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Your little sister spills over the faded corduroy couch, suckling at the neckline of her sweatshirt. After her last attempt, your parents had stripped all of her hoodies and sweatpants of their drawstrings. You assume they’re coalescing into a Gordian knot in a drawer somewhere, spiraling out underneath her baggie of razors and the too-sharp letter opener Grandma got her for her birthday.
When she got out of the psych ward, you sat across from her on the bed and took her hands in yours. You painted her nails the color of clots and filed them into sharp points. “Don’t let them try and fucking change you,” you’d said.
The shrinks foisted Prozac on her this time, which you hate. It dulls her out. You wonder if you could convince her to quit cold-turkey and then fuck her through her withdrawals. You know from your college pals that it’s dangerous work to do anything except wean off of it, but if you confessed to her that you thought it made her boring, she’d flush the bottle in an instant.
She had neatly timed this year’s hospital excursion to take place between Thanksgiving and Christmas. You’re pretty sure she rigged it like that on purpose.
You’re glad to be home. Your parents picked you up from the bus stop, hefting your tattered duffel into the trunk. She was in the backseat, her dingy taupe puffer jacket stretched across her lap like an aging cat. When you slid in next to your baby sister, you snuck your hand underneath (coat), and underneath (skirt), and underneath (tights) so you could finger-fuck the hole in her stockings. You managed to push through the rip and poke her right in the clit.
Mom and Dad went through their typical charade, asking benign questions about your art. You answered kindly and evenly. The only son of a bitch in this town who actually gets your shit is your sister. When you sent your portfolio in, it was her blood that gussied up the furthest corners of the collage you included. It had been maximalist and raunchy: old SM mags, sliced-up pulp covers, church pamphlets. Locks of her hair and yours. “Old-timey hookers used to sell their hair,“ you’d said, combing out her lank ponytail. You took two trimmings, one for the piece and one for yourself. You kept it in the coin purse you never used. Sometimes, at parties, when your friends thought you were snorting coke in the bathroom, you took the hair out and brought the bundle to your nose.
She was the one who suggested bleeding on it, but it should still count as your idea. You hand-feed her all her fetishes. She pinched the razor like a silvery little postage stamp and looked you in the eye as she dragged the blade. At your direction, she tilted her wrist, anointing each corner.
If she notices you watching her, she doesn’t let on. She looks so small. It must be one of your hoodies, then, snatched from the bin before Mom could pre-treat the pits and ruin it with detergent. She releases the neckline and brings the sleeve to her mouth to start sucking there. Before long, the heather-gray hem darkens with her spit. Her lips are bitten, cracking open like in the middle, like a rosy geode or a hunk of dried bubblegum. A passing thought tells you that they look like a used-up version of her pussy. Like dead cunt. You shake your head to try and lose the image, but the thought sears you.
“Hey,” you say. She flinches a little, but smiles wordlessly. “You steal my hoodie?” You flop stomach-first onto the sectional, steepling your fingers and balancing your chin on top.
“You have your dyke jacket,” she says, gesturing at the worn leather you’re swaddled in, “and I have mine.”
“Who’re you calling a dyke?” Pulling your knees underneath you, you rise up then topple towards her, throwing yourself onto her lap. You nick her skinny little throat with your teeth. The sweatshirt reeks. Its neck and cuffs are ringed with saliva from her nervous tic. “Take this off.”
You love looking at your sister naked. Like flies to rot, you’re on her in seconds, undoing her bra with one hand while the other one paws at her cunt. Sometimes, a crushing need to fuck her takes you hostage, forces you into the backseat of your body. She squeaks when your nails dig into her flat chest. “You think these’ll get any bigger? It’s okay if they don’t,” you’re rushing through your sentence, “I don’t mind. You can stay like this.”
You pinch her nipples just to hear her squeal. “I missed you,” she says, even though you’re hurting her. Her face is mostly serene, but her mouth opens and closes each time you twist. Her eyes catch on the hickey that Kerry gave you when you were both fucked up on X. Her expression sours, just a little. You missed her.
“I missed you,” she says again. You pull her towards you by her tits then release her to grab her cheeks with both hands. You fill her mouth with your tongue. You taught her to kiss the way you like it, invasive and consuming, like the goal is to shovel as much of your spit as you can into the trough behind somebody’s bottom teeth.
You shrug out of your oil-slick jacket and pull back to peel your shirt off. Your little sister breaks her neck to bend and pull one of your tits into her mouth. She can’t fit all of it, but she tries anyway. She always sucks your tits hard, like she’s trying to eat you, like she wants to make you disappear. Sometimes, when you’re out on the porch at night, and she opens her mouth, she looks like a black hole inside. Like a bottomless pit.
Her hands are less certain than yours. They migrate to your hips, anchoring in the pudge there. You stroke her scalp and let her play with your tits for a little longer. It doesn’t do much for you, but she loves it, and you like to indulge her when you can. You take so much from her. You don’t mind giving when it’s this low effort.
You’re ready to move things along, though. You jerk your baby sister’s body around, shoving her so she lays flat on the couch. You can see all her garish angles like this, the way her boxy ribs disrupt and deform her torso, skin pulled tight over splayed bones, like a broken umbrella. Her cunt is freckled with razor bumps because she keeps it stripped raw. It could be an artifact of her sensory issues, but a more likely explanation is that she watches way too much porn. When you’re at school, you mail her flash drives of the good stuff. “Can you do something for me? It’ll probably make me cum hard.”
“Yeah,” she says, grabbing your hand and bringing it to her cunt. Her fingers are freezing, but her slit is blisteringly warm.
You pet her coaxingly while you talk. “Do you think you could go, like, really still for me? Like, not move at all. And not - don’t react when I touch you. Could you?”
She squirms, clearly uncomfortable. “But then it’ll be like I’m not even here.”
“You know that’s not true,” you say, withdrawing your hand. She’s pushing back a little because it makes her feel better about what she’s about to do for you. “It’s not true,” you repeat, “can we just try it?”
You start touching her again, rubbing her cunt with your whole hand. She takes her glasses off. “Fine. Should I keep my eyes open?”
“Fuck, yes.” And that’s all she needs to freeze her body. She’s incredibly good at playing dead.
You jostle her legs further apart. Since she won’t help you out, they’re heavier than they’ve ever been. You love the resistance. You can tell that she’s wet enough to take two fingers, so you go for three, smacking her thigh and feeling your cunt sing. Three fingers from you is like four from her. It’s a brutal, thuggish bang. You always fuck her like you’re mugging her. It feels like her body is so committed to the corpse bit that her pussy can’t even loosen up to let you in. The fit stays so goddamn snug. You’re delighted.
You pull your fingers out slow, loving the damp drag. You climb on top of her and wipe your hand in her hair. Grabbing her by her roots, you wrench her head back and forth. Her eyes remain unfocused and impossibly shiny. “Fuck.”
You curl over and open her mouth manually, like she’s a nutcracker. You’re smiling when you lick inside her, tasting her gums with your tongue. Poised over her like this, you’re able to get far enough inside that you can actually trace the ridges of her hard palate. This is all hotter than you thought it’d be.
“Baby,” you say, dragging your tongue over her textured cheek. You dip inside her nostril to try and get her to break, to shudder; she doesn’t budge. You fondle your own cunt, staring at her while she looks at nothing. Clambering up, you straddle her face. One deep breath and you drop your hips. You teabag her with your pussy, settling your cunt lips right against her fish-mouth. The scars on her stomach look like gills.
You can’t believe your luck. That you get to have this. This girl. Your baby sister, who will pretend to be a corpse for you to fuck, is stuck with you for the rest of her days. You’ve opted into believing in the afterlife so she can be at your side even longer. You’ll have to come up with new ways to defile her there, Rube Goldberg machine torture, infinite snuff loops. When you unstick your cunt from her forehead, you notice that her face is eerily sentimental, like she heard you thinking about being together forever.
You spend some time just grabbing at her, plucking and prodding the spots where the dregs of baby fat are gathered. When you get back down to her lower half, you swing a leg over her midsection and sit your cunt right over her spiky hipbone. It’s not like you can fit it inside your pussy, but it juts out in a sort of appealing way and you never tell yourself no.
“I miss you already,” you say, grinding, using. You grip the side of her waist, hard, you feel how strong you are, you bring her body to meet yours. You turn her on her side so you can hump on her in earnest. It’s unbelievable, how real this looks. Wanting it makes you feel simultaneously subhuman and more-than-human.
“I miss you,” you repeat, feeling your pussy drool onto your little sister’s skin, “I miss you.” Her hipbone bisects your cunt lips and crushes your clit. It hurts you, getting off on such a sharp part of her, but looking up at her blank fucking face takes you there immediately.
You crumple over her when you cum. You fold in on yourself, your sweaty forehead pressing into her collarbone, breathing heavy and drooling a little. You swear she’s slowed her heartbeat. You say her name, gently, a cue for her to blink the gloss of death away.
She says your name, and it brings her back to life.