by Sophia Taboo
My mom and dad split up when I was little. I was so young that I hardly remember my mom before she took off to Amsterdam on some soul-searching expedition never to be seen or heard from again, aside from an occasional postcard during my pubescent years but those weren’t a solid replacement. My dad took the divorce hard. I was okay with it since I grew up with a single dad as my only reality, but he was a mess for a long time. I’d catch him crying at night sometimes and try to sneak to bed without him hearing me in the hallway. He’d always buck-up and come tuck me in anyway, though. That was just his way.
He was such a great guy that I was very wary when Kathy came into our lives. She had a son of her own from her second marriage. A son with whom, even though I was only six at the time, I was immediately infatuated. Even back then, Jeremy was athletic. He played soccer, peewee football, ice hockey, and even youth lacrosse. Meanwhile, I practiced scales in the poorly soundproofed garage, much to the neighbors’ chagrin. But I digress.
When Kathy and Jeremy entered our lives, I didn’t trust her as far as my tiny six-year-old arms could throw her. The only other relevant adult woman who had ever been a constant part of my life had abandoned me and devastated my father in a truly irreparable way, so why on earth would I trust this one? Sure, she seemed nice and she brought me presents on holidays and my dad laughed a lot more when she was around and he seemed to be coming out from under that rain cloud that had been sitting over his head for the last several years, but why would that have any impact on my sentiment toward her? And, sure, her son was a fast, tanned, impressive kid who had the attention of every girl in school and admiration of every boy and had occupied the primary leading role in my dreams as long as I could remember, but again, why should that have mattered? Clearly this was all some sort of setup to break my father’s heart again and seriously damage my fragile young psyche.
Regardless of my prepubescent psychoanalysis of the situation, though, a year later Kathy and my dad were married and I was suddenly sharing a roof (along with a breakfast table, bathroom, and a shower) with the most popular kid in the second grade. The adjustment was hard on everyone. Jeremy did not appreciate having to pick up his practice gear off the bathroom floor every day. Nor did he appreciate the pathetic honking that came from the garage every afternoon when he got home from said practice. Nor did he appreciate the sudden and forced cohabitation with the bookworm, glasses-wearing, trumpet playing student body treasurer who seemed (accurately) to take genuine pleasure in the math she was required to do for said student body.
Meanwhile, I still didn’t trust that this whole situation could be real or safe. I doubted that my luck could be so good to have Jeremy this close every day, and I doubted that Kathy’s intentions were pure toward my father. Something in me wanted to hate her despite all evidence that she was truly and genuinely in love with him. But, as the years went by, Kathy proved me wrong. She stayed by my father in the best and worst of times. She never left his side when he lost his job. Nor did she take advantage of him when he found his position at the real estate company and skyrocketed into the upper echelons within a year, suddenly finding himself with a comfy six figures coming in. She was a woman of her word and I realized, very late, that I could truly trust her; and for that, I was very grateful.
With Jeremy, it was another story. Though we grew up together nearly our entire lives, he never seemed to warm up to me. As we moved from elementary school into middle school, we grew apart even more, to the point that he would actively tease me at school to impress his friends. It hurt more than he could ever know. I’d nursed my desire for him for so many years, then to have him within such close reach and yet to be abused by him so publicly was devastating to the gangly preteen trumpeter. I had my circle of friends, though, and we spent inordinate amounts of time together. I even dated a few of the boys from the school band in seventh and eight grade. Rodney Wells, a bassoonist, was the sweetest boy I’d ever met. He was waiting for me at my locker on Valentine’s Day morning with a rose and a small box of chocolates and he asked me if I wanted to go with him to the Valentine’s Day dance that weekend. We dated for seven whole magical days. We held hands, sat together at lunch, and he even kissed me before deciding that Mandy Jacobson, the first violin, was cuter.
I was heartbroken for what felt like an eternity; and coming home to Jeremy on a daily basis was torture. I’d walk in after band practice (during which I’d had to watch Rodney and Mandy flirt and kiss when the instructor’s back was turned) to find him shirtless on the couch eating a mound of meat and bread watching ESPN, his perfect body still glistening with dried sweat and mud, his almond-brown eyes barely more than slits perusing score charts and statistics, never once turning toward the stepsister he could, obviously, more than happily do without. Eventually I resigned myself to living in my fantasy world. I knew that I wasn’t the pick of the litter in middle school, and it became even more apparent in high school. Springtown High was huge and simply by way of quantity I felt I didn’t stand a chance. I relegated myself to pep band and orchestra and focused on my studies. I excelled in everything I did, but none of what I did got the attention of anyone my own age. If I’d been looking for a boyfriend in the thirties-to-forties age range I’d be rolling in it. Unfortunately, I wanted someone my own age. In particular, I wanted someone my own age and who had my same home address. Therefore, my fingers and my fantasies would have to do. Nearly every night before I went to sleep I’d close my eyes and picture Jeremy on top of me. I’d imagine him whispering in my ear as his hands slid down my body to where my thighs met in a wet, pink slit.
“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he’d say. “I never knew how to tell you. I knew no one would accept us, but I don’t care anymore. I need you.”
Then he’d slip his fingers inside me. My muscles would tighten beginning with my upper thighs and extending all the way to my ears and toes. I’d press my hips upward and guide his fingers to my clit. He’d dig into me and I would feel his cock swell and stiffen against my body. His lips would mash against mine and his tongue would run from my earlobes to my throat and then up into my mouth. With his fingers still inside me, he’d kiss his way down my chest to my plump and untested B-cup breasts. He’d take my left nipple in his mouth, toy with it with his tongue, then bite just hard enough to send an electrical shock through my entire body, shaking me to my core and forcing my pussy to clench and tighten. I would moan and pulsate for him as his fingers would slide out of me and he would adjust his body between my legs. For an endless second, he’d hover over me, staring at me, through me, into my soul. He’d drink in the moment before he took me to my limits. He’d bathe in the glory of finally fucking me after years of repressed desire. And after a thousand years, he’d slide his cock smoothly, expertly into me. He would throb inside me and I would tighten down on him, my legs wrapping around him, riding him like a horse. His arms would bulge next to me, and his left hand would leap to cup my right breast, squeezing and massaging while he worked in me like an oil drill. I’d tilt my pelvis upward and he’d sink deeper into me, my pussy gushing and my head pounding in dizzying beats in time with my heart.
Suddenly, my eyes would shoot open and my back would convulsively arch as my mouth would gape and throat would lock in a silent scream. Every muscle in my body would tighten beyond the breaking point and then in an eruption to make Pompeii envious I would cum with the force of an earthquake. My entire body would slam against the bed, my nails digging into his back and his stone-like chest. And then, as the waves of orgasm washed over me, I’d feel him pull out suddenly and spray me with a blast of hot, white semen. He would cover my stomach, my thighs, my chest and arms. I would rub it into my skin like lotion and lick it from my fingers. Then I would open my eyes, stand up, walk to the bathroom, wash my hands from fingering myself, return to my bed, shake off my fantasy and tuck myself in.
Chapter 2
The end of high school was a blur. I was accepted to Stanford and had begun preparing for my departure
Jeremy took off for Hell Week far earlier than I would for my first week of college, and the house felt oddly peaceful without him there. At the very least, it smelled better. I could take as much time as I wanted in the bathroom. I could watch TV without any grunting ape changing the channel to ESPN in the middle of my show. It was kind of nice in a way. That being said, it felt appallingly empty. It was as if even my fantasies had left for college and forgotten that they were mine.
Soon enough, though, I was packed and on my way. My dad drove me out to California and helped me move into my dorm. I was terrified but thrilled. My roommate was a cellist from Virginia and we hit it off right away. Those first few months were amazing. The freedom was overwhelming, but the joy I felt at being able to set my own schedule, go where I pleased when I wanted to, and visit with friends at all hours of the day and night was incredible. It flew past so quickly that I hardly realized it was winter by the time Christmas break rolled around. We all said our cheerful goodbyes and dispersed ourselves to the winds. I landed the day after Jeremy had come home, so he picked me up from the airport (which I thought was weird, but I certainly wouldn’t complain). I hauled my luggage out to the curb and he was there waiting for me in his big blue truck.
“Come on, Kim,” I heard him shout from down the curb. “Down here.”
I half-ran, half-lumbered toward his truck, dragging my bags like something I’d killed in the forest. I flung my things into the back of the cab and climbed in.
“How was the flight?” he asked almost immediately.
“It was good,” I replied. “Not too long. I got to read a bit.”
“That’s good,” he said.
It was weird. He seemed to be genuinely asking me how the flight was and seemed to sincerely believe that my having had a chance to read was, as he said, good. This was extremely unusual for him to take such an interest in my life, but again, I was not going to complain.
“First semester good?” he asked.
“You know, it was!” I exclaimed. “The people there are great. My roommate is fabulous and the curriculum is spectacular. I have never been this challenged by academia in my life! It’s so refreshing.” I could hear myself saying all of this, but couldn’t stop myself from blabbing like the gigantic, pathetic nerd I obviously was.
“How about you?” I asked. “I saw on Facebook that you’re slated to be starting later this season?”
“Yeah,” he said trying to hid his smile. “Yeah the coach is great. And the team is super strong. We’ve got a good shot of going really far this year.”
“Well with you running they’re certainly in a good position,” I said.
“Yeah, thanks,” he replied. “It’s been good so far. I’m glad you’re having a good time, too.”
“Thanks,” I said.
We drove in silence for a little while. It was one of the more particularly cold nights in Springtown and the air looked as though it had frozen in place. Every molecule seemed to be waiting for something to bump into it to start it moving again.
“Do you have plans for New Year’s yet?” Jeremy asked suddenly.
“Oh, um, no,” I stammered.
“Cool, well, there’s a party on campus that I thought you might like to come to if you’re still in town then,” he said. “It’s a masquerade. The invite’s in the glove box if you want to see.”
I opened the glove box and pulled out a black and white embossed four-by-five card.
Masquerade Ball! Leave your selves at the door, it read.
“This looks fancy,” I said skeptically, wondering both who would invite my filthy stepbrother to an up-scale soiree and simultaneously why he would think to invite me to it.
“Are you sure it’d be okay for me to come?” I asked. “I mean, it looks like it’s kind of an ‘admit-one’ kind of invite.”
“It’s a good friend of mine putting it on,” he said. “It’ll be fine. I mean, no pressure, but if you want to come, I thought you might like it.”
“Yeah,” I said as casually as I could. “Yeah, I think I will.”
“Cool,” he said simply, and we drove on in silence.
Christmas came and went, and the intermediary week between then and New Years was spectacularly long. I hit up some after-Christmas sales to find the perfect dress for the party. Something fancy, but slinky. I wanted to look formal, but I also wanted to look as close to knockout hot as I could. After all, this was a party where the only rules were to wear formal attire, to wear a mask, and to “leave yourselves at the door.” I definitely planned to leave my ‘self’ at the door. What happened from there could be anyone’s guess.
A few days before the party, Jeremy knocked on my door. I quickly hid the dress and my mask and let him in.
“Hey,” he said. “Got a sec?”
“Sure,” I said stepping to the side to let him through the doorway.
He sat down on the bed; something he never did. In fact, I couldn’t remember if he’d ever done it before.
“What’re you going to wear?” he asked nervously.
“It’s a surprise,” I said coyly.
“Oh,” he said. He seemed pensive; an odd look for him. “Can you take a look at my outfit and tell me if it’s good?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why, though? I’m sure it’s fine. It’s a tux, right?”
“Yeah,” he said slowly, “but I want to look really good. There’s a girl going to this thing that I really want to impress.”
My heart hit the floor. I scrambled for something playful to say to cover the fact that I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to weep and possibly vomit.
“How’ll she even know it’s you, though?” I asked. “You’ll be behind a mask, stupid.”
“Yeah, I know,” he said. “I don’t know – can you just look at it?”
“Yeah, fine,” I said.
We walked to his room and he almost instantly began to undress. He kicked off his shoes, pulled his socks off, and before I could respond his shirt was over his head revealing the most chiseled body I’d ever seen outside of a GQ magazine.
“Whoa, hey, do you want me to leave?” I impulsively asked.
“No, it’s fine,” he said. “I’ll be fast.”
He threw his shirt to the ground and bent to pull down his pants. He had to tug a little to get them over his muscular thighs and as he bent, his abs rippled like stones tumbling over top of each other. It was like watching a Greek statue come to life to change its pants.
He pulled each item one-by-one out of his closet and donned his entire outfit. He got the cummerbund on all right, but his bowtie was an actual bowtie and he stared at it dejectedly. I walked over to him.
“Here,” I said. “I can do that for you.
I stepped in close and carefully tied and tightened it, making sure to hold the center knot in place while I tightened the loops so that it wouldn’t become lopsided. I pulled each end taught and looked up to see his almond-slit eyes staring into mine from merely a few inches away. For a breathless moment, we just stood there, staring into each other’s eyes. I snapped back to reality and stepped back.
“There,” I said, probably too loudly. “Where’s your mask?”
“Oh, right,” he said bumbling about. He pulled a stylized white and blue Arlecchino mask out of his closet and donned it.
“There,” he said and struck a pose. “How do I look?”
I took him in from head to toe. He looked like a Platonic ideal image of a young lover. Every bit of him built perfectly in proportion, his stature and posture regal, his mask fitting, his tuxedo accentuating every positive element of his perfectly constructed body.
“You look great,” I said. A could feel tears filling my eyes but I choked them back. “That girl won’t know what hit her.”
“Thanks, sis,” he said and unexpectedly enveloped me in his arms. “You’re the best.”
Chapter 3
Jeremy had asked if I wanted a ride to the party, but I wanted to drive separately. I had a couple of friends who were in the area so I’d gone down the night before to stay with them. I figured they’d be better able to get me all dolled up the right way before the party anyway. We spent longer getting me ready for this party than we ever had for any Prom or high school dance I’d been to, but even if I do say so myself, I looked pretty amazing. The dress was a black, slinky floor length dress with one long slit up the right leg to about ten inches above the knee. It was sleeveless and the neckline plunged enough to show off a sizeable helping of cleavage. My blonde hair was pulled back and up in ringlets and curls with one curled strand dangling down like a vine of ivy over top of my black sequined cat eye mask. We painted on my makeup in bold but classy strokes, my eyeliner to match the mask, and my lips a burlesque red that made me uncomfortable until I saw the entire ensemble put together. Suddenly, I saw a woman in the mirror who I’d never met before. She was confident, she knew what she wanted, and she knew that men wanted her. I had never felt this feeling in my life, but in that moment, I felt desirable; I felt downright sexy.
Around eleven o’clock I took a cab the short distance to the party’s address and came across a sizeable house with the Greek letters ΚΑΨ emblazoned onto the façade. The music was loudly audible from the curb and there were people mingling in and out of the front and sides of the house in various states of inebriation already. I paid the driver, pulled out my compact to check my mask, hair and makeup one last time, and in that moment remembered the other woman. I saw her in that mirror again and I was overcome with confidence. I took a long breath in, snapped my compact into my purse, winked haughtily at the cabbie and powerfully slung my bare right leg out of the cab. My high heel clicked enticingly on the pavement and I pulled myself out the rest of the way. I spun around knowingly and closed the cab door. He drove off and I strutted across the way to the door of the house. I gripped the doorknob with my long fingers and opened the portal to a world like none I’d ever seen. The house was packed to the brim with people in tuxedos, dresses, costumes, and masks as far as the eye could see. The lights were low and, for the most part, colored. There seemed to be a DJ buried somewhere in the living room, and a chant of “GO! GO! GO!” from the kitchen that concluded in an outburst of excitement that sounded more like a home team touchdown than someone finishing a beer. I had barely stepped into the door before a short, impish little man in a smiling red devil mask complete with tiny horns had sidled up to me.
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