. The sweaty, thickly-set woman in her thirties, wearing clothes that were just a bit small, puts them all to shame.

…

My mind is kinda fuzzy about the rest of the day. You can fucking understand my reasoning, I hope. Aunt Maddie took out her absurdly huge and unfitting Dodge Ram out of the garage and left it in the driveway; it wasn't very dirty, to be honest, but it sure was gigantic. Washing it took a while. Maddie was peculiar about strange things: she refused to use too much water, in case it'd get somewhere inside and damage something, for one. I protested, but it didn't matter. Besides, with a hundred bucks on the table, I'd wash that car with toilet paper, if so need be. It was hot outside, and the car was really big, and after the wash there was polish and we went through the interior and I climbed into the back and brushed there as well. I'm sure I was erect a few times throughout. I hope aunt Maddie didn't notice.

It took an hour with some change to go through it all. Aunt Maddie was mostly happy with the result. I was just happy to be there.

"Well there… ain't half bad, is it? Doesn't look like a piece of art, but I wouldn't be ashamed to park that fat carriage somewhere classy. You feel like you've got the ropes, Kyle?" - she murmured, wiping the sweat off her brow.

"Ah? Yeah… yeah, I think so. I need practice, though." - I mumbled in response. I averted my gaze, lest it would inevitably be pulled to Maddie's body. She was sweaty, now, with dark patches of dampness forming around her armpits and below and between her breasts; the wet fabric clung to the skin, and it showed me things I could bear watching without pushing myself to the edge.

"Sure as hell you do. Don't pat yourself on the back, you hear me? That's just the beginning. I'll help you some more, sure, but it's you who'll be cleaning the car. So keep paying attention. Learn how to do it quickly as well as cleanly. I don't want you baking under the sun for five hours all for a green banknote!"

"Well… I don't mind…"

"No means no. Learn, and quickly. You go to the kitchen now. Take something cold out of the fridge and drink it. No sunstrokes on my havel, Kyle. I'll be with you in a bit." - she massaged the back of her neck and made a whimper-like sound; her muscles were rather sore, I guess. - "Sheesh! I'm all sweaty! I look life a wet cow, I bet. What a disgrace. You go to that kitchen right now, Kyle! Don't stand there!"

I obeyed immediately. There's things a man can't fight against in this life.

…

Ten minutes later, I was handed my first ever hundred dollar bill. It wasn't crispy. It exchanged a few hands in its life. But it was mine, and it was amazing.

"Now listen here, Kyle." - aunt Maddie said in a serious tone while toweling her hair. She changed into some kinda baggy poncho-like topwear; the fertile splendor of her tits was taken away from me, which helped me concentrate - "That money I'm giving you ain't just for fun, hear? Take this bill seriously. It's for you, and for lil' Stacy. Spend as little of it as you can on bullshit. Save it. Maybe you'll need food, or bus fare, or anything else might come up - save that money as much as you can."

I was kinda shocked. Financial responsibility was still a bit beyond my consideration at this point.

"But…"

"No buts."

"Snacks?"

Aunt Maddie sighed, and lit a cigarette.

"Okay, some snacks. Listen… okay. I'm asking too much. Just be mindful, hear? I like you, and your family, and I worry about you and Stacy and Lizzie and your dad too. But there won't be a cohort of worrywart women knocking on your door, cash in hand. Be mindful now so you're not hungry later. Okay? Do you promise to be mindful?" - she looked me straight in the eyes.

"Yeah. I promise, aunt Maddie. I really do."

"Pinkie promise?"

"Come on!"

Aunt Maddie grinned. - "Well, I'll take your word for it. No pinkies. Want something to eat?"

I mulled it over. Yeah, I wanted something to eat. I was starving.

"Yeah."

She nodded. She enjoyed honesty, and I was pleased to please.

…

What followed was an almost five month period that was close to the happiest of my life. Yeah, yeah, I was the subject of charity. I don't deny it. But… I felt really mature, you know? I brought money home. My money. For the first time in my life, I was the king of my own destiny - at least partially. I had something that Stacy didn't have. With great smugness I told her about my new job, and I treated her to hamburgers, and she was elated, and impressed by me to no end. I didn't tell her who I was working for, however. I didn't want her to know. I wanted aunt Maddie all to myself. It was a wise choice. It gave me half a year of female, motherly attention I sorely missed.

But I knew, deep inside, that it was temporary. That I couldn't hope for something this good to continue for too long, you know? There was a voice in my head - a tiny, candid voice, hidden deep inside, beneath layers and layers of subconsciousness - that gleefully laughed at my dumb, boyish happiness. That all it took to make me happy was a pair of perfect tits giving me mostly undeserved sums of money to make me feel like a king. That was petty, and small-scale, and that somebody this petty and small scale can't hope to keep whatever he has for long.

The voice was right. But… it was not immediately right.

Before the inevitable happened, and my happiness was taken away, there was a three week period of horrifying, gut-wrenching struggle which happened suddenly and without any warning. During the early days of October, on a warm, humid day, my mother kidnapped Stacy.

…

It was… fuck, I kinda fail for words when it comes to those three weeks. I remember the day of the kidnapping really well. I witnessed it - the tail end of it, at least. Mother leading Stacy out of the house by hand, hurried, head turning on a swivel and a paranoid gleam in her eyes. She saw me - we met, gaze to gaze. There was a strange emotion in her face. She was not happy to see me.

Stacy saw me, too. She was confused, worried. She felt, no doubt, that something was really wrong; but she was eight, at the time, and obeying her mom was such a natural, obvious thing that no protest was presented. When our eyes met, her face changed into a grimace. She was asking for forgiveness, I felt. She knew that something wasn't right, and she was sorry.

When mom's car slid out of the driveway and disappeared around a turn, I still stood there, dumbfounded, for a minute or two more. I heard that… noise, that low hum, that came to me during times of shock. I went into the house and walked through the rooms, absentmindedly, looking for Stacy and mom, hoping, all the while, that a strange joke was being played on me. There was no joke. I tried calling dad; he didn't respond. That wasn't unusual. He rarely picked up the phone during work. Failing to reach him, I sat on the living room's couch and waited.

I didn't call the cops, or my grandparents, or went to aunt Maddie, or called the school, or anything like that. It didn't come to me. My head was completely void. I was fourteen, okay? I just sat there. Waiting for dad to come back home. By the time he did, mom was already out of state.

When he came back home, and I told him what happened, is when everything went to shit.

…

It was nerve wracking. It was really, really messy. I am thankful that I was mostly on the sidelines of the whole process; I can't imagine how much worse it was for dad, who had to deal with it all. The cops. The lawyers. All that shit. I got brought in as a witness of the initial kidnapping, and once again called during the trial. Honestly, I don't remember much. I think the stress got to me. I spent days doing almost nothing, just spacing out, while my dad stormed around the house, screaming into his cellphone. I barely ate. I stopped visiting aunt Maddie, stopped talking with my friends, stopped going to school. I was a mummy, entombed in my own house.

I didn't know much of what happened with mom and Stacy during those days, but I do now. Mom took Stacy out of state, but not to her parent's house, as was initially suspected, but to a friend's house in Idaho, where she spent a week before being discovered by police. The case is iffy. To this day, it lays mostly unclear, and the official version is that my mother had a bunch of men come and have sex with her while Stacy was present. The case file is sealed; it's a sexual misconduct with a minor kind of thing. Thus, the confusing forensic evidence was never used - for example, the fact that the amount of semen at the scene of the crime points to somewhere between five thousand to seven thousand men being present there; that all the semen, despite this, is from the same source; and that testimony provided by Stacy herself points out, rather straightforwardly, that nobody was present except for her and mom. It was a nightmare case. Add to that the divorce. I'll spare you the additional details. It ended like this: mom lost everything. Dad took Stacy back. Her other children - my five sisters, whom I'll never know properly - became wards of the state. Mom got a restraining order and was forbidden from approaching our house closer than 500 yards. She was also put on a registered sex offender list. I was there when the judge announced the sentence. I didn't pay too much attention: I looked at mom, throughout. I'll never forget the look on her face. There was no fear. No guilt. She was serene. She got what she wanted, after all.

For eight days, she was fucking Stacy almost non-stop. She was pregnant for the third time. Her brain was so deep fried by whatever Stacy did to her pussy during those eight days that no amount of punishment for her crimes could falter her simple, sublime happiness. When she looked at dad, she had an idle, calm smirk; the kind of smirk you have when you know somebody's dirty secret, or better, know something they don't, and never will.

It left a bad taste in my mouth; a feeling I remember to this day. But it didn't matter. In two days, Stacy returned, released from custody; and for a while, I have completely forgotten about her being a futa, about Clarissa, about the horrible shit I went through. I was just happy that my sister was back. I still loved her. I still love her. To this day. Despite everything that happened, and will happen.

But there were times that I was sure I didn't.

…

There was a long period of normalization after all of this was over. It was slow. "Normal" had to be redefined in new terms. There were concessions. Dad couldn't handle work and homeschooling Stacy at the same time; she began going again, a bad idea, but he had no choice. I returned to school, too, and went through some hardships reconnecting with my friends. But it was all good. It felt like moving forward. It felt like closing a really bad chapter in life.

It also meant remembering things I would rather not remember. But they came slowly, so I didn't notice, at first.

The first hurdle was this: I was still short on cash. Now that Stacy was in school again and with all kinds of bills piling up from the kidnapping case, our financial situation became worse. Not horrible, not even bad - but not what I was used to, either. So I went to aunt Maddie to ask for a job, once more.

…

There's maybe fifty feet between our door and Maddie's, but those fifty feet felt much, much longer when I walked them. I felt a strange sense of shame without knowing where it came from. When I knocked on the door, and aunt Maddie opened it, and regarded me with tired eyes, I understood my strange state. I didn't update her on anything. I didn't keep in touch. I just stopped coming. That was kinda shitty of me, in the absolute least.

"Is it you, Kyle? Come on in. Don't just stare at me." - she said, a note of fatigue in her voice. She was wearing sweatpants and dad-style hoodie; a cigarette was held in her teeth, unlit.

"I'm…" - I muttered, but she cut me off.

"I know. Come inside. Whatever stale porridge you've been cooking in your head, you ain't serving it. We'll talk in the kitchen."

I obeyed. I felt guilty.

…

Aunt Maddie was having lunch with her daughter. Her name was Lily; I've seen her, here and there, but she was a shy kid and never talked to me all that much. Knowing how overprotective aunt Maddie was towards me, the neighbor's kid, I'm afraid to imagine the defense dome erected around her daughter. Her shyness felt appropriate.

Meeting me here, heads on, she offered a jumbled "H-hi Kyle" and lowered her gaze towards a slice of pizza. She was similar to her mom; light brown hair, green eyes. Though her face had a noticeably different shape. I returned her "hi" without much enthusiasm.

"You want pizza, Kyle? It's still warm, I gather. Sansaronni's is much better than I expected for the price." - aunt Maddie announced, sitting herself by the window. She put her cigarette away; she never smoked near her daughter.

I stood by the doorsill. I was in a state of confusion. I didn't know what to say or what to do. Madison sighed.

"Calm the f… Calm down, Kyle. You went through the grinder and expect me to be uppity because of some inane happenstance?" - she said, looking me straight in the eyes.

"Aunt Maddie…"

"I know. I know. Yeah, I'd feel good if you came to me for advice, or just to say hello, white all this was happening. I know it just didn't come to you. It's fine. You might be a tall, dashing kid, but, pardon me, you're still a kid. I accept that. I even respect that. You're doing pretty good. Hey, Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

She didn't add anything. She approached, quietly and quickly, and hugged me. It was not the bear hug she gave me when she met me a few months ago. It was gentle, and warm. This large, wide, soft woman enveloped me tenderly.

"It's fine. I know it's over now. Calm down."

…

I got my "job" back. I tried offering to do more, but aunt Maddie declined. She said that washing the car was quite enough. There was only one additional condition - I had to start bringing Stacy with me.

I wanted to decline. I knew, deep inside, that if Stacy would come here, if she'd be here regularly, something precious would be taken away from me. But I couldn't argue against it. There was nothing I could legitimately say. Not after what happened. Madison told me it's fine; that Lily, her daughter, could use a friend her age - and Stacy could use one, too. It never occurred to, to be honest, that Stacy had no friends - or at least friends she'd visit, or vice versa. I didn't want to agree. But I had to.

What the fuck do you expect? How was I supposed to phrase a definitive "no"? Could I just take a stand, tell aunt Maddie that I've seen Stacy fuck my crush into mincemeat? That the first pussy I saw was gaped, tenderized into something red and pulsating, and spewed pints of cum every few minutes? That I fully expected it to happen again, if a chance would arise?

No. I couldn't, and I didn't. Maybe I should've, but the past is very cruel to those who "should've" done something.

…

Moreover, there was little case for concern, at first. I hoped that Stacy herself would decline, but she was absolutely euphoric when I offered her to come with me to aunt Maddie. She missed her, for one, and would really, really want to see me work, for two. I pried. I tried to find that other Stacy, the Stacy who fucked Clarissa in front of my eyes. The Stacy that I was afraid of. The Stacy that terrified me, that could lie to me, trick me and play me. I know now that there wasn't such a Stacy, despite my paranoia. But back then it was different, so I pried again and again. I asked questions. "What do you think of aunt Maddie?" - I asked, and watched Stacy's reactions closely. - "I love her! She's really calm, and always smiling! But she smells of tobacco real bad." - my sister responded. I failed to find malice, no matter the angle I'd take. I hoped to find it, but I couldn't. And so, two days later, when I came to wash Madison's Ram, Stacy came with me, practically hopping in delight.

What can I say? It was a reunion. It was almost a party. It's absurd when you think about it; our family and aunt Maddie were next door neighbors for years, yet our disconnect has grown that much over such a short period. There was a grand feast prepared in our honor, and poor Lily, shy Lily, was forced to partake, as well. Aunt Maddie was a decent cook; though she had a tendency to try out strange internet recipes that didn't always work as well as expected. That day, she made pilaf, a kind of rice dish with mutton, garlic, and a boatload of spices. I found it agreeable. Stacy obliterated the plate and demanded more, to Madison's delight. With all the frolicing, I almost forgot that I was actually supposed to do a job; aunt Maddie gave me a pass and helped out, so we were finished quickly. It was really fun, for me and Stacy, and Maddie was in a great mood, too, and even Lily seemed not entirely bummed by our presence. It was pretty good.

I was worried, still. I was confused. I didn't know what to expect, exactly; I was afraid of a void of dark possibilities that didn't, ultimately, come to fruition. Was I wrong? Or was the thing that I was afraid of merely hidden in the uncertainties of the future? What was I afraid of? I wasn't sure.

I was also disappointed in myself. I realized that day how petty I could be, how easy jealousy took over me. When I saw Madison bear hugging Stacy, I thought that I should be getting that hug. When Madison was praising Stacy's appetite, I thought that I should be getting the praise. When Madison remarked how helpful Stacy was with doing the dishes and that kinda stuff, I was sure that I was more helpful, and thus, more deserving. All of those were quick, burst-like thoughts; when I realized how many of them went through my mind, I felt a sordid disgust with myself. I felt like I was reverting to a child-like state, the state of "me, mine and for me". I hated it. So I bottled it all up.

When we went back home, job well done, Stacy was walking on sunshine, and I dragged myself, sulking. I did show Stacy the hundred dollar banknote. It was impressive as hell.

Nothing ended up happening.

For now.

…

Stacy's ninth birthday was celebrated not long after, and my own fourteenth was getting close. I have to say, puberty was gracious to me. Nature spoiled me in many ways. I grew very tall already - taller than the average adult, I'm pretty sure - and I was still going; my thin, lanky build made my height look disbalanced, but my decent pair of shoulders covered it up nicely. I thought of trying football, but I was too thin; I settled on basketball, instead, and, as it turned out, I was pretty good at it. My voice cracking took its time, and I still sounded like a roided teddy bear, but there was some progress there, too. But best of all, of course, was my dick.

It grew considerably; I later learned that during puberty the penis lengthens strongly before shedding some length for girth, so it looked weird, thin and long, a lanky cock for a lanky Kyle. But I was still proud of it. I masturbated three times as often simply to enjoy myself.

I couldn't, though, enjoy myself completely. Stacy was always on my thoughts, whenever I'd go for a mirror watch to appreciate my physique. I haven't seen her body for a long time: after the kidnapping incident, she started wearing long, baggy dresses. I had no idea how she was developing physically: but I knew, for a fact, that she was. She was growing. Steadily, slowly, for now, she was entering her own puberty - a bit precocious, but within the normal range.

And it had me worried. What will puberty do to Stacy? How will she change? There were a plethora of answers that scared me outright, but there was nothing I could do about them.

…

Two months passed by. I was expecting the inevitable - but it failed to arrive. Each week, as I put on my tracks and went over to aunt Maddie's to do my round and get my piece of de-facto charity, I expected the worst, and it didn't happen. Everything was fine. Everything seemed fine.

Stacy was booming with excitement. She became good friends with Lily. Something about the way Stacy held herself, her unrelenting enthusiasm, her energy and straightforwardness mellowed the shy girl, and while I was busy rincing bumpers, they'd be running around, laughing, playing hide and seek, that kinda thing. Stacy had an aversion to phones and digital entertainment in general. She was very physical, very touch-happy; kind of like a Jack Russell, just a very large one. Madison was absurdly happy with herself when she saw her daughter running around. She was chill, though; she didn't intervene in their playing, as overbearing moms usually tend to do. She just sat in the shade of the veranda and read, or written, or did whatever else.

It was… kind of idyllic. It laid my worries to rest. But I was wrong to do so. Way I saw it, Stacy was strange, but behaved normally; but Madison, well, she saw it differently. She believed Stacy was normal, and was much, much more attuned to the small strangeness that reared itself, here and there.

Stacy carried Lily on her shoulders, for example. Not too much; Lily got afraid quickly. I didn't care; they had fun, and it was fun watching them have it. But Madison, well, she noticed the fact that my sister could carry another girl of around the same body weight as her without breaking a sweat.

She noticed the strange swaying in Stacy's long dresses. She noticed that she sat weird, never closing her legs. She noticed the strange, ghastly musk that followed Stacy around. She noticed the strange self-awareness Stacy had of her body. It didn't happen in a single day. But it was a growing suspicion that was steadily rising, week after week. I should've noticed it. I could've talked with Madison about it. About Stacy's condition, and how she shouldn't bother Stacy about it. Anything like that. Something.

Well, I didn't notice. I was too happy that nothing was happening. I watched Stacy too closely without considering the other side.

When the inevitable happened, I was unprepared.

…

It took some time. It was not immediate. Not like with Clarissa. It was a slow, perfidious process.

At first, Stacy started masturbating at Madison's house. She couldn't hold back. I guess… fuck, I have to be honest - I understand. Aunt Maddie had that effect. I'd do it too, if I had the gall. But I didn't, and Stacy did. She'd disappear for twenty minutes, maybe half an hour, each time we were there. In two weeks, just in two visits, aunt Maddie's house permeated with the peculiar stench of Stacy's cum. It was subtle: it had to coexist with the overbearing smell of tobacco and air fresheners. But it was there. All the time. Madison must've felt it, too.

After that, she started having talks with Stacy. I'm sure - absolutely sure - that it was genuine, simple and straightforward concern with no lecherous intent. Aunt Madison was a caring person, and Stacy, despite everything, was still eight and a half years old. She was still a little girl who went through a parental kidnapping, you know? Forget my angle on this shit and consider it from an outsider's point of view. Something was off. Madison needed to know what, specifically. It's understandable. It's what any decent human being should've done.

I don't really know how it went down. What went down. I didn't exactly snoop around. I wasn't following Stacy to see what she's been up to, or trailing Madison in case something was about to happen. I washed the car, like I promised. Was I there when it happened? Was I close? I don't know. I really don't.

But one day, I was late. School took longer than usual; we had a game, nothing big, just local, and I had to stay. I rushed home as soon as it was over, and Stacy wasn't there. I showered, put on my tracks, the usual. Went over to Madison's. She wasn't there, either. Her car was outside the garage, with a note stuck to the side window; it read something like "Something came up, can't be here, please do the usual, cash's under the toaster, do a good job or I want it back". It occurred to me that it was a really stupid idea to announce the presense of money in your house for the world to see; it didn't occur to me that aunt Maddie didn't care anymore. I did as was told; washed the car, didn't slack off. It was a bit lonely, doing it with nobody around, but I did it all the same. I did a good job. Spent more time than usual, even.

As I was close to finishing - polishing the windows, removing the glue mark from the note that was stuck there, specifically - I heard a sound.

It was a low, gurgling sound. The sound of an animal, or a human who tried holding something in but couldn't. It repeated, a few times, and then was cut off by a shriek. I was aghast. I stopped rinsing the windows, looked around. It was too muffled to detect where it came from. I'm sure, now, that it came from upstairs. I know what it was. I'm sure of it. I've heard a lot of women make sounds like that since.

When I was done, I cleaned up after myself, went into the house, took the money and was gone. I remember it vividly, for some reason. The sound of my footsteps in the empty house. My heart was beating. I may have not realized what had just happened, back then, but something inside me did, and it weighed on me in ways I couldn't understand.

Was that the first time Stacy fucked aunt Maddie? I don't know. But after that day, I started noticing the changes.

…

Not in Stacy. Stacy was the same, seemingly. Playing, having fun. In aunt Maddie. She tried to hide it. Worse, I'm sure: she tried to fight it. She felt that she was doing something wrong. She was a strong woman, Madison. A good woman. A good soul, as they say, but it didn't fucking matter.

Her eyes were drawn to Stacy, every time she saw her. She started spending all her time around us when we were there; to play, or to just hang around. If Stacy was around, so was aunt Maddie. She started losing interest in what I was doing. Usually, when I was done, I'd call her to inspect the state of the car; she'd give it a good look over, a finger-print test, the works. Usually should've happy. Sometimes I'd miss something. But those days…

She'd come, absentmindedly, and smile, and tell me it looks good. She wouldn't look at me. She wouldn't really look at all.

It irked me. I got my money, one way or another, and in a way, that was for the better; I could skim on the small stuff, cut some corners.

But I didn't want to cut corners. I enjoyed doing good work for aunt Maddie. I liked Madison. Maybe more than just liked.

It made it all the more painful, then, when she stopped caring.

…

The culmination, of sorts, was that one week I got a call on my cell. Madison was on the line; her voice was strange, strained, every other word interrupted by heavy breathing. She told me I could skip the week. She didn't use the car so much, so it's still clean, she told me. The money - the hundred bucks, which were more difficult to accept with each passing week - was, she said with a strange chuckle, on the house.

Stacy would bring it, she said. She was in, playing with Lily.

Obviously, it was a lie. It's easy to see lies from the height of foresight; they lay obvious before you, stripped in the sunlight by your advanced knowledge. Even back then, I knew it was a lie. But I didn't want to believe it. I wanted confirmation. I wanted to be sure.

My room's window was overlooking Madison's house, though from an angle; I started spying. Like a dirty little stalker, I took out my binoculars. I watched. It just didn't lay right with me: whatever was happening. Of course, of course I fucking knew exactly what was going on. I knew! But fuck, it was so pathetic, so utterly miserable to just accept it. To just stand on the proverbial podium, in front of the proverbial mirror, and announce to myself that yes, indeed, Stacy now owns Madison, and Madison doesn't need me anymore, because whatever good will or affection she had for me was now irrelevant before the need to serve a new, tiny, cunt-remodelling master. That's a back-breaking level of acceptance.

I am a coward. A weakling, for sure. But that would be something on the level of whipped eunuch.

So I thought for many years. But nowadays - as I'm writing this - I keep asking myself, with morbid curiosity - what if I'd just accept Stacy's dominion? Just… lead her to her fate, as her humble bootlicker, presenting ripe cunts for distend? Would I be happier?

It would save me a lot of hassle. A lot of pain. A lot of loss. It would save me Clarissa's malevolent fucking betrayal.

It would certainly save me the heartbreak of watching Stacy fuck aunt Maddie first-hand, which happened two or three weeks later.

...

Before that happened, Madison started wearing new clothes. Every day, she had something new highlighting her body. Her baggy drapes were locked away. As if trying to entice Stacy, she'd wear things that did not beget her age, but blessed the eyes with visions of her body. I masturbated to those short, minute-long sights many times. They are burned into my head to this day. A camisole that held Madison's breasts so tightly that they lifted upwards, straining against the shoulder straps, indendeted indecently into four distinct shapes. A plaid skirt, tense against the hips and the upper curve of the buttocks, then suddenly released to flutter underneath. She'd put on makeup. Her face changed, too. Her expression was different. I could barely see it - I had just a few moments to do it each day, and my binoculars were not exactly to CIA specs - but that was enough.

Her trembling lips, her half-closed eyes, her reddened cheek told a lowly, raw story of lust.

I've witnessed this, iteration after iteration, for almost ten days, and stopped. I couldn't handle it anymore. I tried forgetting. I couldn't. Four days later, my curiosity turned morbid. I took again to my binoculars the moment I heard Stacy leave the house. What I've seen surprised me.

Madison was back to her old, baggy clothes. Her new facial expression was still there, but her attire defaulted to what she always liked. Something ached in my heart. I thought, for a second, that maybe it's over. Maybe Madison is fine again. Maybe she's done with Stacy. I called her, immediately, asking if she wanted me to come over to wash the car. She and Stacy were already inside; my binocular offered no vision inside of it.

She answered with a slurried voice, barely forming words.

"N… nah, Kyle… it's… it's fine… I'll give the money… mowney… to… Stacy, okay? It's… fine… ahh…"

She dropped the call abruptly.

…

I know now that aunt Maddie merely learned that there's no need to entice Stacy. Stacy loved aunt Maddie. She loved her from the bottom of her heart. It was with deep, real, boiling love that Stacy jackhammered Madison into a mindless pile of mincemeat. Stacy fucked because she loved. She was not possessive. She did not feel a sense of victory, or superiority, when she broke women underneath her mammoth cock. She did it because she loved them, each and every one, and to fuck them was the most natural, most raw expression of that love. She couldn't help herself. She did it almost by supernatural instinct. To be Stacy is to fuck, to reshape pussies, to dominate wombs, to destroy cervixes - all with absolute emotional purity.

Stacy didn't want to hurt me. She knew I liked aunt Maddie very much. She tried to hide her visits. She did things for me, took on more chores, bought me snacks and candy as "I'm sorry" presents without ever revealing what she was sorry for - again, to avoid hurting me. But she couldn't escape her nature, no matter how guilty she felt. And I lacked the back - that one last vertebrae in my spine - to confront her about it.

…

The heat was mild that day; I was chilling in the backyard, next to the pool, drinking soda, doing nothing in particular. My phone was upstairs, charging. My head was a void, lazy and content. I didn't spy on aunt Maddie anymore. There was both nothing to see and too much to see. Stacy was visiting her daily, for hours on end; Madison would welcome her in, and they'd be gone inside - until, two or three hours later, Stacy would emerge, and Madison wouldn't. That happened every day. On the clock.

Until that day.

I heard giggling and rustling, an assortment of muffled sounds and words, and my ears perked up, woken from apathetic nothing by a sudden stimuli. I half-sat on the lounge chair and listened; one voice was obviously Madison's, and the second one, much quieter, was Stacy. It came from the other side of the fence, where our lots were connected. I froze - and listened. When I realized I couldn't hear anything, I stood up and slowly stalked towards the fence. I couldn't see above it - it was too high - except for a large poplar tree that grew in Madison's backyard.

"Why here, aunt Maddie? Can't we… can't we do it inside?" - I barely discerned Stacy's worried words as I almost hugged the fence.

"Why not? The weather's nice. Doing it outside is nice for a change, don't you think?" - Madison's answer was cheerful - but also musty, rich with an undertone I've never once heard in her voice. It had me standing at attention, immediately. I slowed my breathing to a crawl.

"But… Aunt Maddie… I don't want… I don't want anyone to see…"

"Listen here, Stacy, darling. There is not a thing in you, or about you, that's shameful, or wrong. You are majestic. Me, I'm no vanilla pudding with cream, but when… when you love me… I feel like I reached my limit. That I'm never going to be in a better place. So you perk right back up, girl!" - aunt Maddie boomed. It was her usual, high-spirited positive rumbling - but once again, that tone, that special tone was there, giving it a strange, raw edge.

"I… I know. Thank you, aunt Maddie. But… brother…" - Stacy almost whispered. My heart stopped.

"Kyle? Oh… you worried about Kyle… he doesn't know, sweetheart. I know that you're worried…"

"He likes you too, aunt Maddie. He's hurt."

My teeth clenched until flashes of pain ran emerged in the corners of my vision.

"I... " - Madison stumbled. - "I know. I like Kyle a lot, Stacy. He's a good kid. He's a really good kid. He's like a son to me too. But… I can't explain it. What we have is different, but there's no good words, Stacy. I'm sorry. I… I need you, in a special way, that I never felt before in my life, and I know - in my heart, I know - that I'll never feel the same with anyone again. So please… this is a special place for me, this here tree, you know? It's me and my old flame made Lily together. I want to do it here. I want you to make a sister for Lily. Or a brother. Don't you want it too, Stacy, sweetheart? Look… Look how drenched I am. Look what you've made me endure!"

I couldn't handle it. There was a peephole in the fence - I knew about it, but I refrained from looking though it, until now. I couldn't bear it anymore. I had to see.

The stood under the shade of the poplar tree, where a frivolous mountain of pillows was set on a picnic cloth. They were both in dresses; Stacy in her usual innocent blue, and Madison in a gorgeous, long white. Between her legs was an obvious, lewd damp patch; she rubbed her legs together, almost vibrating, on the absolute cutting edge, breathing through the mouth.

"Please, Stacy. I like Kyle! But you have to give me this. Here, under this tree. Please, girl, I beg of you! Please!"

Stacy didn't answer. Her erection answered for her.

I suspect - I'm not sure, for to remember is too shameful - that I shook at this moment. In fear and in awe. Stacy's penis was larger than her arm. As it grew, its sheer mass brought on a strange warp to its shape; it curved upwards for the first few inches, and then shallowly downwards, as if the weight of the cockhead was too much for the shaft to bear. It couldn't have been smaller than eighteen inches. When I saw it, I felt something strange; a premonition of neverending shame. I would never surpass Stacy in anything. I knew it before, but now it was ingrained in me.

Her dress folded itself into a v-shaped fold on the base of the throbbing organ, riding higher and higher as the erection reached new stages of rigidity. Aunt Maddie couldn't handle it. Her legs gave out. She fell to her knees.

"Please! Please, Stacy, girl, for the love of all that is good and merciful! You want it as much as I do, I know! You can barely handle it! You've been fucking me every day! Every day you've been doing unspeakable things to my pussy! Every day you've been beating your shape into my body, resizing it, remolding it, making it yours! Please, do me! Do me now! I know you can't stand it! Why do you hesitate?! Because of Kyle? Because he can, maybe, possibly, see us?! Please!! We'll do it in the shadows!! I'll think of something!! Please!" - aunt Maddie begged, hysteria creeping into her voice. She was reduced to something pitiful. I was shocked to hear those unbecoming words coming from her.

"You have to give him something." - Stacy said, in a strange tone of voice. - "He deserves it. You betrayed him."

"What? No! You… it's you, Stacy! It's for you, girl! I never did anything to him…"

"Give him… a bit more money, maybe? You have to, aunt Maddie." - Stacy repeated. Her voice was indeed strangely flat.

"But it's your fault! You're also to blame, girl! You came onto me!"

"I'll do anything for my bro. I can't hold myself back. You're right. But anything I can do to make it right, I'll try to. It should be this way."

"Alright! I'll think of something!" - Madison almost shouted, eyes transfixed on the throbbing meat monster in front of her. - "I promise! Now, please, please… Can we do it?!"

Stacy closed her eyes for a second - and stepped forward. She picked Madison up - without a slightest strain - and almost threw her onto the pillows, face first.

I cannot describe what I felt or thought at the moment. I was overloaded. Rationality left me. I wanted to scream and hide at the same time. I couldn't comprehend - not what I've seen, not what I've heard. So I watched. I just watched, silently.

Aunt Maddie rightened herself - as much as she could, the way her body was acting up, hips bucking seemingly in anticipation - and hurriedly draped her crumpled dress upwards. A mountain of thickness was laid bare for Stacy - an ass almost twice as wide as my sister, shaped like two pears, yet not without supple. Age took its toll - but most mercifully. It was sublime. Majestic. Stacy put her hands on that ass - and ripped, in a single motion, the damp, darkened panties. Madison yelped at the sudden flash of pain as the fabric was torn; yet she did not move, only extended her ass upwards, closer to Stacy, closer to the fulfillment of her absolute desire.

I could see her pussy, though barely. It was half-opened, with chunky, glistening outer lips and swollen, fat inners. I'll never forget that pussy. A pussy brutalized by Stacy, never meant to close again, never meant for anyone else or for anything else but my little sister. It was so small, seemingly. When Stacy's deathcock entered it, I was assured, with horror, that nothing could accept something so big without ripping.

Yet it could.

An inhuman sound escaped the older woman's lungs; between a squeal, a gasp and a happy laugh, until a moment later it was silenced by the first stroke, and then the second, and the third.

Stacy was picking the pace up fast.

She buttomed immediately and pushed onwards anyway; strange shapes presented themselves on Madison's midriff - organs, moving out of the way, offering the distending canal of the pussy any and all space it might need. In a few strikes, the cervix gave in, and the womb was breached. Like a ram pushed through, a tent of skin was appearing on Madison's belly, just below the ribcage.

Stacy increased the pace.

Madison didn't talk anymore. I suspect she couldn't; mentally and physically. She was squealing, but each time Stacy buttomed out, all eighteen inches of cock buried deep inside her partner-victim, the repositioning of organs kicked the air out her lungs, cutting the voice off mid-squeal. Strands of sticky female wetness connected Stacy's pelvis to the red, raw, brutalized cunt.

And the pace was still increasing.

Stacy's balls slapped against the hairy mons of the hole that serviced her. They were in proportion to the shaft; the strikes came slow, on a long parabolic arc, and rammed into the clit and pubic mound with enough force to send ripples through the skin.

As the speed increased, Madison's ass up, face down pose was naturally skewing, curving strongly, pushing the hips further upwards. Stacy was fucking Madison into the ground, with only some pillows to soften the blows. The ass, which took the brunt of the impacts, was red and swollen within the first few minutes. The dress, crumpled before, now rode all the way down in a formless mess; I could see, between the crumpled creases, Madison's fat tits, squished absurdly underneath the combined weight of the woman herself and the brutal strikes that impacted her. Her nipples seemed wet. She was, of course, already pregnant; the Poplar tree was symbolic, nothing more. A consummation, of sorts. To make it official.

How long did it take? Not too long, actually. Ten minutes, at most. For a few seconds, Stacy's pace became blinding - and then she slowed down, abruptly, and her legs started shaking. She stumbled, almost fell, grabbed Madison's ass strongly, leaving white marks, all the while her balls started pulsating and slowly climbing up the sack, a wave of contraction going from top to bottom.

She was getting prepared to cum. It took a while. For Stacy, it was a process. She is not like us.

Her titanic flesh slab swelled, stretching the poor, devastated cunt around itself into taut discoloration. The shaft, too, started pulsating, a wave-like motion from base until the deeply buried, orange-sized head. A motion like a shiver passed after down.

And then she came.

The head, firmly locked inside the womb by the sharply protruding crown, struck the back of the organ with such strength that the impact of semen against womb could be seen from the outside. The balls pulsated, and then the next shot came. And then the next.

By the fifth, the womb was filled, a visible bulge pushed underneath the lungs by Stacy's megacock.

By the tenth, it slinked lower underneath its own weight.

By the twentieth shot, Madison took the shape of pregnancy in the early months.

By the fiftieth, Madison looked due with a litter.

By the time it was over - I couldn't count anymore - Madison was supported in her current position by the cushion-like globe of her own distended form.

Stacy stopped, laying atop the shaking woman. She took a few steps backwards, releasing her cock, and fell on her left knee, slipping on the wetness underneath.

Madison's cunt was ruined. It was an almost perfect circle that pulsated, but didn't even try to close. The canal within it was so distended and stretched that shadow hid most of it. No semen escaped. It was kept in by a fat, swollen cervix, shut tight.

A few minutes later, Stacy turned her over, broke her cervix with her cock to let out the cum, and then started fucking her again.

Then again.

And again.

After the fifth time, I stopped watching.

Madison was not the same in my mind. I've seen how it looks, now. I knew what she was. What any woman after meeting Stacy was.

They had a new function. A new future, and a new destiny. They'll never be the same. By the dominion of cock that was almost certainly godly, their fate was now preordained.

To carry young for the glory of Stacy, and that was all.

…

Two weeks later, I saw Lily, Madison's daughter, pushed against the window of her room, belly full to bursting and wet with cum. I wasn't surprised anymore.

Chapter 3: Conundrum

Notes:

This chapter is long overdue. I blame three things:

Myself, because I'm a lazy cunt;

Videogames, because they're far too comfy an escapism

And the fact that my life situation is still fucked and there are simply not enough hours in the day. Anyway, enjoy that mammoth of a chapter, and leave a comment if you liked it. I'll do my best to respond.

Chapter Text

Wanna hear some weak shit?

Despite everything, seeing Stacy fuck Madison made me feel better. Not the rutting - that shit almost broke me. But what was said before it.

It may seem like a trifle. Who the fuck cares? The thing that happened, matter of fact, was still monstrous. But it mattered to me. At the time, I still didn't really understand Stacy. I felt that she liked me, or pretended that she did, but I was always unsure, always suspecting, always expecting something. Maybe not outright malevolent, but horrifying nevertheless. But now, I had a tiny glimpse into what Stacy truly was. It proved a lot of my fears, but, at the same time, it rejected my premise.

Stacy was not against me. Yeah, shit, it sounds weird when I say it like that. But look at it from my perspective then: my family was mostly ruined, dad was never around. I was still fourteen. A kid needs a pack at that age, a safe circle, a place to call home. My house was most certainly not a "home". The only person who was reliably close to me was my sister; and the only thing I was guaranteed from her presence was dread. It was a big uplift, then, to realize that at least a part of that dread was unfound.

I didn't arrive at that conclusion immediately, though. As I said, I was mentally ruined. For almost a month I was in shambles. I was in the grips of absolute, soulless apathy.

I was functioning. I was going to school, I was meeting with friends, I was doing sports. But my soul was completely numb. I felt like an observer to the world, not a part of it. I did what I normally did on autopilot, and didn't think at all.

I avoided looking out the window. I avoided listening too much to what was happening at home when Stacy was there. I was in a state of self-preservation. I was trying to keep my heart intact. I was unfeeling and smiled absentmindedly all day.

It was absolutely horrible shit. It's the worst I've ever been in my life. I'm not kidding. I'm not exaggerating. It was worse than abject terror. It was such a pathetic mode of non-existence that remembering it today hurts me almost physically. Apathy is worse than shock. Apathy is a taste of death before it really comes. I really think so - but at the same time, I think that state of almost-death helped me, in a way. It preserved my sanity. It might sound pathetic, but putting some time between you and your problems helps heal the mind. It's all a big cope. But coping is fucking difficult, sometimes.

…

During that month, Stacy still brought money.

I didn't use any of it. I'd find a hundred dollars and my desk, once a week, and I'd put it into the lowest drawer in my desk. I didn't think about it, because thinking was too painful. I liked that money when it was paid for a job - or a chore, more correctly, but a chore I greatly enjoyed doing. Now, instead, aunt Maddie paid a premium for getting her internal organs reshuffled around by Stacy's elephant cock. I didn't want that money. That money was vile.

It was also painful to receive that money from Stacy. It was her money, the way I saw it. It should've ended up anywhere but on my desk. But she believed otherwise, and I wasn't in a state where talking with her about it was on the agenda. The connotations were beyond me to bear. Until the fourth week. During the fourth week, Stacy brought five hundred bucks.

I've heard her making those five hundred bucks, despite the closed, draped window of my room. I heard aunt Maddie scream, animalistically, again and again, forming human words just barely, in-between long, arduous sessions of execution by cock. It was a Saturday; I wasn't at home, usually, on Saturdays. I'd normally be slinking around at Bob's, evading his many family members, waiting for a chance to get a spin on the household XBox, playing fighting games. But Bob was away that week. I stayed home.

Stacy opened my door suddenly, but with great care, and gasped, almost "eek"ed, at finding me there. I sat up from my lying position, met her gaze. I didn't want to see Stacy that day. I didn't want to see her much at all.

"Hey, sis." - I offered, unenthusiastically. She pressed her lips and averted her eyes.

"B… bro…" - she muttered. I didn't push on. I just looked at her. My only question was "what do you want". I didn't say it.

"I… this… this is for you." - she finally gathered. She came to, slowly, carefully, as if afraid; ironic, since with every step my heart was more and more constricted.

Gathering her last bit of bravery, she shot her hands forward, revealing a small wad of banknotes.

Five hundred dollars.

Believe it or not, this was my wakeup call. My signal. Seeing those five hundred dollars. Knowing how they were made. Being the recipient of those five hundred dollars. My numbed mental state, my fear, my desire to forget, they all collapsed, converged into those five crispy Franklins, all held tightly in a small, girly palm.

It all took me a long moment to process. A month of apathy has taken its toll on me. I looked Stacy in the eyes, once again. There was worry there, and a bit of fear, but also strange hope. That I'd take the money. That I'd take that token, and it would mend me.

It wouldn't, of course. But I didn't say that. Instead, I said this.

"Stacy… you need to return that money. I can't take it."

She opened her mouth, but didn't say anything. Her eyebrows curved down. She looked ready to cry. She met my gaze head on; as I was trying to guess her motives, she tried to guess mine. She looked for cruelty, for jest, for mockery. I'm sure she didn't find any.

"B.but… bro…" - she tried to word a response, but couldn't. Words eluded her. I cut her off.

"Listen, Stacy. I… I don't wanna talk about aunt Maddie, or anything. I really don't. But I have to make sure. Don't take her money, okay? Don't bring it to me. I got money because I did a job. If she… if she wants to give you money, it's your money. Not mine. Yours. You have to talk with her about it. Understand?"

My tone must've been harsh; I had to push those words out with great strength, and it coloured my tone unpleasantly. Stacy shrivelled.

"I… I understand."

She didn't add anything. She just stood there. Her lips were trembling, and opened, occasionally, as if trying to say something that repeatedly refused to come out. I didn't say anything, either. Nothing came to mind. No harshness, no pity, no admonition, no support. I didn't know where we stood. What we were, to one another, beyond the most basic definition of "siblings". Were we friends? I'm not sure. Were we enemies? The idea frightened me. No matter how many years have passed, I had no complete idea about what Stacy truly was. So I was cautious. Cowardly.

"Stacy…" - I muttered, but I was suddenly cut off. Stacy talked over me, in a quick, trembling voice.

"I'm… I'm sorry, bro. For… for everything… I… I don't know those things too well. Please, please forgive me. Please… I… I wish I could be better… I'm..."

Her voice was shaking. Words came out minced, distorted by sobs. Her eyes were getting wetter, tears ready to burst.

I clenched my teeth. What could I say? I didn't forgive her. Not yet. Not really. But did it matter?

"Just… just don't take aunt Maddie's money for me. Promise me."

She nodded, once, then again. She wiped her eyes and tried her best to subdue her sobs. The money was still clenched in her hand; it was a fist, now. She finally reared her eyes to meet mine.

"I promise! I… I really promise! I'll return those right away!" - Stacy almost shouted. I nodded. I found it hard to look her in the eyes, all of a sudden. She turned, then, and ran away.

I sat in silence for some while. I could feel my heartbeat with painful clarity. There was a sudden certainty in my mind and thoughts.

I felt… Well, not good. Certainly not fucking good. But I felt repaired, to a degree. That refusal - the one I just gave - was important to me. Perhaps more than I realize, even now. It was a tiny nugget of pride. Empty pride, maybe, but sometimes empty pride lets you pull yourself together.

Even if it didn't improve much, all things considered.

…

Truth be told, the span of time between my fourteenth and sixteenth birthdays - a bit less, actually, a year and a half is a more accurate number - was just plain fucking hard. Whatever youthful energy let me keep on truckin after dad all but disappeared from our daily lives was running short. Taking care of Stacy, of myself, of the house, studying, trying to maintain some sort of daily life - the toll was rising, slowly but surely. I was getting frustrated. I was getting tired.

I hope it's fucking understandable. Yeah, I'm sure that there are kids out there with a much worse lot. I never worked in a sweatshop, I was never trafficked, or some other horror story like that. My life was never truly horrible, unbearable hell. I had a roof over my head. I was never hungry. But I think that now. Back then, I felt different; I felt overwhelmed.

An anger was rising in me; each day, a bit more. It manifested as strange, jittery irritation. Everything was uncomfortable and unpleasant. Nothing felt good or right. It was subtle, at first, but not for long. My enmity grew quickly, and soon became a constant companion. In late fall it was completely unbearable. I stopped cooking altogether, and ate whatever crap could be bought for a middling dollar - ramen and snacks, usually. Stacy was not at home, most of the time, so it didn't affect her all that much, but it affected me - along with other things, too many to count, that I stopped or refused to do. It was strange, self-destructive behaviour; but such is the nature of deeply set, slow-burning anger and exhaustion. There was more than that, but I'll spare you the details. It's all petty shit. Fitting for a boy of that age, but petty nevertheless.

What I needed most, during that time, was a confrontation. An out. Some way to set my temper free, to feel my blood boil for real. To do something, anything, about my state of being. But I faltered.

What could I do? Confronting Stacy came to mind. About aunt Madison, mostly. But I knew that it would be trite. Whatever point I could come up with would inevitably burn in the face of simple, obvious truth: aunt Madison was absolutely enjoying the state of affairs. When Stacy was taking her, hammering brutal love into her now obviously pregnant body, there was only bliss for aunt Maddie. It was the best thing that happened to her, ever, the way it seemed, and it happened repeatedly, every day. What could I say? Some pathetic shit, like "I would also like a go at Maddie's permanently gaped, puffy, red-swollen snatch"?

Fuck that. To confront Stacy was to confront myself. I could not do that. I couldn't manage. So I didn't.

Instead, I aimed my ire at my dad.

It was well-placed ire. It was understandable, and very proper ire for a fourteen-year old to get at his absentee father who all but left him to manage for himself. It took a lot of time, though. Our lives almost stopped intersecting. I had to wait for a proper window.

I confronted him in late october; it was almost midnight, and he was drinking - and talking on the phone.

…

I was in my room when I heard him shouting - downstairs, in his study, where he also slept during those days. Our timetables didn't intersect at all. He left the house early in the morning and came so late that I was already asleep at the time. But not on that day. He was earlier than usual - which is not saying much, the clock still showed 11PM. All the same, it meant I had a chance to talk. Face to face. Not on the phone. I took it.

I went down the stairs. With every step, I recounted my grievances. I was building my case, my speech, my indignant accusation. There is incredible capacity for petty contempt in those who consider themselves scorned. I was ready to spew it all out - but I didn't get the chance.

When I came to the half-open door of the study, my father, who was still mid-call, threw his phone at the wall.

A cracking sound followed, and then a muted thud as it landed on the carpeted floor. The phone did not break; by some strange accident, the impact has set the ongoing call on loudspeaker.

I heard a voice, distorted, electronic and strange; the fall may have spared the phone as a whole, but something was obviously awry with the speaker. But I still remember that voice, to this day, despite the gnarled sound. It was the deep, resonating voice of an unknown man. Masterfully controlled - and deeply unpleasant. It was a voice bellowing like a venomous bass guitar.

"...it's your fault, Richard. You knew the costs, and the risks. You chose this! You sold them, and yourself, for the low price of a pretty pension. I'm not going to sugar-coat it for you, you piece of shit drunk." - the voice uttered, and then stopped, suddenly, and returned a second later. - "Wait, I can hear myself. Did you put me on speaker?! Are you insane?! Ri…"

He never finished that phrase. Dad appeared in the rectangular picture frame that the half-opened door formed. He caught a glimpse of me - and immediately, without any hesitation, one motion flowing into the other instantly, dropped the sole of his boot on the phone.

There was an abrupt, powerful crunch. Dad turned to me, and I finally met him eye to eye. The fury that I saw in him - in his eyes, in the grimace of his face - suddenly made me doubt myself. He said nothing for a few long seconds. Then, after kneeling to pick the remains of his phone, he shook his head like a boxer shaking the sweat off his cheeks, and called me out.

"Come on in, Kyle. Sorry for that. You wanna talk?" - he said, in a shaking, furious voice, interrupted by quick, shallow breathing.

I didn't answer. I just nodded. Dad invited me in.

His study was surprisingly tidy, empty whiskey bottles notwithstanding. His computer, a big stationary unit, was chirping cordially, and his laptop laid right next to it. I never really understood what it was my father was doing, professionally speaking. It was some strange high-tech position I've never heard about. DevOps or something like that. He never talked about his job in any detail, and I never pried. It didn't matter to me all that much, to be honest.

He didn't look good. I suspect he was quite a looker when he was younger; tall, with sharp, angular features, deeply-set eyes and a defined jaw. A face fit for a sleuth and wasted on a programmer. But this was in the past. Those days, he looked defeated. Not a shade of his former self, but something strange, transformed, and wretched. His cheeks fell in. He wasn't eating properly. His dark hair noticeably grayed much quicker than before. There was a fire in his eyes, still - but it was not a good fire.

He sat down first, and uncorked another bottle - but setting two glasses, not one.

"Forget about the phone. Don't talk about it. It's personal shit from work. A greedy shitstain of a man tries to press my buttons. Fucker's good at it. That's the extent of my explanation. Fine by you?" - Dad half-growled, half-talked.

I sat. I was confused, but my own irritation didn't go away.

"Yeah."

"Attaboy. So, what have you been up to, Kyle?" - a question followed. Father filled his glass, the amber liquid splashing partially on the table from the shaking hand. He then filled the second one; it took me a moment to realize that it was being poured for me.

"Dad, I don't think I should…"

"Bullshit." - he cut me off. - "You've been drinking with your friends for a few good years now, and your pal Robert has been supplying you with beer on the weekly. So don't peddle me this crap. Enjoy a good fucking drink once in a while instead of whatever piss they bottle as beer these days."

The glass was pushed towards me; I took it with an uncertain hand. Dad took a swing on his own drink, not waiting for me. He grimaced.

"So?" - he asked, after the alcohol released its post-gulp grip. - "What is it? You look angry. Wanna say something?"

There was a lot I wanted to say. I searched for good words. Everything I came up with earlier evaporated, somehow.

"Yeah. You can say that." - I replied, biding time to get my thoughts straight.

"Sure I can say that. I can say anything I want. Get on with it, Kyle! Don't be a pussy."

I gritted my teeth. He was provoking me, but I was not sure why. It felt to me like it was my anger against his, at least back then. So I bit. I took a swing, too. It burned my throat. On this day I learned I was not a whiskey person. My hearty gulp seemed to bring Dad a strange kind of joy, though.

"That's the spirit. So? What's up? We're in a circle of men, now. Say it like it is."

I mostly liked Dad. He was always a bit strange. I don't know how to explain it; it's like he saw the world from a different angle than anybody else, and he never shared the specifics of his angle. He also had strange insights. He knew too much about too many things. How he knew about my teenage drinking, for example, I don't know to this day.

But he was different, at that time. Understandably so, but understanding did little to dampen my irritation. So I lashed out. I almost shouted through gritted teeth.

"I can't… I can't live like this, Dad."

"Like what?"

"Like this! Me, Stacy, alone almost every day! It's too much. I can't handle a house on my own. I can't! It's not fucking…" - I stopped myself, realizing I started swearing. Father waved his hand. 'Go on', the gesture said. - "It's not fucking fair. The… the housework, and taking care of Stacy, and making food, and cleaning everything…" - I cut myself off, looking for words. Dad interjected.

"So just don't do it. My domestic dysfunction does not translate into obligation for you. I don't care if the house looks like shit, Kyle. I admire your effort, but what does it have to do with me? Did I ask you to do those things? I was honestly surprised when you did." - he said in a flat, calm voice. Only a shade of his anger remained. Perhaps he spoke half a tone higher than usual.

"It's still not fucking right!!" - I shouted.

He took a deep breath. - "Sure. Okay. So what do you want? Want me to hire a house worker? I can do that. I'm not kidding. Do you need help?"

"I need help from you. I need you to be at home. To… to take some control. To carry some obligations!" - I almost hissed. It might've been the most furious I've ever been in my entire life.

"No. Sorry, Kyle. That's the one thing I won't do."

"Why?! Why the fuck not?!"

He took another sip, and when he opened his eyes, the gaze he gave me was drilling into my soul. I thought he was about to punch me. I wasn't good at reading him at all. But now, rethinking it - it would be better if he punched me, and ended it all there. It would be easier, for sure. I'd be left scorned and finally with someone to reliably hate. But he didn't punch me.

"Okay. I'll answer that. I'll answer it honestly. You can accept it or not; it doesn't matter. You can run and tattle to social services if you so desire. I don't care. Good for you? Want to hear it?" - father said.

I pressed my lips. My breathing was fast and irregular; my hand clenched on the whiskey glass. I took another swing and winced. Father nodded approvingly.

"Yes. Yes, I want to hear it."

"I can't be home, Kyle, because I can't stand being around Stacy."

"What? That's… that's it?! That's not…"

"Shut the fuck up. Let me finish. I don't hate Stacy. I don't hate you, either. I love both of you. You've been good to me, Kyle. You've never wronged me. Nor did Stacy, strictly speaking. But it doesn't matter."

He closed his eyes, gathering his thoughts; a grimace - half pained, half irritated - has distorted his face.

"You see, Kyle, every time I see Stacy. I see in her your whore of a mother. I see her facial structure, her little mannerisms, her expressions. I see the police officers, and the courthouse, and that smug little grin of hers when the judge read the ruling. She's doing well for herself, you know? Staying with her parents downstate, raising her gaggle of children. How the fuck she manages I have no idea."

He stopped talking to take another sip; his glass was almost empty. I said nothing. I found it hard to breathe.

"Every time I come home in the evening and Stacy's door is open, I see her face, and I want to slam the door shut so I don't have to. If I'll have to… if I'll have to deal with her on the daily, Kyle, I'll kill her, and then myself. I can't control this. It's too raw. So I'd rather keep my distance. I thought I could manage; I thought you could manage, too. Didn't know how hard it was for you. I guess I didn't think much at all."

He gritted his teeth and shook his head.

"So, son? What's it going to be? Social services and cops at my door by tomorrow? How're we gonna do it?"

I was woozy. The alcohol rushed to my head. I seriously considered his provocative offer. I imagined how defeated he'd be, forced into a wailing pig cruiser. But I stopped myself. Almost immediately. I had enough clarity of mind.

"No. I'm not gonna… not gonna do anything b'out you. But I need help, dad. Really. Really need help!!" - my words came out mumbled; I cursed the whiskey. - "At home… and… and money is a problem… I worked… did chores for aunt Madison… but I can't no more."

My father crossed his arms and closed his eyes, mulling it over.

"Okay. I'll ask around, hire a house worker. For cleaning, but if she can do some prep-cooking, all the better. As for money…"

He produced his wallet, and took out a credit card from it.

"Take it. It's yours. Use it however you need, but don't fuck around. I'll be checking the bank report weekly, and you'll be sorry if I see pay-per-view porn on it or something stupid like that. Understood?"

I froze. I looked at dad, the card, and then back at dad again.

"What… why? What the hell?" - I was honestly dumbfounded. I had no idea of how to react.

"Well, way I see it, if you're handling the house, you should have the funds to do it. I can't. I gave you my reasons. They're horrible, shitty reasons, but they're also true."

"That's still… still not right! We're... "

"What?"

"We're… it's like we're not a family anymore. Not a normal family." - I mumbled, trying my best not to wince.

"Because we're not a normal family, Kyle." - Dad said, harshly. - "We're a family going through deep, horrible shit. I'm not sugarcoating, and you shouldn't, either. There's two paths to take: we can burn it all down. You and Stacy become wardens of the state, and I find some gutter to rot in. Or we manage it. Somehow. Barely. Squeezing through the shit until it's all done. Until you're eighteen, at least. What do you prefer?"

It was manipulation. Nowadays, I'm sure of it. But it was a reasonable line of thinking. What were we to do?

What was I to do?

Nothing was solved. Nothing was made right. But it was the best I had.

"Okay. I'll take it. It's… again, it's not right. But it's something".

"Yeah. Something like that. I'll write the pin down for you - memorise it ASAP, you hear? If you ever lose it, call me immediately so I can cancel the card. Ah, you know the drill, I'm sure. Want another glass?"

"No. No, I shouldn't."

"Wise. Go to sleep, then. See you… see you when I see you. I'm not some strange, alien monster, Kyle. Yeah, life is hard. But we can still talk. I can… there are some things that I can still solve. Some problems. So talk to me, okay?"

I stopped moving, tried to think. My head failed me.

'Okay." - I responded. Dad nodded.

"Good night."

That was my big confrontation, my big turning point. I was, strictly speaking, bought and sold. I kinda despise myself for that evening, thinking back. It wasn't about money, after all. But I guess dad really was good at reading me much better than I was at reading him. This evening gave me a measure of content that lasted for almost a year; little has changed, in practice, but I felt like I had more ground under my feet. It wasn't actually true. It was a setup, in a way, though none of us knew it yet. When things went south, as they eventually did, I was in a position of obligation and responsibility, which made everything worse. When I fucked up, it was all on me. But I didn't know about it, then. I had a credit card. I was a big man.

At the moment, it seemed enough. The feeling changed when Stacy started going through puberty proper, but that was a different problem entirely.

…

One errant detail I'd like to add: father held his word about the house worker. It didn't stick. The woman he hired arrived a week after our argument - remarkably fast, I might add. She was a mexican lady in her 40s, who came wearing a long, frilly shirt and bright blue jeans; she was chubby and looked harsh. Upon smelling the house, she announced that she's not going to set foot in a den of perverts, and stormed away.

To this day I believe that she is the wisest woman in all of Agave Springs.

…

Time marched onward. I resumed my unenviable rush against the tide with renewed effort. My fifteenth birthday loomed on the horizon.

Above everything, these months were a time of change. It wasn't abrupt. It took awhile. But as my attention was constantly diverted elsewhere, I noticed those changes in bursts - and that elevated the shock that a lot of them manifested.

I would like to report that during those days my voice finished cracking, all of a sudden, and I acquired a rather decent baritone. I was proud of it. It gave me an obnoxious enjoyment of talking; I outgrew it, eventually. But it didn't earn me a lot of points in the meantime.

What was I up to, those days, when my position as housekeeper became semi-official? Not much, despite my previously stated irritation. Stacy was at home less and less. I suspected, quite reasonably, that she spent her days jackhammering Madison. It wasn't the truth, as I later learned. Or it was only a part of it.

Either way, with my sister becoming semi-autonomous - or at least far enough removed from me on a daily basis - I had more time to spend. I stopped doing organized sports at school, but I still yearned for physical activity - so I jogged, went on hikes on the hills past the town limits. went lollygagging with my friends, or visited Bob's. I had a schedule for house chores; Stacy chimed in, did dishes, helped doing the floors, that kinda stuff. We managed decently.

But the changes came. Gradually, as I said. Some came slow, and barely noticeable. Some came fast. As I was finishing my puberty, Stacy was entering hers.

It was precocious, though as I learned later not by much; the average age of puberty has lowered considerably in the last century or so. But that wasn't the issue.

It started innocuously enough. One evening Stacy came to me, red as a plum, lips pressed, avoiding eye contact, and told me she was bleeding. I didn't make the connection immediately, at the time, so my mind raced to strange places. What the fuck was it that could make Stacy bleed? Did she get into a fight with a mountain lion? Has she tried cooking out of her own volition and had an accident? I was confused.

"No, bro, wait…" - she stumbled her words, brows furrowing and unforrowind as she struggled with her own confusion and awkwardness. - "It's, uh… I… Well… I… Can I… You know what, can I whisper?"

My perturbation knew no bounds. What was the monster embarrassed about? I was mentally ready to become an accessory to murder, yet I leaned in.

"I'm bleeding down there. Not… not the… not the penis. Lower. The other place. Am I going to die?"

I leaned back. My face was frozen. Stacy still avoided my gaze. I read a solemn resolve in her face.

"No." - I answered, my voice stripped of any intonation.

That day, for the first time in my life, I bought pads for a girl. The local pharmacy lady no doubt thought me adorable. I was not even embarrassed. Just bewildered.

It was a strange reminder that Stacy was a woman as well as a beast of lust.

It didn't occur to me for years until that day.

…

This anecdote, however, precluded me from making the proper assessment of what was going to happen. You could forgive me, I hope. Not every fourteen-years old has to deal with his sister's menarche. I failed to connect the dots. Maybe it was because Stacy never seemed to… need a puberty, so to say. She was sexually complete. She was absolutely, overbearingly sexually dominant.

I couldn't imagine, then, couldn't even comprehend that all I've seen, all I've gone through as an almost silent witness was just the beginning.

She was getting taller, for one.

Not by a bit. Not slowly. During those days, I'd see Stacy mostly in the evening, after she'd do whatever it was she was doing for hours at an end during the second half of the day. It was the beginning of spring; I was busy with school, coming home late and leaving early, and our contact was thus brief. Maybe if I'd see her more it would surprise me as much. But I didn't, and thus to my eyes Stacy was visibly growing every single day. Her strange childish proportions, elongated and unwieldy, were finally setting into the proper shape: by the time Stacy would become eleven, she'll be 5'7, and she wasn't close to being done. She made heightmarks in her room; the line was uneven, and the handwriting was even worse. Stacy can't write well. She's too afraid to break the pencil, so she never holds it tight.

It's not the height that shocked me, though. Not just the height, at least.

There was something else, which manifested first around those days. I struggle to explain it. I really do. It's a feeling too concrete and too constant to simply shake off as my stress, or my dread-induced delusions. It was a kind of energy, a kind of ever-present weight that made itself present in the back of the mind, always there, pulling down. Have you ever driven a car in a dark street at night and got the strange, paranoid feeling that someone is sitting on the passenger seat, behind you?

It was like this. And I wasn't the only one to feel it. Stacy was changing, and she made the world change around her. I am not crazy. I say that in full confidence.

...

Lily, Madison's daughter, came to visit one day.

I opened the door. It was a hot afternoon on a Saturday; no school, no nothing. I was honestly surprised to hear the doorbell at the time. Nobody came to visit us. No family friends, not anybody. If we weren't expecting a delivery, the door stood silent; such was the unspoken axiom.

I didn't recognize her when I saw her. She smiled, shyly. Her eyes were half-closed. Her fingers were crossed in a nervous gesture.

"H… Hi, Kyle. I… I came to play with Stacy. Can I come in?" - she murmured, bowing her head, yet still smiling.

I understood who she was by her voice. I was dumbfounded.

She was pregnant, after all. Just like her mother. It didn't compute in my brain. She was still tiny. 4'3, or 4'4, maybe. She looked… well, like a girl. A girlie. Not to say baby, but she was at the age when children are all essentially the same kind of androgynous stick - or androgynous sack, if their parents overfeed them.

But not Lily. She was changed.

Many years later, in college, my friend explained to me that really short women (just short, not dwarfs, as he hurried to add) often can't wear children's clothing, even if it's quite often the cheaper option. The length might be right - but the fit won't be, as kids' apparel is designed for a relatively shapeless body, and any amount of breast or hip isn't really included into the concept. When he told me that, I was instantly reminded of that day. Of Lily.

She was wearing an age-appropriate light blue dress with a large print of a bird, and it didn't fit the shape of her body. It didn't fit at all.

Because of the belly, for one. Her frame was tiny. The pregnancy on her thus looked gigantic and macabre. But… there were other places, her hips, her breasts, the shape of her torso, that were far too developed for her age. Not… not too much, okay? She wasn't sporting a milf figure in a pocket package. But she was in a strange place for a child so young. She was too womanly. Too early. Absurdly early.

My teeth clenched. My heartbeat increased.

It was Stacy's doing. She was doing something - beyond even her sexual ravaging, but something else, something that morphed those around her, changed them. Like Lily. I was sure of that.

"K… Kyle?" - Lily asked again. I was ripped from my trance. She finally brought her eyes up; our gazes met. She looked at me with confusion.

"Oh. Hi, Lily. Haven't seen you in ages. You look…" - I found myself stuck for words. "Good" felt wrong. Nothing else that wasn't outright upsetting came to mind.

"He-he. I got kinda round. Can I come in?" - she asked again.

I guess I should've said "no", but I didn't. It was pointless. What was set to happen would happen. I was powerless to stop it.

"Y… yeah. Want something to drink?" - I mumbled, letting Lily in.

"We just had lunch! At… at home, I mean. I'm fine." - Lily smiled again. - "I'm going up. Thank you, Kyle!"

She took off her shoes - slowly, with great care, and went upstairs. I didn't respond. I didn't add anything. Lily seemed in a hurry, though with how inherently polite and shy she was, it didn't show.

As she climbed half the stairs and turned, for a moment, a splint second, I caught a glimpse of glinting, sticky wetness on her inner thigh.

I turned away. I put on my tracks and went outside to jog, despite the heat.

It was easier than staying home.

I did catch a glimpse of Stacy fucking Lily; a tiny moment, as I was going down the stairs. The room wasn't completely closed, and I could see Lily's face and deforming belly.

She was smiling. Smiling like a happy, satisfied child.

…

Lily didn't come again after this. Not for a long while. I'm glad that's the case; her appearance, the changes, her behaviour disturbed me. Haunted me, even. In time, there would be others. In time, Lily returned, too.

But that was yet to come.

During those weeks, other things were on my mind. As I said, Stacy was growing. She was growing fast.

As I told before, I had developed an aberrant attentiveness to the human body. It never left me, never dulled. With Stacy, it was especially strong; she was close to me, even if we interacted less during those days. When I first realized she was getting taller, it got me scared. I didn't know what to expect. I wasn't stupid or anything; I knew what a menarche meant for a girl. But there's one thing to, well, know something is happening theoretically, and completely different to see it, feel it. It makes your brain consider the facts. It makes things seem urgent.

The idea of Stacy going through puberty chilled my blood.

How would it affect her? What could happen? I was dreading the thought that everything she was right now was about to intensify. I couldn't imagine it. Old fears resurfaced in me. It was a painfully unpleasant period, though nothing really happened at first.

Stacy was just growing. Like a normal kid. Just faster.

She never became, eh, buxom. She filled out, sure, but she was always kinda thin and elegant. I guess she was pretty. It's hard to judge her on that front - for me, at least.

Most of my fears did not ultimately realize themselves. Stacy's puberty didn't transform her into a greater monster overnight. But some of my concerns proved right. Her libido indeed grew; it grew in absurd, mile-long strides, though it didn't become apparent to me until a few months later.

But there were also concerns that I didn't predict at all, or failed to consider. Some… some raw and unpleasant. But some were very banal.

Stacy was outgrowing her clothes.

She was still beyond panties, even as she finally grew enough to wear grown-up ones. But her dresses were swiftly becoming far too small for her growing frame. She was getting tall enough that many of them looked like slutty mini-attires, and that was just wrong. At some point, she started wearing clothes that were obviously not hers; the fit was chaotic, the combinations strange. I suspected, at the time, that the donor of her many new t-shirts and skirts was aunt Maddie. It didn't occur to me that they were too narrow for Madison's wide build - I learned the truth later, but at the time, I just didn't want to see Stacy wearing hand-me-downs.

So we went apparel shopping, and had, perhaps, the most important talk of our lives there.

...

I, uh, never really cared for clothes all that much. My fashion sense is non-existent. I wear what's comfortable, and if it looks good, that's an added bonus. I didn't really buy any clothes for myself; mom cared for that aspect when she was still around, and when she was gone, grandma and grandpa took care of that for me. They did a lot for us, now that I think about it. Their care packages kept us going in more ways than one. Until the age of 15 the only attire pieces I ever bought myself were sport socks and boxers that didn't chafe.

They, our grandparents, I mean, bought clothes for Stacy, too. But, during that year, they were behind the loop on how quickly she was outgrowing the dresses and skirts she was getting - they were almost universally too small by the time they arrived. I didn't want to bother grandpa and grandma too much. I didn't want them suspecting that something was wrong with Stacy. I didn't want them in the loop of her strange reality. So I didn't tell them. It was kinda shitty of me, but I believed my reasons were just.

So we went shopping. For me, it was bizarre. Stacy was happy. She held my hand all the way to the mall, skipping steps, almost jumping. I was uncomfortable, but not too much.

…

It was early winter. But, we're in Cali: winter is mostly a tagline for "kinda rainy", an almost-season, a harbinger of fake christmas trees and gaudy palm tree decorations. There's just one big mall in the entirety of Agave Springs; it's one of those sub-10k "towns" that dot the state. Nobody's ever been to these towns. You're either from them, or you drive past them. There's almost no alternative.

Me, I kinda liked it. The Big City's not for me. I can't stand the concrete jungle. Makes you depressed just walking around. I'm kind of a rural bumpkin, being honest about it. Californian rural bumpkin. Now that's a scary combination.

I knew our mall all too well. We had an arcade there until I was nine; it was the best place ever, a heaven of flashing lights, where each screen promised hitherto unseen, dime-a-pop entertainment. I remember promising Stacy to take her there, once, but by the time mom agreed, the place closed down. It was a big tragedy for both of us. I still liked the mall, though. It was the most exciting place in the entire town.

We went in the early hours of saturday; I bet on the mall being mostly deserted this early in the day, and I got my wish. I needed the time. I had no idea where to go.

Where the fuck do you buy clothes for girls? Or for young women, since Stacy outgrew "girl" clothes quite handily at this point?

We slinked around. Stacy tried pulling me into girl shops. She refused to accept her new size. She yearned for pink. I abhorred it.

We spent forty minutes agreeing on nothing. I concluded my defeat and let myself be taken into the warm embrace of the consumerist machine.

We went to Macy's.

…

Department stores screw with my head. My mouth just unhinges and my brain ceases to function. Wherever I look, I see stuff, and it all blurs. I glanced at Stacy, hoping that her inherent female store navigation system would kick in. No dice. Her mouth was as agape as mine.

I knew what we needed. Dresses, skirts, t-shirts, jackets. Things that don't try to compete for space in the pelvic department. But there was just… so much shit. We wandered around, empty handed, for a few minutes, before the inevitable happened, and an assistant made her way towards us. I blessed her arrival, because I was completely and utterly lost.

"Heya there! You guys need some help?" - she chirped. She was blond, wore her hair short; she was twenty-something, and petite all around. Shorter than me, same height as Stacy. I guess she was cute.

"Oh, yes. Hell yes." - I mumbled. Stacy held my hand tight. I thought she was being shy; I suspect, now, that I was wrong, and it was an entirely different thing entirely.

"Well, then, I'm here just for that! What're you looking for? We have a big sale on summer items, just so you know, and out here in Cali summer attires are year-round attires, so it's a big win either way!" - she went on, spitting each word in a perfected, cheery tune. She was obviously employee of the month material. Her name tag christened her "Lucy".

I rubbed the back of my head. The relief of finding a helping hand was replaced with a strange kind of embarrassment. "We need cute clothes for an adult-sized ten-years-old" didn't sound right in my head. I started mumbling.

"I… uh… Listen. My sister here, she's, uh, outgrown most of her usual clothes..."

"You guys are siblings?! Damn, you're adorable! I was sure… oh, forget it. So you need clothes for a teenager, right? And mom just lets you pick up stuff on your own?" - she fluttered her eyelashes, smiling a warmer, less corporate smile.

I winced, though. I didn't like that line of questioning. - "Mom's, uh, left us a while ago, and dad's busy with work. We manage, don't worry. So about those…"

"Yeah! Oh, forgive me. I'm a bit of a motormouth, hehe. So! Big day, huh? Buying some new thread for the sis? That's one cool brother you've got there, miss, taking you out for shopping! I have a little brother, and the only thing he cares about are trading cards…" - Lucy leaned in, closer to Stacy, who still clutched my hand.

"My brother…" - Stacy responded, a short while after, with strange seriousness in her voice, - "Is the best in the world."

"Oof!" - the assistant chuckled, - "That's some seriously high praise right there. So? What're we planning for today? Got something in mind? We've got some really pretty tight-fit jeans in the new collection…"

Lucy stopped talking; she noticed me wincing, I suppose. Stacy's words didn't lie right with me. It showed, but I regained control quickly enough.

"No… no jeans. We need, well, a lot of stuff, dresses, shirts, skirts, the list. Just… just no pants and stuff." - I blurted.

"Religious home, huh?" - the assistant nodded, understandingly.

"No. It's… we have our reasons." - I frowned.

"Damn. Okay, sure, no pants. Well, on we go, then! The teenager section will get us covered… you're something like fourteen, right?" - she asked Stacy, and continued without waiting for an answer. - "Hehe, we'll make you the talk of town, just you wait."

…

Women are scary, and their capability for perusing things that are all but the same but still find something to mull over is beyond me. Within minutes, they were uplifted into their own world, and I shadowed them silently, not daring to interject. I knew what a shirt was. I didn't know what a high-rise camisole top was, or how it was different from any other top. There was so much I didn't know and somehow preferred not to. I only inserted myself once, asking the short blond assistant to pick up stuff that's a size or two bigger than it should be, arguing, reasonably, that Stacy will outgrow it in half a year.

It was wise of me, but I was brave in my estimation. Everything we got was a snug fit in two or so months.

But that's beyond the point. The basket was filling fast. Once the talk of bras began, I decided to maintain more distance. I was in a kind of trance. I had no idea what to do with myself. Lucy broke me out of it; I missed her suddenly approaching me, and jolted when I heard her voice.

"Heya, big brother. You okay there? You look out of it." - she tilted her head.

"Huh? Yeah! Damn, sorry. I am kinda out of it." - I answered, rubbing my temples.

"Well, we've got quite a nice collection picked up, but your sis need to try those on, check the sizes and the fits, see if the colours combine nicely, the whole shebang, you know? If you wanna take a look around, pick something for yourself, now's a good time." - she smiled.

"Uh… nah, I'm fine. I don't really need anything. I'll just wait."

"You sure? It's gonna take a while. A lot of stuff to try on. Even…" - she stopped, charging up a dramatic pause - "Bra stuff."

My face distorted into a grimace; reportedly, it was funny, because the assistant almost broke into a laugh.

"Calm down, big man. You really are a good brother, you know that?" - she smiled again, and stepped back. - "How old is your sister, anyway? She's really polite. Too polite for a teenager, I might add."

I closed my eyes. The truth wasn't that strange, was it? I decided that it wasn't.

"She's ten." - I answered. Solemnly.

"Woah." - Lucy whistled, - "I'll stay tuned for local junior basketball games, then. Anyway! We'll be on our way, and you just chill, okay? There's catalogues and stuff if you want to keep your hands busy." - Lucy chirped. They went away to the fitting rooms, and I sat down on a thoughtfully provided rest spot - a regular destination for bored husbands, I was sure.

I didn't consider what was about to happen. Honestly, I really thought it was all supposed to happen differently. I'm not even sure if assistants are allowed to go into the booths with clients; I'm pretty sure they aren't. I would've tried to stop it if I knew. But I didn't. I sat down and flipped through a catalogue for exactly ten seconds; I saw more than enough bed coverings in just that time to satiate me for the next decade. So I just sat and enjoyed the conditioned air.

My head was free of thoughts. I was happy to enjoy some quiet. When that quiet was broken, I knew that something was awry.

I heard a rhythmic, repeating sound of something hitting against the wood of the booth. "Thunk, thunk, thunk, thunk". Again and again, behind the thick curtain, it continued, and it was getting stronger. I stood up; went closer in small steps, hearing more and more with each step. Half-moans, half bestial gargles, muffled by a hand. The sound of wood was interspersed with clapping flesh. A thump and clap. Repeating on themselves.

When I was close enough to touch the separating fabric, I heard a voice.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry…" - it mumbled, time after time, almost to the rhythm of the slaps and strikes.

I stood aside. Crossed my arms and closed my eyes. I didn't open the curtain. I was too weak.

How long was I standing there? I don't know. Not too long. A few minutes, tops. I heard a strange, unpleasant sound of displaced air against strained flesh; just a bit later, the repeating sound of something liquid and viscous crashing against the floor. More and more. Again and again.

"I'm sorry." - the voice whispered again, now almost on the verge of crying, seemingly unaware of my presence, - "I'm so sorry, Kyle."

…

There was a loud thump of a body falling against dank floor. It shook me up, rousing from my strange trance. I turned my head and held my breath. There was rustling. Stacy emerged a while later, holding the basket. It didn't seem like she tried anything on. Her eyes were wet.

"Stacy?" - I muttered. My voice was hoarse.

"Please… Please, bro… I'm… we need to go. These are all good. Let's pay and go, okay? Please!" - she begged. She held her head low, refusing to meet my gaze. I pressed my lips.

I knew. I didn't ask. It was pointless. I nodded and said nothing. We went to the registers.

I turned back, a few seconds after, and glanced at the booth, which was still visible. The curtain revealed a leg in blue jeans and sneakers; just a bit of it. It was spasming.

We paid for the clothing, and left as fast as we could.

…

We walked out of the mall with the same alacrity. I was terrified. I wasn't completely clear on what I was terrified exactly; it was a foreboding feeling of incoming punishment. For misdeeds committed, and my silent accessory to them. I expected mall cops, or real cops. I was expecting a "Hey you! Stop right now!" at any moment. I expected roughhousing, and cruel justice. So I walked. As quickly as I could without breaking into a run.

We stopped after two blocks; I turned, heart racing, and looked around, assured that I'd see a pursuer, or a car, or anything at all.

But there was nothing. There was just Agave Springs, lazily enjoying the first half of a lazy day.

I didn't know what to make of it. My head was spinning. Stacy still held my hand with an almost iron grip, head bowed low, producing a sound half-sobbing, half-pouting.

I had no idea what to do, or how to manage. I defaulted to the most simple option: to sit down and calm down.

"Let's go eat." - I said, abruptly, still scanning the street with my eyes.

"H… huh?" - Stacy raised her head, for a moment. She looked miserable. Like a child caught breaking something old and valuable.

"I need to sit down. I'm hungry. Let's grab something to eat." - I repeated, in a dry, artificially calm voice.

"Oh… okay…" - Stacy mumbled.

We went. There was a small fast food place half a block down. I still looked over my shoulder every few seconds as we did; and still, there was nothing unusual there.

…

We reached the place a few minutes later, ordered conservatively, and sat down. We barely exchanged any words beyond "what you wanna" and the other logistics of ordering. I would like to say that I was mulling it over through the silence, but that would be a lie; my head was ringing, and no concrete thought formed in there for quite a long time. By the time I had a question to ask, we were almost done with the food.

"Why?" - was the only question I managed to produce. I guess I sounded monotone. I couldn't find an intonation that would fit my state of mind, so I talked with no intonation at all.

Stacy froze, a piece of burger still in her mouth. She finished chewing while hiding her eyes.

"Bro…" - she almost whispered.

"Why did you do that? It's… it's not like with Madison. It's… It's a… not just a bad thing to do, you know?" - I continued. The word that almost slipped my tongue was "crime".

"I…" - she tried to say something, but I cut her off. My agitation was getting the better of me.

"What… What was that, even? You were there for ten minutes. Maybe slightly more. Can't you… can't you control yourself? If something happens…" - I stopped, mid-sentence. An unpleasant thought crept into my brain. That "something" I was talking about, or alluding to, has already happened. Many times.

"I can't… I'm sorry, bro. I really, really, really am… I… I wish it was different, but…" - Stacy mumbled. - "I'm not. I tried. It's…"

"What? What is it?" - I demanded. I'm not sure why. Was I trying to put Stacy into a metaphorical mental box? To reduce her to a factor that could be calculated and understood? I knew that I couldn't. But I struggled. I wanted to understand.

"When… when I'm with someone…" - Stacy started, with a shaking voice.

"A woman?"

"Or… or a girl. There is… there is this thing. Like a feeling, but bigger. It's… it's hot, and it's beating, like a heart. Like a warm darkness."

I pressed my lips. Stacy went on. - "It's like love. It's really like love. I'm… I don't know enough big words, but I really wish I do, because the normal ones are not enough. When it comes, I… I'm different. I'm happy. I don't think at all. I can't think."

She fiddled with her burger, looking for words. I said nothing. I was taking deep breaths.

"When it happens… I can't see too well. I get really hot… like, like a warmth from deep inside of me. I see… the person I am with… I don't really understand who they are anymore. They're very unclear. I can't… can't focus my eyes. They're like… a figure, in the warm shade, and I… I love them. Very much. A love that… that almost burns."

"And then you…" - I mouthed, almost silently. Stacy heard me, though, and nodded.

"I… there's nothing I can do. I tried. I really tried, bro. Closing my eyes, Thinking of other things. Gross things. I bit myself to feel pain. I tried. But it never works. The warm darkness always comes."

I took a deep breath. No words came to me. I didn't know what to say.

None of what Stacy said made anything right. But I had no angle. I wanted to blame her. I wanted to suspect her of lies. I started chewing on my french fries absentmindedly, to give my hands something to do.

What if it's a lie? I asked myself that over and over. What if it's just a ruse? Crocodile tears masking something sinister? They were all options. But I concluded the opposite. I was tired. Paranoia ate at me, and I hated it. I couldn't live in a constant state of fear.

So I believed her. Preliminary. I took her at her word.

"Hey, bro." - Stacy called. Her tone was strange. Shy, pained, but… with strange hopefulness to it.

"Yeah?" - I answered half-heartedly. I was still locked in thought.

"I know… I know I disappoint you all the time. That you're angry with me. I know I make you unhappy. And… more than anything in the world, I don't want to make you unhappy. You're my most important person in the whole world. For real. For real real. I'm… I'm not making it up, okay? I'm really really serious. Nobody is more important to me than you.

Her words stung. They set my mind into a strange kind of motion. I didn't know how to take them. Stacy continued.

"I don't know how to make you happy. I try and I fail. I want to change, to become different. To stop being… what I am. I'd do it, if it pleased you! But I failed. I can't. So maybe… maybe I can give you something. Will you hear me out?"

I pressed my lips and looked at her. There was something strange about her pose, and the glint in her eyes. I felt unsafe, all of the sudden, but I nodded, nevertheless.

"Do you… would you like to beat me?"

I froze. I didn't trust my ears. My nerves, I was sure, were playing tricks on me.

"What?"

"Beat me. With… with fists and stuff. I… If you think I deserve it, I must deserve it. You can do it. I won't fight back or anything. I won't try to stop you. I won't even make sounds. Will… Will that make you feel better?"

I said nothing. Words failed me. Stacy continued.

"You don't have to worry about me! I'm really strong. You can… you can do it how much you like, or until you see blood. I'm fine with it.

My eyelids were strained wide-open. For the first time during the whole conversation, mine and Stacy's eyes met. What I saw there scared me.

Stacy was looking for an answer, for a way out, for some condition that, once fulfilled, will make amends between us. I looked into the eyes of a ten-years old who asked me if I'd like to beat her, and she hoped, honestly and deeply, that I'd say yes.

It was the last straw. Rage enveloped me. My hands started shaking.

"Never, ever say that again, Stacy. Never. Fucking never. Okay? You hear me? Fucking never!" - I almost shouted. We talked in hushed voices before, but I couldn't hold it in anymore. A dude working the register gave me a weird look; I ignored it without thinking.

"I'm not like this. I… I have a lot of problems. With you, and other things. But I'll never… never…" - I couldn't even form the words properly; my heartbeat was too strong, too quick, and my blood boiled.

"You did want to. Once. Two years ago. So I thought..." - Stacy said, meekly. It wasn't a gotcha. It wasn't an attempt at inciting guilt. Her words were honest, and that cut deeper than the alternative.

"And it was a fucking horrible thing to try! I'm ashamed of it. I'm still ashamed! Enough, enough, enough. I can't talk about this shit, Stacy. Are you done? I want to go home. We… We bought you clothes. I hope they fit. I want this day to be over."

Stacy sat there, silent, for a few long moments. When she talked, her voice was strange.

"Hey, bro."

"What?!"

She raised her head, once more. But she didn't look me in the eyes.

"Do you hate me?"

I stood there, breathing heavily, in a fast food restaurant, almost empty. My throat was sore. My head was spinning. I lowered my chin and rubbed my temples. I repeated her question in my head, two, three, five times.

Did I hate Stacy?

"No. I don't hate you. I thought I did -- many times. But I don't. I'm pretty sure of it."

Stacy closed her eyes and nodded. The meekest smile - a shadow of it, at best - formed on her face.

"Thank you."

…

We went home in silence. It was a loaded, painful, poisonous silence. It spoke in its own, wordless tongue. When we were almost there - just a few blocks remaining - Stacy called my name. Her voice was weak and painful. I could barely hear her.

"Bro?"

I nodded. I didn't want to talk.

"I… I want to ask you something." - she pleaded. I nodded, once more. I could feel my heartbeat with painful clarity.

"If there's… if at some point you… you find a girl you like… please, don't let her see me. Don't bring her home. I don't want to hurt you ever again. I'll do the best I can. So please, don't bring her close to me. Please."

I stayed silent for a long while. Stacy's words reverberated in my brain. I weighed them, measured them, and considered them. I asked myself questions, and found no answers.

"Okay." - I responded. I wonder if my voice was bitter.

I'm sure it might've been worse.

…

Despite all of this, despite the ugliness of it, the clothing store incident was what ultimately started a period of relative peace between me and Stacy. My fear of her - profound, deep fear that I harbored for years - has finally dulled, and transformed into mere uneasiness. I knew… the rules, so they were. I knew what to expect from Stacy herself.

I didn't trust her completely. There was always a piece of my brain reserved for suspicion. What if she was lying? What if there was a lie of omission? Not even malevolent, but maybe Stacy didn't know enough about herself to explain her condition? Those thoughts lingered, but they were front and center once. Not anymore.

But… well. It didn't stick. I knew that Stacy's intentions might've been good, or at least, not malevolent. I took her words about the lack of control. I knew that she didn't mean ill.

But here's a question for you. When everything goes to hell, does it matter what intentions paved the road? Is meaning well a good enough excuse? Does the desire to do no harm, do no evil protect from blame for evil and harm done?

I am not a philosophy major or something stupid like that. I am not a good enough person to morally grandstand. But my answer, my personal, internal answer, is no.

Because despite knowing what Stacy was like - truly like - I didn't find it in myself to just let it slide. I couldn't.

There were just a few things I could truly forgive her for, no matter how horrible the deed.

It was the case of my first girlfriend, Gabby. Because I knew who really was to blame.

But I digress. I wouldn't even get to know Gabriella for almost half a year.

…

My prediction of Stacy outgrowing her new threads were spot on. She just… kept getting bigger. It was obvious to me - though it also stung, and I didn't like thinking about it - that she'd outgrow me within two or three years. I didn't exactly compete with Stacy. I saw no point. But height was somewhat of a last, unconscious bastion of ego for me. I didn't want to share the laurels of being really tall, but with every day, the inevitability of it was looming closer and closer.

Still, it was funny, in many ways, seeing Stacy suddenly growing gigantic. By eleven she was taller than the average woman; by twelve she'd be taller than the average man. But she still had the uncertain, wobbly posture of a child. She slounched, or suddenly stood painfully upright, and switched stances and poses with no elegance or agility. It was bizarre, but endearingly so. Those days, we were rather close again. It was a strange feeling.

But it was not only her height that changed. Not only her features. There were other things, as expected.

She was… uh… it's weird talking about it. She was becoming womanly. I talked about it briefly before, but I was really feeling it those days. She was still childishly soft, but beneath that outer layer, a woman was forming. My friends joked about it. They didn't know.

I was also noticing how… well, how her dick was changing, and on this front, things were strange. She became smaller, actually, when soft. I heard that the same happens to men; that the peak of penile length is reached at the tailend of puberty, and the penis will shorten soon after that, and become thicker instead. I thought Stacy went through the same process. I was wrong.

She became considerably smaller flaccid, enough that boxers fit her, albeit very snugly. I don't know why. It's Stacy we're talking about; normal rules seldom apply to her, physiologically speaking.

But erect…

I didn't want to see it. I didn't want to think about it, either. I think that Stacy knew this; she woke up earlier than me, and by the time my own alarm clock rang, she'd be eating breakfast, or something like that. But one time, I had to wake up earlier than usual. Just one time. I got up, opened my door, and Stacy was across the top floor corridor, still in her nightgown, hair unruly, rubbing her eyes.

I saw her morning wood.

It brushed her nightgown aside, like a trifle. It heaved, not bobbed; it was not fully stiff, as most morning woods are, and yet the sheer mass of blood imbued in the titanic pillar of meat was such that each step imbued it with slow, momentous inertia. The bulbous head was still partially covered by skin. I remembered when I last saw it. It changed.

It was a dark, pigmented, absurd organ. It did not bring sex to mind; it brought destruction and domination. I saw it for a moment, and I swear: it was not smaller than two feet.

Stacy noticed me, and squeaked. A moment later, she disappeared in the bathroom.

I kept standing there. What did I feel? Shock? Fear? Wonderment?

I don't remember.

…

There were a lot of things I didn't think through, those days. I concentrated a lot on Stacy's physical changes - they were obvious and at the forefront. But she was changing as a person, too. No matter how gentle, no matter how good natured she was, she was growing. Her desires were growing, too. I couldn't comprehend the scope of what was forthcoming; it was already happening, and I missed the start of it. By the time the signs got my attention…

I thought it was just Madison and Lily. I honestly didn't think that more was needed; that Stacy had both of them, freely, whenever she wanted - or they wanted, which was the more common occurrence - seemed like… well, ain't that a dream all by itself?

But I thought small. I put myself in Stacy's position, and my vision was lacking. I was not Stacy. I wasn't thinking it through.

The signs came to my notice slowly. During my daily runs.

I told you already that I liked jogging. I was never much for lifting, or muscle training in general; I was a cardio guy. Still am. Running, jogging, long walks: movement is my greatest, simplest joy. I jogged around the block, varying my routes every day, without a care for weather, or the heat, or anything at all.

So I knew my neighbourhood well. Not by conscious desire. The human mind is really hellbent on pattern recognition. See something enough times, and you'll learn the patterns, the norms. How it's supposed to be. The ancient hunter-gatherer in you learns his habitat and devises a model for it; as long as the model coincides with reality, the hunter-gatherer is happy and silent.

But what if reality starts differing from the model?

What if, one day, at the end of winter, while jogging around the furthest point of the street, near the intersection, you feel a familiar scent of sexual musk?

The proverbial hunter-gatherer rears his head. You notice it. Even if it's barely there, you notice it.

I stopped when I felt it. I was alarmed. I couldn't tell where it was coming from.

During the next few days, it grew stronger. I started feeling it in more places. It got on my nerves. I felt paranoid. I asked myself if my fear of Stacy came back, if I'm imagining things; but I wasn't. It was real. Stacy was not confined to Madison and Lily anymore. She was doing rounds around the block.

My jogs, day after day, became tense and strange. I became anxious. I was afraid of noticing signs.

You might wonder why I cared. Well, there was a sanctity in my runs, forgive the pathos-infused word. There was a sort of mindless, physical escapism, when my mind barely processed anything but the joy of physical excursion, and there were no concerns for Stacy, my home, my everyday life, or anything at all. But I felt, each day more and more, that those happy, mindless hours were being soiled. Soon, my fears came true. Soon, the signs presented themselves. They became very, very obvious. Every time I'd go for a run, every time I'd walk the familiar sidewalks, I'd see something, or notice something, or hear something. The shadow of Stacy started creeping around.

I've seen a woman, crawling back home from her backyard; she was shaking, and a thick trail of cum was dripping from her battered cunt. She was in her early forties, and she regularly stopped, catching breath, repeating a muffled, satisfied "fuck, fuck, fuck" in a shaking voice.

Another day, I saw a Cadillac sedan, its back door open. From it hang a pair of long, pretty legs, twitching.

I saw a mother and a daughter, in the shadow of a patio; the mother was hugging the daughter, slightly younger than me, and gently caressing her brutally inflated midsection while absentmindedly rubbing her own crotch.

There was more of this. Every day. I was reminded of Stacy's words; about a warm darkness that took over. Whatever it was, this warm darkness, it was calling her, and she responded. In kind. All the time.

I didn't catch her in the act, those days; perhaps she chose the hours of her rut specifically so we won't meet each other. Maybe it was just luck. I don't know. Whatever it was, the result was all the same.

Within three months, I was certain that no woman in our neighborhood was left unfucked by Stacy. My timeline might be skewed. I'm almost sure it was going on for longer; I just didn't notice when it started.

…

My mood soured. I tried to ignore it. All of it. I just ran, like there was nothing around me, like nothing mattered, like the world didn't exist. But I couldn't. I failed. My mental fortitude was too weak. I kept looking. And as I looked, I saw.

The women of the neighborhood, fucked, routinely, disposing of cum. Sometimes unconscious, sometimes open-eyed, but unresponsive. They became my daily companions. They didn't hide. They didn't care much for anything.

But there was… strangeness, soon. Things started changing.

The daily sighting of brutalized women ceased rather quickly; instead, I noticed… groups of them, giggling, talking, some in the early stages of pregnancy. They looked inconspicuous; just some ladies from the block having a talk. But I knew what they truly were by the hunger, the strange fire in their eyes. I avoided them, at first; they didn't care for me at all. They looked at me as if I was nothing. I was content with that. I just kept running past and pretending they don't exist.

I started overhearing them, eventually. They became emboldened, and stopped caring for eavesdroppers like myself.

I never stopped to listen. It would look weird, for one, and I really didn't want to. But I still heard enough. Every day, a snippet. A piece of a jigsaw puzzle that completed into something abhorrent.

...

"Is she coming to Lisa next?"

"Her daughters are really cute… imagine them with cute bellies..."

"I couldn't stand up when she was done with me. I swear, I just couldn't get up. My legs just twitched when I tried moving them… She put me on a recliner and asked if I wanted anything, but I couldn't really talk, either, just pout and giggle…"

"Did James find you like this? Oh my god."

"Yeah… I… I kinda told him I strained my back and had to lie down…"

"And he bought it?"

"No. Not with my vagina wrecked and in full view.. But… Well, he didn't do anything. I cleaned up later, and he didn't talk about it… I swear, I thought I was a goner…"

"I need it. I swear, I need it. By god, I need it so much… I'll go look for her. Maybe I should get naked?"

"You've got to wait your turn, Jessie! Everybody feels that way, but you need to keep cool, okay? She'll come to you. She always comes."

"She can come wherever she wants… nobody can stop her."

"Nobody wants to stop her… why would they? She's…"

"Have you been to Bonny's pool party? I've seen Madison there, and, oh, my, god…"

"Her vag? Yeah, I've seen it. It's like a tunnel. You can put a fist in there and barely scrape the sides. Smart on her to wear a one piece…"

"Yeah, if she'd go on with a pair of bikinis, she'd have to dig the bottom part out of there after just two minutes…"

"I want mine to be like that. I want her right now. So damn much! How do you manage?"

"Barely. Want some more wine?"

"I'm gonna get her to meet Lindy. I'm tired of her "no boyfriend material this, not a good man that" schtick... I just gotta. Stacy's not… not meant to be with just one woman. Or a few."

"Stacy's for everyone."

"No. You don't get it. Everyone's for Stacy."

"I swear that my mom looks younger those days. LIke her body wants to get in on that. It sounds crazy, but I swear it's true…"

"Maybe I should call my friend from Sacramento to come visit… her husband's such a boor…"

"I'd give any hole to Stacy. If she fucks me more, I'd do almost anything, you know?"

"Anything."

…

I heard stuff like that every day. Mostly from different women, but sometimes the same. I couldn't go on a jog without being surrounded by this. In a strange way, being at home became more calming than the runs I so strongly enjoyed.

I didn't bring it up. I felt that I was powerless to stop it.

The final straw that made me change my route, that made me stop jogging in the neighborhood forever, was a scene that I witnessed in mid-winter. One and a half blocks down, on an intersection, I spotted a man sitting on the stairs of his home, smoking with an absent look on his face. He was wearing a suit and a tie; it looked strange, but not aggressively so.

When I came closer, I heard it. A woman's voice, hysterically screaming.

"More! More! More!! Please! I beg you!! I am not a human anymore! I'm just for you! I don't know what I am, but I am just for you!! Only for you!! Quicker!! This hole is for you! This mouth is for you!! Please!! More!!" - it wailed. A pair of younger, higher-pitched voices were chiming in, repeating variations on "me next" and "me too".

A distinct sound of wood striking wood was heard through the open window, and with it, forceful, wet impacts of flesh.

I stopped. My heartbeat, already elevated, went through the roof. My hands were shaking.

It was then when the man sitting on the stairs suddenly raised his head and looked at me. His eyes looked half-dead. The Marlborough in his fingers was kindling at the filter. He meekly smiled.

"Oh, you're Stacy's brother, aren't you? Kyle, right? Don't worry, she'll be home by evening. Want a smoke?" - he said in a cheerful voice, though his smile was visibly breaking on his face.

I shook my head. I shook my head and kept running.

…

I was left in a perplexing state. I once again slipped into a state of semi-apathy, though much milder than half a year ago. I was in a mental conundrum that painfully gnawed at me, day after day: Stacy was once again imbued into my thinking, but in a warped way. Less like a demon; more like a ghost.

I still trusted her words. Our interactions didn't change for the worse, she didn't behave strangely. If anything, when she was at home, she behaved in an agonizingly perfect, sweet way. She tried to please me. She wanted to play, to do stuff together, to watch movies, or cartoons, or anything at all.

I didn't know how to handle that. How to handle this small girl the size of a grown woman. I didn't know how to make peace between the home Stacy, my sister Stacy, and the ghost Stacy, that loomed over the neighborhood, finding its way into every home, every faucet of everyday life. That discrepancy fucked with my head. Whenever Stacy asked to watch something together, or play something on the box (we got it as an "anonymous" gift - from Mom, I suspect), I felt a pertuberating feeling of kind-of-guilt, kind-of-pain. A moral turmoil. I felt like shit.

It tore at me. I had no answer to the question that it posed me. Only an ever growing sense of unease. But life continued, and, as we were nearing the end of winter, it suddenly took an important turn for me.

…

Around those days, I altered my jogging route drastically. I've started doing runs towards the big picnic park westside; it was a long trek just to get there, and I really, really disliked the area. It was…

I don't know how to properly explain it. It was a purpose-made recreational zone. Jogging around town has a strange, comforting anonymity to it; when people are on about their business, you can become a part of that crowd - just a faster moving part.

But in parks… parks are for fun, for relaxation. It's where other people jog. It just wasn't cool.

Well, I came to terms with it. I overcame my awkwardness. Anything was better than doing laps in Stacy's meat kingdom.

I got used to it rather quickly, actually. I started to enjoy it. The things boomers say about clean air?

They're true.

…

Was it strange fate that I met my first girlfriend in that park? I wonder about the strange chain of events that led to my year of happiness. Perhaps I paid my due in misery, and a break was in order. Maybe I was rewarded for taking a small action, such as changing a jogging route, for my own self-betterment.

Or maybe it was dumb luck. A huge lump of it.

Whichever it was, I met Gabby in that park one late afternoon. I was sitting on a bench, exhausted. My legs were about to explode. My head rang. I overexerted myself. I ran too much and too fast, in bad pacing. I just wanted to get away from home as fast as possible, and I paid for it. A girl - slightly younger than myself - sat down next to me, and, a few moments later, offered me a drink.

I'm… I'm not sure that I want to talk much about Gabriella. It pains me to type those words more than anything else on those pages. I think I should - if only to remind myself of those fantastic eleven months, of that simple bliss that lasted almost until my seventeenth birthday. I'll do it. I'll tell you. It's a… guilty pleasure, or a guilty reprieve. I want to write about Gabriella, despite the pain, because I've never been as happy as the time we were together.

…

She offered me a drink on that day, like I said before. She also offered me a shark-like grin and a nudge. I didn't notice her approaching; my head was pointing skywards, as I grasped for air, and the only thing in front of my eyes was the painfully blue California sky.

"You look like a skeleton, man. Do your bones rattle when you jog?" - an unknown voice teased me, planting herself on the other side of the bench. I didn't look at her. My head barely functioned - else my eyes would be glued to her.

"I'm tall and thin. Being a skeleton is my natural state of being." - I responded in a straightforward, even tone. Emotions eluded me. I was too tired.

"Sure, highrise tower. Want some water? Getting heat stroke in the middle of winter is lame."

She had the faintest glimmer of accent; her voice was youthfully-squeaky, but still deep, with a capacity for womanly notes. I finally looked at her.

She was short, and built like a runner. Thin, lithe, even, but with strong, wide-hipped legs. She looked hispanic; her dark hair was tied into a simple ponytail.

"Yeah. Some water would be great."

She offered me a sports bottle while still maintaining eye contact; I took it absentmindedly, and enjoyed a few sips of cool heaven. I never had a sports bottle. I should've got one earlier.

"Better?" - she asked, with playful inquisitiveness.

"Much." - I nodded.

"Well, I'll be off. Don't die." - the stranger girl waved, and disappeared out of sight after a nearby corner.

I sat for a few minutes, thinking of nothing in particular, letting the emotional machine mull her own things.

I didn't think much of what just happened, truth be told; it felt like one of those strange encounters that happen once in a month that you can't explain and shouldn't. That's what I told myself.

The next day, having exhausted myself on the exact same approach, I made my way to the same bench and collapsed upon it in the exact same pose. I wondered why I did this. I wonder if I wanted to see yesterday's girl again. I wondered why and didn't know. Ultimately, though, I was sure she wouldn't show up; I planned to sit for a few minutes and resume my jog, mystery girl or not.

But she appeared.

…

"Again?" - she asked with the grandeur of a prosecutor.

"Yeah." - I grumbled. I was feeling a strange, meek happiness to hear that accusatory voice.

"Well, no water for you today. Yesterday might've been your mistake, but today you knew full well what you're doing." - she answered with strictness in her voice.

"Maybe yesterday's was a bad fluke. Maybe I was just too tired even before the jog." - I offered with no conviction.

"Were you?" - the runner girl asked.

"No."

"Well, see you at the water fountain, then. Today, you care for yourself."

"There's a water fountain?"

She looked at me, perplexed. She was pretty. Girls her age are rarely this slender; her face had a sharp quality to it, with beautifully defined cheekbones. She had a tendency to hold a single expression with almost no variation and then quickly change it into a completely different one. I didn't notice all of that immediately, of course. I had enough time after.

"Of course." - she responded briskly. I shrugged and got up. She broke into a half-run; I followed.

We didn't talk. I felt like we didn't need to. In a strange way, I felt like I was friends with this girl for a long time, despite talking to her for the second time in my life. Don't judge me. I wasn't even sixteen yet.

…

By the third time, I learned my lesson, and got myself a sports bottle. Somehow, my water was worse than her water, but I didn't confess. Runner girl approved of my acquisition. Instead of taking care of hydration, we just… jogged. Together. Not talking too much. We didn't even ask each other's names. It wasn't love at first sight or any lame romance shit like that. It just felt natural.

Despite this, I couldn't really come to terms with the strangeness of the whole process. So by the third day, I asked. I needed an answer. I guess I was paranoid; it was a learned behaviour for me.

"Hey." - I inquired. My voice was tense.

"Hmm?" - runner girl responded without stopping.

"Why are we doing this? Jogging together?"

"Hmm." - she hummed, and then abruptly stopped. - "Good question. I get lonely jogging around people three times my age, and you look lonely on principle, even in school. So we improvised a solution. Is this a good answer to a good question?"

"You see me in school? We go to the same school?"

She gave me a look of pity. I realized the silliness of my question a tad too late.

"There's a single high school in town, big man. And yes, I see you at school. It's hard not to see you at school. Inversely, I'm rather easy to miss. Why the sudden cross-examination? Do you suspect some kinda jogging entrapment?" - her face was once again stuck in an expression of inquisitive guile. I felt a strange, hitherto unknown emotion. I felt like I was being examined, and I felt a confusing, embarrassing desire to ace this test.

"Nah. I'm, uh, secretly kind of a social retard on a hunt for social cues. I hope I'm not missing any." - I made my move. I went for self-deprecation. It felt right. I mean, I'm a tall dude, so it's kind of ironic, right? I felt like a kid trying to find the light switch in a dark room - arms swinging, heart beating. I wonder what Gabby felt.

"No, you're alright. When I run, you also run, so you basically aced it. Come on, big guy, ease up. You're like the world's saddest lighthouse. What's your name?" - her expression switched to a mellow one. I felt immense pride. I didn't blow it. It felt amazing. At that moment I believed I was the suavest creature to walk this barren Earth.

"Kyle. And yours?"

"Gabriella. Yeah, yeah, big name from the big country down south, I know. I'm one grade below you in school. Same place tomorrow?"

I smiled. I think it was the first involuntary smile I produced in a long while.

"Uh-huh. See you."

She waved me goodbye.

…

It became a joyous thing to me; even before any romance was involved, my park jogs with Gabby were the highlight of my days. We didn't share much in common; our interests were mostly different. She was from a religious family, a second generation immigrant; I was a regular, vanilla american boy. But we both shared the simple joy of running, of movement, of physical exertion, and we needed nothing else.

She usually ran upfront, and I shadowed her. I'm sure we were a funny pair, me, overly tall, and she, shorter than average. She was in better shape than me, but I was more imposing. Like a witch and her familiar. Or something stupid like that.

We didn't talk much, as I mentioned, because there was no need. As we ran, there was no ice to break, no awkwardness to settle; we talked when we felt like talking, which was rare. We didn't talk in school; we barely intersected there, but when we did, Gabby waved at me, and I waved back.

It doesn't mean we didn't talk at all. Just rarely. Gabby would sometimes share something; about herself, or about her daily life, and I tell her something of mine in return. I learned that she wanted to join a track and field team, but our school didn't have one, so she jogged. I told her I hated gyms for a reason beyond my explanation and preferred running. She told me her mother was a cleaning lady and her dad worked in a church; I told her my family was in shambles but my dad used to be pretty cool. Small stuff like that. Bit by bit.

Teenage romance is weird and nonsensical. I was engaged in it for almost a month before I realized that for all intents and purposes, I was romantically interested in Gabby. It came to me during one of our water breaks, when we sat on the same bench we first met on, and I looked at her - thin, athletic, with an olive complexion and those strange, overplayed expressions of her. She wasn't very womanly; at least conventionally. Her breasts were non-existent, and if not the obvious femininity of her build and legs especially, her good shape and defined, though not bulging, musculature would make her look like a boy. But as I looked at her while she was taking a long sip out of her bottle, I suddenly, out of the blue, realized that I wanted to look more. That she was beautiful, and I was happy to just sit and watch her. She intercepted my glance, finished her sip and changed her expression to a bemused one.

"What?" - she asked, nonchalantly.

"I think I like you, Gab." - I said. It was a plain fact. My voice didn't change, I didn't mangle the phrase. I said it naturally because it was suddenly very, very obvious to me. Realizing what I said, however, my heart sank. I immediately doubted myself. Time dilated. I watched her expression, trying to see her reaction.

But Gabby didn't change her expressions often. That was her quirk. Instead, she just blinked.

"Took you long enough." - she said. Her expression didn't change. At all.

We sat silently for a while. The awkwardness, the dreaded awkwardness, was starting to set in. But Gabby didn't let it.

"I thought about it. I like you too." - she announced. And then we sat silently again. I was experiencing a slow burning cocktail of emotions; joy, dread, anticipation were the strongest. But above all was an absolutely imperative question which I couldn't answer. The question was: "What now"?

"I wanna kiss. I never kissed anybody but my folks and little brother. Did you kiss anyone?" - Gabby demanded.

"No." - I answered. My heart was skipping beats.

"Wanna do it?"

"So soon?" - I asked, and regretted it. It was kind of a bitchmade answer. I cursed my indecisiveness.

Gabby sighed. She took out her bottle, again, and took another sip; she then immediately handed the bottle to me. - "Drink."

"Huh?"

"Just drink it, damn, it's water!" - she answered, impatiently. I obeyed. Indeed, it was just water. Delicious, gifted water. I drank and looked at Gabby as I did.

But her expression did not change.

"Finished? Give it back. Now you've touched my lips indirectly and officially, okay? It's a half-measure. Now you're ready for the full measure. Close your eyes."

I pressed my lips. My head was spinning. Were women all so forceful? Was I too soft? Should I go with the flow? Should I take the lead or risk being unmanly, or uncool? There were too many questions. I couldn't deal with it. So I obeyed, once more. I closed my eyes.

And a second later, I felt wet, warm softness upon my lips.

This moment is forever burned into my memory. Call me gaudy, or milquetoast. But it's a precious little gemstone. My first kiss, which came out of nowhere, in the middle of a jog break, on a sunny winter day.

I cheated. I opened my eyes, despite the instruction. And I saw that Gabby's expression changed: to a passionate, happy one.

…

We… Well, I'd like to say we started dating, but we really didn't. I proposed it; Gabby responded with a resounding "nah". We continue doing what we always did. We just ran. But now, it was special.

I tried prying more, offering more, giving ideas, but it was all trite. I realized it myself rather soon, as well, that what we had was, for all intents and purposes, perfect. We shared a moment of perfect comfort. We did what we liked together, and we enjoyed doing it together, and we enjoyed the company of each other. It was a blessed thing. Impeccable in its simplicity. But at the end of the jog, when lactic acid saturated our muscles, we'd sit on the same bench we always sat on and made out. I had to slouch, or Gabby had to rise up a bit to reach me, or she'd sit on my lap, or I'd set my head on her lap. We listened to music, occasionally, sharing a pair of headphones.

Was it love? I'm not sure. Love is a strongly-typed word. It means too much and it means too little. But I know that my soul had a compartment for Gabby, and only for her. It exists to this day, despite the years it spent empty.

My bliss, those days, was absolute. Yet I never forgot Stacy's request, or edict, rather. Gabby asked if I wanted to hang at my place, once, and I told her a strong, set-in-stone "no". I was right to do so. It extended my bliss for a few months longer.

…

In a way, it was all a prelude. We both knew what came next; we took our time getting there, but it became inevitable, at some point. So we did it.

I lost my virginity with Gabby, and she lost hers with me.

It happened at her place. We, uh, reached that stage rather quickly. We were both young, both boiling with hormones. Reproduction is almost an imperative at this age. We were no strangers to each other's touch. We took it further.

Her parents were away for church business; I felt a tinge of guilt, about that, and the watchful eyes of agonizing Christ, his representation strung on the wall above the bed, has snuffed out a bit of my fire - but for merely a second. When Gabby said "hey, take my shirt off", I became a creature of one purpose, one passion, and no God could stand in my way.

It was slow, and awkward. I wasn't good at it. I stumbled, and bit my lip. I didn't feel like a conqueror taking his prize, as I imagined it was supposed to be; I felt like a drunk dancer in front of an angry crowd.

"Calm the fuck down, Kyle! It's a shirt! There's a bra underneath! It has hooks, and you'll need to unhook them! That's the real difficult part!" - Gabby commanded. Her voice was brave, her expression unmoving. But hey blush, beat-red, betrayed her.

I managed the shirt. I managed the bra hooks with surprising ease. I was rewarded plentifully.

Gabby's breasts were modest at best. A pair of shapely swelling, capped by a dark, upwards-pointing nipple.

They weren't amazing breasts by any means. They were nowhere near Madison's absurd, inhumanly beautiful pair.

But they were for me, and that made them peerless.

We continue our awkward undressing. We touched, and caressed, and squeezed each other with no elegance or skill. Gabby's body was toned, and yet I was amazed how soft she was to the touch. I traced lines on her skin. I hugged and held her. I sucked on her shoulders and kissed her neck. Apparently, I was too much into it, because she was growing impatient much quicker than me.

"Come on! Are you tormenting me? Is this your way of setting the mood? Well, you did great! It's fantastic! Stop it! I'm here to do it! Let's do it!" - Gabby demanded.

"I just like you too much, Gab." - I answered. My voice shaked, betraying my own lust - though I am unsure if you can betray something so glaringly obvious.

"There's more of me to like, Kyle. And more of you! Off with your pants!" - she said. She was taking deep breaths, and her chest heaved up and down, shaking her nipples slightly with each motion. I gulped and went for my pants, the last remaining article of clothing between us.

I was reminded, in the strangest of ways, that my dick is actually pretty big. I never think about it. I am constantly in comparison with Stacy in this regard, inside my own mind; my dick felt irrelevant, thus. I didn't consider it. But I should've. Because as the hem of my pants lowered, and the painfully erect cock spung upwards, Gabby looked perplexed. She was really small-framed.

"That's a bit much, Kyle. Can't you make it smaller?" - she asked, in jest. My head was barely functioning. I think I was shaking.

"It's not a balloon. I can't deflate it. Not with you next to me, and naked to boot." - I grumbled.

"Ay. Well… you… you take it slowly. This thing, it's, uh, not regular-sized. What condoms did you get?"

"Didn't you get them?"

"Yeah. Regulars."

"We'll make do." - I almost growled.

…

It was… slow, and beyond awkward. I had to be careful, I had to be precise. It was much more of a process, and it required much more thought than I expected. We did it in stages, each painfully slow. We had to get used to one another, to our dimensions, to our sizes and shapes. We had to learn each other in ways we both didn't really consider before. It was, strictly speaking, terrible, clunky sex. But it didn't matter in the slightest. She writhed under me when I slowly and gently made my way past her hymen, and hugged me, pressing her lips, hiding the pain. As I started moving in shallow, precise thrusts, I almost vibrated. I wanted more. She wanted more. But I was too big, and I had to be careful. It was a dance between heaven and hell. It took a long half-hour for her to get a little used to me and my size; we switched, and I laid on my back, and she pressed her chest against mine, and moved her lower body in an agile, snake-like motion. I bit my lips, and hugged her tight, my legs were convulsing. When I came, I almost screamed, and the condom that I removed from my dick was stretched by the biggest load I produced in my entire life.

"Damn, Kyle, my boy… What is this? Are you a firehose? Is there a fire you need to put down?" - Gabby asked, producing words in between quick, shallow breaths. She was glistening with sweat; her lips looked wetter than usual. I leant in, crumpling the bedsheet, touching her forehead with my own.

"Maybe. Is it still there? I think I can do more. I'm sure I can do more. Is the fire still burning?"

"The fire is a blaze, Kyle. If you don't put the next condom on, I'll do it myself. Go!" - Gabby demanded. I obliged immediately. There was no time to waste.

We went again.

And again. And again.

We would've done it all night and all morning, if not for Gabby's parents returning, forcing me to evacuate the premise blue-balled despite cumming five times. I would've missed the sound of their car parking, too, if not for the sudden meeting of gazes between me and the bedside Jesus; I knew, then, that God looks out for me as well, sometimes.

…

Five months. Five months were given to me to enjoy one of life's most pristine, happy things. More than that: I had something of my own in life, truly my own, a person untouched by Stacy's shadow. For five months, I was in absolute bliss.

It showed. I was told that my posture changed. That I started to smile more. My friends were jealous. I told them absolutely nothing beyond the basic fact, and after the initial accusations of falsehood died down, they believed that I was secretly dating the hottest piece of ass this side of the Atlantic and didn't want to tell them.

They were absolutely right.

What I didn't have, Gabby completed. What I did have, Gabby accepted and enhanced. We still talked sparingly, we still eluded one another at school. We were both private people. But now, we shared that privacy. We shared it any moment we could. We made out in the school toilets. We fucked anywhere we could without being disturbed. We jogged, and then fucked, and we repeated that day after day. The joy of it was all-encompassing that even my relationship with Stacy improved. Her shadow loomed over me, loomed over the neighborhood, but it didn't matter anymore.

It was still awkward, in some ways. Even after Gabby got used to my size I had to be careful and considerate. But I was happy to be that way. When I was inside that small, lithe girl, all muscle, with a soul like a jet engine, I was happy to be the most careful creature on earth.

We did everything right. What we had was a function of x that was infinitely close to perfection. In dark nights, when the rains came, I was afraid, deathly afraid that it'll be taken from me. That Stacy would find out. That something would happen. But come morning, come sunshine, come a session of jogging and a session of awkward, joyous lovemaking, and I'd forget all about it.

I was wrong to do so. To this day, I don't blame Stacy for what happened. She did the deed. But she wasn't the culprit. She was the instrument.

We all experience periods of great upheaval. Of great loss, and great pain. They rarely just "happen". They are usually a result of many small woes collectively creating a much greater episode of dread.

But for me, my great devastation, the thing that broke me, that ultimately made me leave Agave Springs and move upstate, to my grandparents, happened in a single day. At the end of summer, a few months short of my seventeenth birthday, my phone rang, I didn't recognize the number.

…

If only I didn't pick up. If only I ignored it.

"Hello?" - I responded. I don't get many calls. Even less from unknown numbers. My tone was suspicious.

"Hey! Kyle? Is that you?" - a vaguely familiar voice came from the other side.

"Huh? Yeah. Who's talking?" - I answered, trying to understand where I knew that voice from.

"It's me! Clarissa! We haven't talked for three years! Almost four! How are you? I missed you!" - the voice boomed. Despite the answer being given to me, it took a few moments until realization dawned. Her voice changed, slightly deepening. Her intonations became richer. Less girly, more womanly. For a second, I was at a loss for words.

"Clarissa? Clarissa from school? That Clarissa?" - I asked, dumbfounded.

"Yeah!" - she laughed. - "It's been so long! Your voice is so different, it's amazing!"

"Y… yeah. Yours too. I'm, eh, fine, pretty much. You?"

"I'm grand. I've been away for a few months with my parents in Maine, at some relatives… I… listen, I know we parted in strange circumstances, but it really doesn't matter. Are you free? Wanna meet up?"

"Meet up? With me?" - I was puzzled. I had too many questions to ask. None of them felt appropriate.

"Who else, dummy? So? Let's do it? At Pinnacle Lake?" - she sounded strangely upbeat. I didn't know what to make of it.

"Pinnacle Lake is gated. It's private property." - I answered, absentmindedly.

"Yeah, my dad owns it. I'll wait for you at the gate. Deal?"

It was very sudden. I had to start suspecting foul play here and there. But I didn't. I was too happy, too calm. Together, they formed complicity inside of me. I didn't think fast enough or deep enough.

"I guess…"

"Yay! Listen, get a pair of swimming trunks, okay? The water is heavenly, we gotta take a dip together! See you there in, uhm, an hour, okay? It's not far from where you live. Bye!"

This bizarre phone call. If only I thought it through. If only I considered the discrepancies, if only I let my paranoia set back in. But I didn't.

Thus, in less than a minute-long phone call, my destiny was set.

…

The lake - which was stunningly beautiful, by the way - was a fifteen minute walk away from my house, just outside the town limits, southside. I knew the spot; we used to hang out with my bros around those parts, as they were secluded enough to drink covertly and close enough to return home relatively quickly.

My head was abuzz as I walked. I felt something strange inside of me; something foreboding. I'd like to believe that I felt the mistake I was in the middle of making, but that won't be true; I just… didn't know what to expect. I haven't seen Clarissa for so long. We weren't that great of friends to begin with. Why me? Why now? What happened?

But I still made my way. I still walked. As requested, in about an hour I was at the Pinnacle Lake gate, and Clarissa was there, waiting for me.

…

She changed. She changed more than I expected. Puberty was generous to her - and extremely so. I don't know if she still played tennis; I suspect she did, because despite how much softer and more… curvy her body became, she still looked toned to me. She was wearing a blouse strained by a pair of hefty breasts, still incredibly perky by the virtue of youth, and a pair of jean shorts struggling to contain a sizable, incredibly shapely ass. Her face was half-hidden by a wide-brimmed sun hat; yet as I came closer, she noticed me immediately. When she jumped me, I was shocked. When she hugged me, I was embarrassed. She was heavier than Gabby. She was much softer, too.

"Ky-y-yle! Damn, you're hu-u-uge! What are they feeding you?! I want some of that!" - she almost shouted, still hanging to my shoulders. I felt awkward.

"You've gotten pretty big yourself." - I tried brushing it off. It came out meek. I felt… guilt, seeking Clarissa. Memories were rushing back to me. If only I knew.

"Yeah, in all the right places, too. Come on in! You gotta see the lake up close, it dried a bit, but it's still quite a sight… Come on!"

She opened the gate and beckoned. I followed.

…

The grounds surrounding the lake were phenomenally tidy; each tree a little work of art. I'd gawk more if not the oppressive discomfort that befell me. Clarissa was the opposite. She couldn't shut up. She talked endlessly; about the lake, or about how she's been, or about random topics seemingly disconnected from anything. I gave half-hearted answers. I didn't understand why I was called here. Something felt off, even then.

The lake cleared my head a bit.

It emerged suddenly, as if the road was planned in the exact specific way as to present the lake as dramatically as possible. The treeline suddenly receded; and behind them, the perfect, gleaming plane of water came to be. A lonely pier of white wood stretched into the waterline; a little cabin stood right next, a fishing lodge, perhaps.

"Impressive, huh? Daddy's from the midwest. He wanted to have the fishing experience right next to our home, right here, in Cali, any time of the year. There's no fish right now, though, so don't worry, ain't no carp gonna munch on your leg." - Clarissa gleamed.

"I, uh, have good rapport with fish. We're both in school." - I tried to force a joke. It came out forced, predictably. Clarissa laughed anyway.

"Turn around, now. I'm going to change." - she said, with a sly, inviting smile.

"Shouldn't I change too?"

"Nah, we'll take a dip later. I just like the breeze, so I'm changing early. Come on, Kyle, turn around, and no peeking."

I obeyed. It all felt surreal. I didn't have an angle to approach the situation, so I just went with the flow. The rustle of clothing falling down did peak my interest, though. I was sixteen, I'll remind you again. Please understand.

"You can turn around now." - Clarissa murmured with a beckoning tone.

I did. I was treated to a sight.

Her breasts, obviously large, looked gigantic in her skimpy, bright-yellow two-piece. Double-Ds on a slender chest look absolutely enormous. She was… voluptuous, now. Not the tennis lady she used to be. She was…

She had the body of a mother.

"Speechless, huh? The best compliment. Come on, let's go sit on the pier, wet our legs for a bit. Water's pretty warm."

I nodded, and turned. I heard her giggling from behind me.

"You're really considerate, huh, Kyle? You're a good man." - she said. A strange note krept into her voice.

"Huh?"

"Do you know I have two kids? Twins, but one's a girl, and one's… like Stacy. This and that. The girl's name is Trish, and the other one's Bonny. My mom helps to take care of them. They're such a pair! Bonny's a big bully. She's always hogging toys. But if Trish starts crying, she rushes to her immediately and starts hugging her and consoling her, and stacking all the toys she can find in front of her… a big bully and a big softie at the same time! Kinda like her… her dad, no?" - the strange note in Clarissa's voice grew stronger.

"Why… Why are you telling me this?" - I asked, in a quiet voice. I didn't turn. I felt an unpleasant weight in my chest.

"I just wanted to share. I have nobody to talk with. About that stuff. Hey, Kyle? Do you have a phone with you?"

"Yeah, in my pocket. Why?"

Clarissa answered a few seconds later. I turned; I wondered if she's alright. I turned just quickly enough to see her running towards me, hands outstretched.

And then she pushed me into the water.

I was shocked, and disoriented, as I landed back first into the surprisingly deep lake. The crystal-clean water swallowed me with gusto, and the sudden impact made it difficult to straighten myself. I was always a bad swimmer. For a few moments, I was afraid I was about to die. But I found my bearings, and finally emerged from below the surface. I had only one thing on my mind.

"What the fuck?! Clarissa, what the fuck?!" - I shouted, my voice breaking down from the water I inadvertently took in. - "Clarissa?!"

She stood by the pier's edge, and said nothing. I swam closer to it; despite my height, I couldn't feel the bottom with my legs. A moment later I put my hands on the pier's edge, trying to climb it, to pull myself up; as I tried that, Clarissa dropped the heel of her foot on my fingers.

I screamed. The pain was sharp and sudden. I fell back in the water, and had to re-emerge again.

"What… guh… what the actual fu…" - I shouted again, trying to spit the water that got into my mouth.

"Shut up, Kyle. I want to talk with you, and I want you to stay in the water while I talk. If you try to pull yourself up, or swim to the shore, I'll lock myself in the cabin and call the police. I'll tell them you tried to rape me. They'll believe me, too." - the strange note in her voice finally bloomed into a tone of frozen menace. This wasn't a joke. It wasn't a prank. The water was very, very warm, but I immediately felt a cold strike my spine. - "Do you understand, Kyle?"

"Yes!! Fuck, Yes, I understand! What do you want from me?!"

"I need to explain something to you, Kyle. It's about Stacy. I want you to listen very carefully while I talk, okay? A lot of things are on the line - for you, mostly, but for me, too."

She squatted near the edge of the pier. I considered grabbing her ankle, pulling her in with me; the pier was too high for that.

"Do you know what your sister is? Of course you do. But do you… do you understand the details? The fine print? You don't have to answer. Your sister, Kyle, is, for all intents, a biological pinnacle of humanity. She has only one goal, only one aim - to fuck. To breed. She is beyond us, Kyle. Do you know how much she fucks in a day? I know. I've been stalking her for two years."

Clarissa looked me in the eyes. There was something bad glinting inside of them. A shard of madness.

"When I… When I was pregnant with her children, the doctor told me it was a high-risk pregnancy. That something was wrong with my vagina. That the muscles were strangely weak, and that my cervix looked swollen and battered, like it was ready to dilate. He was wrong. He was thinking in human terms. Stacy remakes those she fucks, Kyle. Her massive cock is a divine instrument; it remolds, it gives purpose. She makes women into incubators, happy incubators, with soft yet strong wombs, with durable bodies. Any woman fucked by Stacy, Kyle, is given a chance to live the happiest life biologically possible on planet Earth." - Clarissa closed her eyes and took a deep breath. - "Stacy herself is ecstatic to perform her function. She loves sex. She adores it. She loves fucking more than anything else. She finds absolute, childlike delight in the act of stretching wombs with cum and grinding pussies into mince-meat. She does it out of love. She dominates with a pristine heart. She devastates with pure joy. She brings happiness, and it makes her happy."

"So tell me, Kyle… why won't Stacy fuck me?"

I was aghast. My head rang. I couldn't get a full breath of air.

"What?! What are you on about?!"

"For two years, Kyle, I've been trying to court Stacy. Secretly. Very slowly. I approached her when nobody was home, or when she was out. I offered her my dripping cunt, ripe for the taking. Nothing fits in there, Kyle. I tried having sex with so many men, and I felt nothing from each of them… Only Stacy can make me whole, Kyle. So I presented myself to her. I offered myself to her. I prostrated before her. In great secrecy, with great care, I did it every month, for two years. So tell me, Kyle."

She stood up and bowed looking me straight in the eyes. Rage distorted her face. Unbridled, real rage. When she opened her mouth, she was screaming - screaming from the top of her lungs, screaming with pain, screaming with desperation.

"SO WHY, KYLE, WON'T STACY FUCK ME?! WHY DOES SHE REFUSE ME?! SHE'D FUCK ANYTHING! SHE FUCKED HER ENTIRE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL CLASS PREGNANT, TEACHER INCLUDED! SHE FUCKED HER MOTHER! SHE FUCKED HER NEIGHBOR, AND HER DAUGHTER, AND THEN SHE FUCKED ALMOST THREE HUNDRED WOMEN AGED SEVEN TO FORTY SIX, AND THE COUNT GOES UP! IT GOES UP ALL THE TIME! SHE CAN'T STOP! BY DIVINE MANDATE, SHE WILL NEVER STOP! WHY WON'T SHE FUCK ME, KYLE?! WHY?! WHY?! WHY?!!!"

Her voice cracked; she started coughing from vocal cord exertion. I didn't know what to say. I was afraid, actually afraid, that she had a way to kill me, right there, and she considered using it.

"I know why, Kyle. Because you did something to her. You told her something. You put some idea on her head, or made her promise something. The only variable is you, Kyle. The only unknown. I need Stacy to fuck me!! I need - Stacy - to - fuck - me!!"

I started shivering. My teeth were clenched.

"You're crazy." - I said. I meant it. My voice was pure poison. Clarissa grinned.

"No, Kyle. I'm sane. I pity you. Not… not because of your manhood, or something stupid like that. I could humiliate you if I wanted. I could tell you how gigantic Stacy's cock is. How absurd it is. How inhumanly wonderful the things it does. How it warps any pussy it touches, how it stretches, how it fills, to the brim and then more, and how you'll never compete. But it's completely irrelevant, Kyle. Masculinity has nothing to do with it. Stacy is beyond the limits of masculinity. No, I pity you, Kyle, because you're not a woman. I pity that you have no womb to carry Stacy's progeny. That you're just a sack of meat made redundant. You live in the shadow of a giant, Kyle. You've been there your entire life."

I shook my head. It was too much. I couldn't process any of it.

"Do you understand? You need to undo whatever you did, Kyle. You need to fix it. I'll do anything. Wanna beat me? Play with my breasts? I can suck you off. Hell, you can fuck my ass if you want. Do you want money? Want a car? I'll never let you into my pussy; it's not meant for your kind anymore. But anything else… just ask. Fix what you did, and you'll get it."

"I did… I did fucking nothing, you crazy bitch!! I don't understand your bullshit nonsense!! I don't understand any of it!!"

Clarissa stood upright and shook her head.

"I guess you really don't understand. The carrot failed me. I'll use the whip. Hey, Kyle, do you know that I used to be good friends with Gabriella Sanchez? Aren't you kinda close these days?"

A frozen pike went through my heart. The water surrounding me felt painful to the touch.

"What are you on about?"

"Well, I told her I want to meet up. That you and me, we are old friends, and we should meet in your house. I told her that… uh, half an hour ago? She should be there by now. Promise to do what I ask, and then I, uh, cancel the meeting. Deal?"

I understood. I understood what she meant.

My vision went white.

I heard a ringing noise in my ears.

I pulled myself up to the pier in a single motion, and before Clarissa could do or say anything, I punched her in the face so hard she fell on her back and screamed.

"I'LL KEEP DOING IT! I'LL RUIN YOUR LIFE! I'LL BESTOW UNTOLD MISERY ON YOU, KYLE! FIX WHAT YOU DID, OR SUFFER EVERY SECOND OF YOUR PITIFUL EXISTENCE!"

I didn't stay to listen. I ignored her mad laughter that followed afterwards. I did hear anything at all. In my dripping clothing and wet shoes, I ran home, without thinking anything at all.

But I didn't make it.

...