Quickie: She Can't Help It

*****

"Three times, Linds? Seriously? You were caught three times?" I asked, expecting defiance or anger. What I got instead was amused embarrassment.

"I know," she replied with her eyes signaling shame, but her lips forming a smile. "I'm bad."

We had a history, my sister and I, and I wasn't in the mood for that smile. I pitched the tone of my next question to remind her. "This is funny to you?"

Her grin vanished. After a beat, she shrugged, replying, "I'm not going to cry about it."

"Do you realize you're a legend there--a legend in a bad way?"

"What do you think it was like for me, Jase?"

"I think you made your bed and slept in it. But me? I didn't make the bed, but being your little brother, I definitely have to sleep in it."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"But how does this even happen?" I asked. "Once, maybe, I can understand--a careless, stupid decision. But three times? What the hell were you thinking?"

"I don't think you want to know what I was thinking," she replied with flat certainty, and those words cast light on a dark, hidden place. They implied things about my sister for which I was not at all prepared.

My eyes darted to her mouth and lips. Briefly, I imagined things. "Oh, my gosh," I muttered, shutting my eyes and shaking my head to dislodge the thoughts.

Lindsey shrugged again. The hint of a smile curled onto her lips as she turned to the textbook splayed beside her on the bed.

I saw her, right then, as others probably did. The excitement and warmth in those dark eyes, the promise of pleasure in her full lips, and classically feminine features framed by thick, beautiful blonde hair. What fella, I wondered, would say "no" to that face? Few could. To other guys, my sister's face was temptation made flesh. So, my next words spilled out with simple assurance. "Oh, shit," I said, "You only got caught three times. You did it all the time."

"Not all the time."

"But a lot," I countered.

"Maybe."

Silence presided for the next few seconds before I asked, "Why, Lindsey? Couldn't you--I don't know--wait until later? Wait until after school?"

"What makes you think I wasn't doing it after school, too?" she asked, never taking her eyes from that book on her bed.

My eyes gaped. Her rueful smile unfurled again. Shaking my head, I said, "No--no way. You're full of shit, Linds."

"Or full of something else," she replied.

Oh, geez. I pinched my eyes shut. "Lindsey, that's fucking--." I couldn't finish.

"No," she corrected, "it's actually sucking."

I groaned. The imagery she created with those quips just gutted me. I sat down at the foot of her bed.

She started laughing.

Rubbing my face, I chuckled hollowly. I didn't know what else to do; I wasn't going to fucking cry. With a sigh, I glanced at Lindsey.

Her eyebrows ticked upwards as if apologizing, but the grin remained. "I can't help it," she offered. "I like it."

Something happened inside me. When I heard those words combined with that expression, my body suddenly grew warm. This was not embarrassment or anger. I knew what it was, but I didn't want to admit it. I swallowed in a very dry throat. My heart began to thud. Rising from her bed, I went directly to her door to flee that troubling feeling.

With my hand on the handle, Linds asked, "What do they say about me?"

I didn't open the door, and I didn't turn to look at her. Sighing, I said, "They call you 'Blowjobs Hobbes.'"

She didn't say anything for a few seconds, and in that interim, I decided I actually did want to see her reaction. I turned.

She let slip a short burst of laughter, and then she shrugged.

Another wave of heat coursed through me, and I left.

Back in my bedroom, I lay down on my bed in a kind of daze. I didn't even care anymore that I was the younger brother of the infamous "Blowjobs Hobbes." All I could think of was her revelation--and how she had looked when she said those words: "I like it."

My sister had sexual desires; the knowledge should not have surprised me, but it did. I had understood it, of course--grasped it in the intellectual sense. By that, I mean I didn't ever dwell on it.

But what I learned about my sister in the preceding minutes forced me to dwell upon it, forced me to see Lindsey in an utterly new light. She remained my sister, but she was something else, too; she was a young woman who enjoyed giving blowjobs--and gave quite a few of them because she "couldn't help it."

"Women like that really exist?" I whispered to my ceiling.

It astonished me.

At eighteen, during her senior year of high school, my sister--on three separate occasions--got caught giving a blowjob during the school day. To three different guys!

"And the reason," I hissed to myself, "she didn't wait until after school is that she already had another one scheduled!"

Just how many blowjobs had my sister given? Hundreds? More than a thousand? She was four years older than me--22. She could've sucked countless cocks in that time.

I tried to imagine a parallel world, one where sexy girls were so horny they needed their pussies licked, and they asked me to do it for them--during school. Would I do it?

I would. Even if fucking them wasn't an option. Even if their returning the favor was out of the question--and, of course, those things wouldn't really be off the table. Fucking and reciprocal blowjobs would happen sometimes.

But, yeah, I would eat pussy during school. To have my face between those smooth thighs. To know and taste the secret of her body. To catch her eye in class afterwards. To see her grin, knowing I'd taken her to the stars just a few minutes before. To find there was another girl, just as sexy and sitting a few rows behind me, whose pussy was getting wet, thinking about how hard it would be to stifle her cries of pleasure in the bathroom stall.

I'd do it, but it never occurred to me that a girl might be the same way. And now I knew better. Now I knew my sister was precisely that kind of girl.

Did the things that went through my mind at the thought of pussy go through her mind at the thought of cock?

They must. Again, I didn't think that species of woman existed.

"Blowjobs Hobbes," I whispered.

I was eighteen and utterly pristine. Unsexed. Un-kissed. Untouched--other than by my own right hand--and constantly horny. My gosh, I thought, what I would give to find a girl like that!

But I had found one, hadn't I?

I fought against the images creeping into my mind. A restroom stall at the high school. Before and beneath me is Lindsey, licking her lips and gazing hungrily as I unzip. I whip it out of my jeans. She smiles when she sees it. "I can't help it," she says to me. "I like it." And then I am plunged into a heavenly ecstasy I had only been able to imagine.

Blinking and opening my eyes on my bed, I discovered that I was in a state of electric readiness. I could be done and cleaning up my mess in ten seconds if I wanted to. Red shame swept over me.

My sister is sexy. This fucking hard on is from thinking about my sister, sucking my dick. What a fucking dildo I am! What a slap-dick!

Then, another thought: what if I hauled this fucker back to Lindsey's bedroom and showed it to her? Just dropped it right in front of her. Would she be able to help herself?

I rolled onto my side, tucked a pillow under my head, and tried to think of other things until, eventually, I began sleeping in little fits and bursts.

***

Like my sister, I spent my first three years of high school at the public school not far from our home, but for our senior years, Mom sent us to the private "finishing school" as she called it. They required perfect grades and double tuition for senior transfers because a diploma from their high school turned heads in college admissions panels.

Lindsey and I earned the grades; Mom paid the bill. She wanted us to graduate from the best private school in the city, but she didn't want to pay all four years of tuition.

Because of this, I didn't know about Lindsey's oral proclivities until I showed up to "finishing school" as a senior and began to hear the stories.

"Are you related to Lindsey Hobbes?"

"Do you have an older sister named Lindsey?"

"Don't tell me you're Lindsey Hobbes' brother."

When I answered in the positive, the stories poured out. Then, furtive eyes followed me in the halls. Surreptitious fingers pointed at me. Whispers trailed my passing. Lindsey was notorious.

It was curious that I never heard a negative thing about her while at my old high school. Like me, she spent three years there, too, and though none of her years overlapped with mine, not a single upperclassman teased me with racy stories from her time there.

What triggered the difference? Why at my new school and not the old one? Nothing had changed--apart from the school she attended. Classes were tougher, but teachers and kids were about the same at both places. Lindsey looked pretty much the same.

Even as her brother, I could acknowledge that Lindsey had an arrestingly attractive face. She was a brown-eyed blonde with long, wavy hair past her shoulder blades. Small chin, small nose, and lovely cheeks. Her face was a thing crafted to bewitch men with those dark eyes and full lips.

In high school, she had been skinny. A couple of shallow saucers for breasts. Nothing but ribs, elbows, and knees. No hips and no butt. Lots of friends but no official boyfriends. Mom wondered about eating disorders, but thankfully, that was never a problem for Linds. College filled out her frame a bit. Her body grew into something typical, if not alluring, but that face--wow.

Lindsey had always been a fun older sister. She liked playing sports and games with me. While she and Mom got into hot verbal spats frequently, Lindsey and I rarely fought. She didn't complain about driving me to school when she turned sixteen. She'd come to my bedroom and lie beside me, looking up at the ceiling and telling stories, laughing, or philosophizing.

We were friends.

When she went to college, we spoke on the phone at least twice a week. When she came home, we spent time together--going to movies, playing cards, or streaming shows together.

When Grandpa got sick, things changed.

He got pancreatic cancer during my sophomore year, and it ripped through him. Diagnosed in November, we lost him three months later.

Throughout this time, it was as if Lindsey didn't even care. Grandpa was the absolute best. Always kind and positive. Came to all our events and competitions. Took us out for ice cream at every opportunity. Never once did I see him angry. He just loved and spoiled us--and Mom, of course.

And Lindsey wasn't there for him when he needed her. She didn't make any trips back from college to comfort Mom or see Grandpa. Mom made excuses for her: "She can't miss any classes, Jase! Grandpa wouldn't want that."

It was all on me and Mom. My resentment grew, and I began avoiding Lindsey's calls.

It blew up at the funeral.

Linds was sitting on the other side of Mom from me in the pews. She was secretly texting. Mom didn't see because she was weeping on my shoulder.

Texting during grandpa's funeral? It can't wait an hour? I was like boiling acid, glaring at her little hands while they furtively danced on that little digital keyboard.

When the congregation rose to sing, Lindsey lowered her phone and stood; I grimaced and faced the front again.

A minute later, I caught movement out of my peripheral vision. She was back on her phone.

That was it.

I reached over and snatched the phone from her hands. She looked up at me, shocked and instantly chagrined.

I gritted my teeth and hissed, "I know Grandpa's funeral is cutting into your precious social life, but show some fucking respect."

Mom gasped. My cousins in the pew behind us, too. I dropped the phone on the floor and smashed it with the heel of my dress shoes. Never have I seen a face so red as hers. Or eyes so glassy and bloodshot.

She left. Didn't even show her face at the internment or the reception. Mom, always looking for the best in others, said it was grief. I knew better.

Linds and I didn't speak for months. It took a year for us to get to a point where we could exchange greetings. Yeah, things changed.

We were not friends.

Then, I became a senior and went to finishing school.

***

Stirring in the night yet again, I rolled toward my nightstand and glanced at the clock--1:49 am. It had been a hellacious night. I was tired, and I couldn't sleep but in little ten-minute increments surrounded by 20 minutes of tossing and turning. And it was all because of Blowjobs Hobbes.

I flipped the pillow and rolled to my other side to try again. Less than a minute elapsed before I sat up, whispering, "I have to know why."

I crept down the moonlit hall to Lindsey's room. After three sets of gentle knocks, I heard her voice and opened the door.

"Can I come in?" I whispered.

"What is it, Jase?" she asked in a tired voice.

Her curtains were open, and the light of a waxing half moon made everything blue and black.

"Want to talk to you," I replied.

"Now?"

"Yes."

"Okay," she murmured, and then I watched her scoot over and settle in with a light sigh. I climbed in beside her on top of the covers, adjusting a pillow and lying flat on my back.

"Can I ask you something weird?" I began.

"Yeah."

"Why do you like to do it?"

"You mean what we were talking about before?"

"Yeah."

"Why do you care so much?"

Turning to her, I said, "I know it's weird. It's just--I didn't know--." I wasn't sure how to finish. I started again. "I always thought girls were different--." I couldn't go on.

"That we don't like--doing stuff?"

"I guess. Or that you don't think about it the way guys do."

"How do guys think about it?" she asked.

"We want it. Sometimes we want it so much, we'll make bad choices to get it."

"What do you want?" she asked. "Guys, I mean."

"To get off, right? To have a girl make us--you know."

"I know."

"So is that what you want, too?" I asked.

"To get off?"

"No. Do you want to be the girl who gets guys off? Is that why you like doing it?"

Lindsey whispered her response, and her voice was like a gentle embrace. Listening to her, I felt like the downy covers of her bed were drawing me deeper into the mattress. I was sinking in warm cotton, lulled by her whispered disclosures to me. Listening to her voice and breathing gently through my nose, the fragrance of her room and her body soothed me. She didn't make me feel sleepy, though; it was more like being massaged into wakefulness.

As we stared at the blue ceiling, I lay as if paralyzed while my sister divulged the many reasons she enjoyed giving blowjobs. I didn't interrupt. The more reasons she offered, the more it felt like she was telling herself, not me. My question, it seemed, gave her the chance to put into words something she'd long felt, but never explained, even to herself.

She used the word "cock," and the more she divulged, the more I got the impression that she didn't just like cocks. She cherished them. It wasn't mere love; it was adoration.

She told me she didn't like it when a cock was soft--unless it was soft because she, herself, made it that way. "That's one of my favorite things," she whispered. "When it begins to soften, just after." There are no words to describe the lightning that phrase triggered in me.

She explained that when it was hard, she could not resist it. She said that a hard-on was like a king, demanding her loyalty, and she wanted to show her fealty. Then, she murmured that a hard cock, to her, was like an alarm on a patient's medical device. It screamed, "Do something!" and Lindsey, like a good nurse, took care of her patient. And she divulged to me in the blue darkness that a hard-on is a boy's gift to her. It assures her that she is special because she made it that way. How could she, then, not show her appreciation by sucking on it?

This brought her to the subject of semen, and Lindsey elaborated at length on the topic while I listened. In short, my sister told me that cum was like a special gift, just for her. She explained that if the erection was the first present, then cum was her final reward. "How could I spit that out like some girls do?" she asked the ceiling. "That would be an insult to it--an insult to me." Whispering with amazement in her voice, Lindsey told me she always swallowed cum; she "never wasted any."

This last utterance woke me from my reverie. "What do you mean," I murmured, "'wasted any?'"

"It's the only thing--and the perfect thing--it can give me, Jase. How could I let any of it dribble out?"

I couldn't speak anymore; I just listened.

She went on. "It's like I can feel the cum when it's in my tummy, and it feels really good. Buzzy nice. Warm. I'm, like, whole and perfect after I swallow it. I don't know. Does that make any sense?"

I don't know why, but I turned toward her. She sensed the movement and did the same to me. In the moonlight, Lindsey appeared utterly vulnerable. Her eyes, big and glassy in the semi-darkness, told me that she had just disclosed the very secrets of her heart. They pleaded with me not to hurt her. With a nervous tremor in her voice, she uttered, "It probably seems gross to hear things like that from your sister."

I was so warm right then, so perfectly comfortable beside her. When I shook my head and offered her a sympathetic smile, it felt like it took ten seconds.

Lindsey blinked gratefully. She offered me a shy smile, and then she turned back toward the window. Then, I heard her snatch a quick breath. I felt her body stiffen beside mine.

I knew what she saw, and I didn't try to hide it. Instead, I followed her eyes down. And there I was: a singular, jutting warhead tenting the groin of my thin cotton shorts. Unmistakeable. Obscenely erect.

Oh, I was nervous, but I willed myself not to show any shame over it.

Neither of us spoke. Twice, I stole secret glances at my sister. Her dark eyes didn't move. Finally, she broke the stillness with more nervous laughter, saying, "You--you must have liked my story."

Swallowing back a lump in my throat from the anxiety of the moment, I managed to utter, "Sexy."

My reply--and its sincerity--was not something my sister expected. Her laughter gave way to silence. After a beat, Lindsey asked, "Blowjobs are sexy, or--or my blowjobs are sexy?"

"Yours," I whispered, unable to give any strength to my voice in that moment.

Lindsey drew a long breath. After a beat, she let it go with a low, feminine hum. Then, she turned to me.

I met her eyes, but couldn't find any words. With a tinge more light, I wondered if she might be able to see the pounding of my heart against my chest. Swallowing another heavy lump in the back of my throat, I searched for the right words to say, but Lindsey spoke first. "I always tried not to think about yours--your cock, I mean, like as a sister," she whispered, "but I did sometimes wonder. Does that make any sense?"

I nodded.

She glanced at it, asking, "You've got it bad, don't you?"

I swallowed again, nodding.

"It looks really hard."

I cleared my throat. "It is," I uttered nervously. "Do you maybe want to see it?"

Her face spun to mine and held there. At last, she said, "Okay."

I raised my hips from the bed. She watched me draw my shorts over the jutting rod and down to my thighs. Once uncovered, the shaft sprang back toward my tummy, wobbling there.

"Oh," she murmured, staring at it.

I nudged it to vertical with my thumb, and then I let it go. It snapped back and shook like a diving board.

Lindsey giggled quietly. "Oh, my gosh."

"You can feel it," I said. "I don't care." Then, I grabbed it and moved it around like a gear shift as a kind of demonstration.