I was twelve the first time I heard her.
The pond sat at the edge of our farm, quiet and green, with the big willow leaning over one side like it was trying to drink. That was my spot. Every afternoon after chores I’d take my sketchbook and the good pencils Mama kept sharpened for me and sit under the tree. The water made soft sounds against the bank. Birds talked to each other. I drew whatever felt important that day—dragonflies, the way light broke on the surface, the shape of the clouds.
Lately I kept drawing the same girl.
I never saw her outside my head, but she was clear when I closed my eyes. Dark hair that looked almost black when it was wet. Eyes that stayed on me even when I tried to look away. I didn’t know her name. I just kept putting her on the page, over and over, until the paper got soft under my fingers.
That first day the voice came while I was finishing her mouth.
It was low and smooth, like someone speaking from the bottom of a well.
“Come swim with me.”
I stopped the pencil. Looked around. Nobody. Just the willow and the water and the empty fields beyond. I told myself it was the wind or maybe one of the farmhands calling from far off. I went back to the sketch. The girl on the paper seemed to watch me while I worked.
A few days later I was there again. Same tree. Same sketchbook. The girl again, this time with water up to her shoulders.
The voice returned, closer.
“The water’s nice today. Come in.”
I shook my head even though no one could see me. “I can’t. Mama said not to go past the bank.”
“Just a little way. It’s shallow here.”
My feet moved before I decided. The grass was cool. Then the mud at the edge. Then the water itself, colder than I expected, climbing my ankles, my calves. I held the sketchbook tight against my chest like it could keep me safe.
“Where are you?” I asked. “I can’t see you.”
“Deeper. Just a few more steps.”
I went. The bottom dropped. Water reached my waist, then higher. My dress floated up around me. The sketchbook got wet at the edges and I almost cried, but the voice kept talking, soft and sure, and I kept walking.
Something touched the back of my leg.
It wasn’t a fish. It wasn’t a branch. It felt like the moment when you touch the electric fence by accident—sharp and hot and all through me at once. My whole body locked. The sketchbook slipped from my hands. The water closed over my head.
I don’t remember anything after that.
They told me later. Papa saw me floating face-down and ran in without even taking his boots off. He pushed me toward the bank where Mama was screaming and reaching. Then something held him. Or the mud held him. Or he just got too tired. They pulled me out first. By the time they got to him it was too late.
That was six years ago.
I don’t go to the pond anymore. Mama kept the farm going the best she could. My brother stepped up and took on most of the heavy work. We still live in the same house. The fields feel smaller now. I still draw, but the girl in my sketches has changed. She’s older. Sometimes she looks almost like me.
And the voice is back.
Not by the water this time.
Inside my head.
She talks when the house is quiet. When I’m trying to sleep. When I’m kneeling by my bed and supposed to be praying. She says my name the way no one else does. Soft. Certain.
I don’t answer her yet.
But she’s patient.
She’s been waiting a long time.
I finish the last amen and keep my hands folded on my chest. The room is dark except for the thin strip of hallway light under my door. Upstairs is quiet. Mama’s already asleep. My brother’s door clicked shut an hour ago.
I try to close my eyes.
The ache is already there, low and warm between my legs. It waited until I was finished praying. My body always does that.
I press my thighs together. The pulse only gets stronger.
You shouldn’t. You just asked God to keep you clean. Just go to sleep. It will pass if you stay still.
But the other voice is louder already. The one that sounds like it comes from the bottom of a well.
It never passes. You’re already wet. Feel how slippery you are just from thinking about it. Stop pretending. Your fingers are already twitching.
I swallow. My heart is beating too fast. The sheets feel too warm against my skin. I’m still in the soft cotton nightshirt that barely reaches mid-thigh. No panties. I stopped wearing them to bed.
My hand is on my stomach. I didn’t put it there on purpose. The cotton is warm under my palm. Lower. I stop at the edge of the nightshirt.
I can feel how empty I am. That soft open feeling that makes me want to push something inside just so the ache has somewhere to go. My fingers flex once against the fabric.
Go on. Slide your hand under. Feel how soaked the strip of hair is already. You got wet during the prayers, didn’t you? Every time you said the words you felt it pulse. Dirty little virgin saying holy things with a dripping cunt.
I bite my lip. The guilt is hot in my chest but it only makes the throb worse. My cheeks are burning. The flush spreads down my neck to my small breasts. The nipples are already tight, rubbing against the soft cotton every time I breathe.
Please. Just wait until morning. You’re better in the morning. You can do it quick and then feel guilty later. Not now. Not right after talking to Him.
My hand is already moving.
I push the nightshirt up. Cool air hits the tops of my thighs. Then my fingers find the neat little strip of hair, soft and already damp. Lower. The bare skin is slick. I spread my legs just enough to fit my hand between them and the first touch against my pussy makes my breath catch.
I’m so wet it startles me. The folds are swollen and slippery, parting easily under my fingertips. My clit is a hard little bead, pulsing when I brush it.
There she is. Look how ready you are. All that praying and your body still opened up like a needy hole. Rub it. Slow. Make it worse. You love making it worse.
I do.
Two fingers slide through the wetness, gathering it, then circle my clit with the lightest pressure. My hips twitch. A soft sound tries to leave my throat and I swallow it. Upstairs is quiet but the house is old. Sound carries.
I keep the circles small. The ache builds in waves, spreading up into my belly. My empty pussy clenches hard around nothing and another rush of wetness slides out, cooling on my inner thigh.
This is wrong. You’re touching yourself right after prayer. God can still hear you.
Then let Him hear. Let Him hear how wet His good girl is. Push a finger in. Just the tip. Feel how tight you still are. Virgin hole sucking at nothing. You want something thicker. Something that would stretch you until it hurts.
My middle finger presses against my entrance. The muscle is soft and resisting at the same time. I push just the first knuckle inside and my whole body tightens. It’s hot and slick and the stretch is tiny but it still makes my toes curl.
I rock against my hand, slow, careful, the wet sounds soft in the dark. My other hand drifts up under the nightshirt and finds one small breast. The nipple is so sensitive that the lightest pinch sends another pulse straight down to my clit.
I’m breathing through my mouth now. Little shaky exhales.
That’s it. Fuck yourself with that finger. Add another when you can’t stand how empty you feel. You’re going to come with your nightshirt pushed up and your legs open like you want someone to walk in and see. Imagine if your brother came downstairs for water. He’d look right through and see you like this. Fingers buried, hips moving, face all pink and guilty.
The thought hits too hard. My pussy clamps down on the single finger and a soft whimper slips out before I can stop it. I freeze, listening. Nothing. Just the quiet house.
I push the second finger in beside the first. The stretch burns in the best way. I’m so wet it eases the sting almost immediately but the fullness is still new and overwhelming. My thumb finds my clit again and rubs in tight circles while I slowly fuck the two fingers in and out.
The sheets under me are already damp. Every time I pull my fingers out they come away shiny and then disappear back inside with a soft wet sound. My hips keep lifting to meet them. The ache is turning into something sharper. My thighs start to tremble.
You’re close already. Look at you. Shaking. Dripping. That little virgin pussy trying to pull your fingers deeper. Come. Make a mess. Then lie here in it and think about how you’re going to do it again before the sun comes up.
I press my face into the pillow to keep quiet. My fingers move faster. The wet sounds get louder. My clit is throbbing under my thumb. The stretch inside feels so good I want to cry. Every thrust of my fingers drags against the sensitive front wall and sends sparks up my spine.
I’m going to come.
The first wave hits hard. My pussy clamps down so tight my fingers stop moving. Hot fluid spills around them, soaking my hand and the sheet. My back arches. A broken little sob gets trapped in the pillow. My legs shake and I keep rubbing my clit through it, dragging the orgasm out until my vision whites at the edges and my toes are curled so hard they hurt.
It keeps going. Pulse after pulse. My walls flutter around the fingers still buried inside me. Another rush of wetness leaks out when the climax finally starts to fade.
I stay like that, fingers still inside, nightshirt bunched under my arms, thighs open and sticky. Breathing hard.
Clean your fingers off. Taste it. Then put them back in. You’re not done. The ache never leaves for long. And you don’t really want it to.
I pull my fingers free. They’re shiny and coated. I bring them to my mouth without thinking and lick them clean, tasting myself, salt and sweet and wrong. The shame rolls through me again, hot and familiar, and somehow it only makes my pussy clench one more time around nothing.
I leave the nightshirt up. Leave my legs open. Leave the wet spot under me cooling against my skin.
Sleep isn’t coming.
The darker thoughts settle in for the night, patient and certain, while the softer ones stay quiet in the corner of my mind, too tired to argue anymore.
I’m still lying there with my nightshirt pushed up and my fingers sticky when I hear it.
Muffled voices. Someone coming down the stairs.
Mama’s voice. Soft, careful. I can’t make out the words or who she’s talking to. Just the low sound of her trying to keep quiet.
Curiosity wins. My heart is still racing from the orgasm and now it’s racing for a different reason. I sit up slow. The wet spot under me is cold against my skin. I pull the nightshirt down just enough to cover myself and stand. My legs feel shaky. I cross the dark room on bare feet and reach the door.
I turn the knob like it’s made of glass. Open it just a crack. Just enough to see.
The living room light is off but the kitchen light is on. Clear line of sight straight through.
My brother is standing in front of the open fridge.
Completely naked.
He’s just staring into it. Like he’s in a trance. The cold light spills over him. I can see everything.
Broad shoulders. The line of his back. The curve of his ass. And when he shifts a little I see the rest. His cock. Thick even soft, hanging heavy against his thigh. The dark thatch of hair above it. His balls full and low. The veins along the shaft catching the light. He’s bigger than I ever let myself imagine when I touched myself thinking about boys at school.
Mama is beside him in her robe, one hand on his arm.
“You’re sleepwalking, son. Come on. Let me help you back to bed.”
He doesn’t move. Just keeps staring into the fridge like the answer to something is inside it.
My mouth is dry. I’m holding my breath. The door is only open an inch but it feels like too much. If either of them turns they might see the crack.
Mama reaches past him and closes the fridge door. The kitchen goes dimmer. She tries to tug him toward the stairs.
“Come on. You’re going to catch cold standing here like this.”
He still doesn’t move. His cock sways a little with the pull of her hand on his arm. I watch it. I can’t stop watching it.
Look at him. Look at how big he is even when he’s not hard. You just came all over your fingers and now you’re staring at your brother’s cock like a starving thing. What would it feel like in your hand. In your mouth. Stretching that tight virgin hole you were just fingering.
My pussy clenches hard. Fresh wetness slips out of me and runs down the inside of my thigh. I’m still so sensitive from before that the air against my bare skin under the nightshirt feels like another touch.
Mama tugs again, firmer.
“Please, honey. Wake up. You need to go back upstairs.”
He takes one slow step but his eyes never leave the fridge door. His body is all muscle and sleep-heavy grace. The trail of hair down his stomach leads straight to that thick cock and I feel my nipples tighten all over again against the cotton.
I’m dripping. Standing here in the dark with the door cracked, post-orgasm sticky, staring at my naked brother while our mama tries to lead him away like he’s a child.
You should close the door. You should go back to bed and pretend you never saw this. But you’re not going to. You’re going to keep looking until they leave. And later you’re going to touch yourself again thinking about how heavy that cock looked. How it would split you open.
My hand is trembling on the doorknob. I don’t close it.
I just watch.
Something changes in him.
His head turns. Slow. He looks at Mama.
His hand comes up and grabs the front of her robe. Fingers curl in the fabric. He pulls.
Mama’s voice goes tight and scared.
“No. No, not tonight again.”
Not tonight again.
The words hit me like cold water and then like heat. What does that mean. Again. How many nights has this happened. How long has my brother been coming downstairs and doing this.
His cock is already thickening. I watch it happen in real time. The shaft filling, lifting, the head swelling and darkening as it rises. Veins standing out. It points toward her now, heavy and long, the tip already shiny.
He doesn’t listen to her. He walks her backward until her hips hit the kitchen table. His hands land on her shoulders. He pushes.
Mama goes down to her knees.
I can’t breathe.
She’s right there on the kitchen floor in her robe with my naked brother standing over her, cock hard and bobbing right in front of her face. The fridge light is off but the under-cabinet light is still on. Enough to see everything. The way his balls hang full and tight. The thick root of him. The way the head flares.
Mama turns her face away.
“Please. Not again. You’re sleepwalking. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
But her hands are already on his thighs. Steadying herself. Or steadying him.
She’s done this before. Your mother has been on her knees for your brother before. That’s what “not tonight again” means. And you’re standing here in the dark with your nightshirt sticking to your wet pussy watching it happen. You’re not disgusted. You’re dripping down your legs.
My free hand slides between my thighs. I’m soaked. The folds are so slick my fingers glide straight over my clit and a jolt goes through me so hard my knees almost buckle. I have to bite my lip to stay quiet.
Brother’s hand is in Mama’s hair now. He doesn’t force her mouth open. He just holds her there, cock resting against her cheek, leaving a shiny trail. She turns her head slowly. Her lips part. The head of him disappears between them.
I hear the soft wet sound even from here.
Look at that. Your brother’s thick cock stretching your mother’s mouth. She’s taking it. She’s done it enough times to know how. And you wish it was you. You wish those hands were on your shoulders pushing you down. You wish that heavy cock was forcing your jaw open instead.
A fresh rush of wetness spills out of me. It runs down the inside of both thighs. My clit is swollen and throbbing under my fingers. I rub in tight little circles, matching the slow way Mama’s head starts to move. She’s sucking him now. Quiet, wet, careful sounds. His hips rock once. Twice. His cock slides deeper. Her throat works.
I’m so close already. The orgasm from earlier left me raw and now this is lighting every nerve back up. My empty pussy keeps clenching like it wants to be filled with exactly what she’s choking on.
Stop pretending this is shocking you. You’re fingering yourself to your brother fucking your mother’s mouth. You’re going to come again standing up with the door cracked while he uses her. And tomorrow you’ll sit across from both of them at breakfast like nothing happened. Filthy little sister.
My legs are shaking. I lean my shoulder against the doorframe so I don’t fall. Two fingers slip inside me easy, the wet sound loud in my own ears. I fuck them in time with the slow thrusts of his hips. His cock is glistening every time it pulls out of her mouth, thick strings of spit connecting her lips to the head.
Mama makes a small choked noise when he pushes deeper. Her hands tighten on his thighs. She doesn’t pull away.
Brother’s hand moves to her hair. He doesn’t ask. He just holds her still, and then he starts fucking her face.
Real thrusts. Hips snapping forward. The wet sounds get louder, uglier. Spit runs down her chin. Her eyes water. He holds her head in place and uses her mouth like it’s just a hole for him.
Something in my mind snaps.
I can’t look away. I can’t even pretend this is wrong anymore. My hand is already between my legs, nightshirt shoved up, fingers sliding through the mess I’m making. I’m so wet it drips off my knuckles onto the floor. My clit is swollen and desperate under my touch. I rub hard and fast, chasing the same high he’s chasing.
He’s not gentle. He’s using her. Fucking her throat for his own pleasure and she’s taking it because she’s done this before. And you’re standing here finger-fucking yourself to the sound of your brother grunting while he ruins your mother’s mouth. You want that cock. You want him to hold your head like that and not stop even when you choke.
His rhythm gets rougher. Deeper. Mama makes wet gagging sounds every time the head hits the back of her throat. Spit and precum string from her lips to his shaft. His balls slap against her chin. The muscles in his ass flex with every thrust. His free hand braces on the table so he can drive harder.
I’m right there with him. Two fingers buried inside me, thumb crushing my clit in tight circles. My hips rock against my hand. The ache is unbearable. My pussy keeps clenching like it wants to be the one stretched around that thick cock instead.
He starts grunting. Low, broken sounds. His hips stutter.
I feel it building in me at the exact same time. The pressure behind my clit, the way my walls flutter and lock up.
He pushes deep one last time and holds there, cock buried in her mouth, and starts coming.
Thick pulses. I can see his balls draw up. His thighs shake. Mama chokes hard. She can’t swallow it all. White spills from the corners of her mouth, runs down her chin in heavy streaks, drips onto the front of her robe. He keeps grunting and pumping more into her, forcing it deeper while she gags and tries to breathe around him.
I come the second I see the first thick pulse leave him.
My pussy clamps down so hard my fingers are trapped. Hot fluid gushes out around them and runs down my thighs in sheets. My whole body locks. A silent sob tears through my chest. My vision whites out at the edges while I watch my brother empty himself down our mother’s throat. Pulse after pulse. She can’t keep up. Cum keeps leaking out around his cock every time he throbs.
I keep rubbing through it, shaking, dripping, staring.
He finally pulls out. A thick string of cum and spit connects the head of his cock to her swollen lips. More of it coats her chin and the tops of her breasts where the robe has fallen open. Mama stays on her knees, coughing quietly, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand while he just stands there breathing hard, still half-hard and glistening.
I’m still trembling against the doorframe, fingers soaked, nightshirt stuck to my belly, pussy pulsing with aftershocks.
And all I can think is that I want to be next.
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