The first time it happened, I was watching my old babysitter, Emma Smith, sunbathe. She was home for summer break from college, slipping into a black string bikini each day to lounge by the pool. I lived next door on the second floor, my desk perfectly angled to see the Smiths' kitchen, living room, backyard, and Emma's room with its half-open blinds. The afternoon heat had my shirt clinging to my back, and I tried to play it cool, messing with my laptop, but my eyes kept darting to her. *Don't get caught,* I thought, my pulse kicking up as her patio door slid open and she stepped out. Looking back, she could have seen me hovering at the window, and that made my stomach twist with nerves.
Emma went to a state school on a volleyball scholarship. She was tall, lean, tan, and blond with a friendly, easy smile. Her black bikini was a size too small, so she had to keep re-adjusting the black triangles of her top. I watched the struggle intensely and tried not to remember that I was just the neighborhood kid to her. I fantasized about texting her and that she would text me back to join her by the pool. But I knew the most likely outcome would be an uncomfortable conversation with my parents. Even more upsetting, the afternoon sunbathing might stop.
It was late afternoon, a few days before the Fourth of July. The neighborhood smelled of fresh-cut grass mixed with a faint whiff of chlorine from the Smiths' pool. In the yard, Emma's flat golden-brown stomach stood out against glaring white of the deck chair under her. I sat at my desk, pretending to focus on my computer, my hand holding my dick through my shorts. She streatched to reach for her Coke, and I shut my eyes, imagining her pulling off her bikini top instead. In my fantasies, tan lines sliced across her bare chest, her breasts curving gently in the warm sunlight. My breath hitched--*What if someone catches me peeping at her?*
When I opened my eyes, Emma held the black bikini top, staring at it like it had come from nowhere. She glanced down at her bare chest, skin gleaming with sweat, then up at my window where I stared, mouth open. Our eyes met for a split second, my face burning as hers flushed red. She crossed her arms over her breasts, bare legs shifting as she started to stand, toes curling against the concrete. I felt her panic--*Topless outside; someone might film this*--and my nerves screamed to look away, that she knows I'm watching. But my horny brain pictured her feeling a thrill, liking the attention. She paused with one foot on the ground, and I imagined her fear fading, her body easing back for me. Slowly, like she was in a haze, she swung her legs onto the chair, reclined back, and let her arm drop a bit, breasts resting in the crook of her elbow. She looked up again, her lips twitching into a faint, shaky smile. *Did I make her do that?* The thought felt crazy, but her actions matched my fantasy too well, guilt spiking my pulse.
It was too much for eighteen-year-old me, and I came hard in my shorts, soaking my boxers. Chelsea, her mom, leaned out the back door, yelling, "Emma! Are you serious? The whole neighborhood can see you--come inside now!" Her glare caught my window as she slammed the door, jarring me back to reality. Emma's bikini-clad bottom vanished into the house, leaving me with a sticky mess. My hands shook, the weight of her shaky smile and slow compliance sinking in. The idea I'd controlled her sparked a rush that tingled down my spine, but a knot of shame twisted in my gut, like I'd crossed a line I couldn't uncross.
I came again in the shower, picturing the smooth curve of Emma's body, my mind nagging at me--did thinking I caused that mean I'd lost it? Mom yelled for dinner after, and by the time I'd eaten and got back to my desk, the sun had dropped behind my house, stretching shadows across the Smiths'. I flicked off the light to stay hidden. Their living room shone out bay windows looking to me above like a scene from a dollhouse.
Emma's stepdad, Ted, sprawled in his recliner with a beer, feet propped up, while Chelsea laid out popcorn and snacks for a family movie night. Ted's first marriage left him with twin daughters, Tracey and Stacey, a bit older than me, and a son, Sam, a touch younger. The twins were sharp-dressed, stuck-up, and had been high school royalty back in the day--I stayed clear of them. Sam was athletic and popular but chill, though he caught hell at school once for passing around a photo of Emma streaking back to her room from the shower. He was a lousy student, stuck repeating senior year. From Chelsea's first marriage, Emma had grown up with her stepsiblings for years, and they just called each other brother and sisters.
The twins sat close on one end of the couch, legs crossed, while Sam slouched alone in the loveseat. Chelsea curled up on Ted's lap in the recliner, a blanket draped over them. Emma showed up last, her sleep clothes--terry cloth shorts and tank top--clinging to her curves. Sam couldn't help looking, but he played it off, staring at the floor. She brushed past him, heading for the couch. I leaned closer to the window, pulse racing--time to try this power thing again. No way what I had in mind would happen naturally.
Sam's Point of View:
I tried not to stare at my sister. Another lecture from Mom and Dad would suck, but she wasn't helping--white tank top and shorts a size too small. Every step tugged the fabric tight over her toned frame. She was about to pass me to sit with the twins, so I slid a throw pillow over my lap to hide my half-chub, eyes glued to the TV screen.
But she didn't pass. The loveseat dipped as she sat next to me, her thigh warm against mine. I froze, my pulse picking up.
"Hey, dork," she said, her nickname for me. "Couch looked cold. I'm squeezing in here."
My voice came out squeaky, "Sure, loser." What the hell was going on? Emma and I got along fine; we even hung with some of the same people. But after the "shower incident," brother-sister affection didn't happen. I glanced around to check if anyone noticed. Nobody did. Stacy flipped off the lights, and the TV kicked on with the Netflix dun-dun. Over on the recliner, Mom nestled against Dad, and for a few minutes, I tried to watch Josh Brolin dodge explosions, but my brain wouldn't focus. Emma's soft breathing right next to me was too much, her warmth creeping through my shorts.
I knew I shouldn't have. My head screamed it was wrong, but I gave in, gut twisting with guilt. I set my palm at the edge of my lap, right where Emma's leg pressed against mine. Her bare thigh felt smooth, electifying through my skin. If she noticed, she didn't let on. My boner was so hard it hurt.
Knowing I was screwing up big time in the middle of family night, but too hooked to stop, I slid my hand all the way onto her thigh. Her skin felt soft, stretched tight over her toned muscles. My gut clenched, braced for her to call me out.
She turned her knees away from me and lifted my hand off her lap with hers. I tensed, but nothing happend, instead, she pressed her back against my side, draping my arm over her shoulders and resting her head on my chest. "Sam, no," she whispered firmly, "Brother and sister, remember? You can keep me warm, but stop being a perv."
My head spun like I was stuck in a weird dream. I looked around surreptitiously, making sure no one caught us. On-screen, a blood-soaked extra leaped from a crumbling water tower. I tried to chill, but her whole body leaned into me now. I felt her breath rising and falling, her bare shoulder brushing my arm. Her words hung in the air, a warning I should've listened to, but the warmth of her body against me was too much. My hand, slung over her shoulder, itched to move again despite her warning.
"Stop, Sam," she whispered fiercely as I slipped my fingers under her tank top's edge. I darted my eyes up to check if Mom and Dad were watching, almost pulling back. There was an odd buzzing sensation in my skull, and a gut feeling hit me--that she wouldn't stop me and that secretly she wanted it, her protests just for show. My fingertips grazing the curve of her breast, her whispered complaints became breathy.
Alex's Point of View:
Beneath me through the open window, Sam groped his sister, sliding his hand hesitantly under her shirt, the TV flickering with gunfire. I watched her lips move, 'Sam, no,' as a faint hum pulsed in my skull, blocking her will to resist--my stomach twisted knowing I'd forced this on her. His thumb found her nipple, and she bit her lower lip, eyes closing with a tremble. A pang of jealousy hit me bitterly. Sam had her breast in his hands while I sat up here, caught in shame and desire. Sam, I told myself, needed this--years of playing the good brother, her curves in his face every day, had worn him thin.
"Pass the popcorn, Ted," I read Chelsea's lips on the recliner--she'd be next. The neighborhood tiger mom, she'd fought to ban skateboarding at the park and body contact at school dances, always clutching her trusty clipboard. Weeks back, she'd chewed me out for cutting through her yard, skateboard in hand. I'd fidgeted, eyes on my shoes. 'Look me in the face, young man,' she said, sharp, and I lifted my gaze, noticing I'd outgrown her now--she had to look up at me, soft green eyes clashing with the sternness of her voice. That memory stuck with me. From my window, the living room sprawled below; I unzipped my pants and tapped into the hum, fixing on her.
Chelsea's Point of View:
Something out of the corner of my eye drew my gaze to Emma and Sam on the loveseat, her body pressed against him, too close for family night. I'd speak with her about it later. I carefully policed our home to keep Emma safe from feeling sexualized by her stepfather and stepbrother. Still, Sam wasn't the only one at fault tonight; Emma's top and proximity to him were indecent. Sam was a good boy like his dad, and I forgave him for the shower incident. It must've been confusing for him to grow up with women he wasn't supposed to be attracted to, even though it was inevitable he would be. I froze, heart pounding, as his hand slid under her shirt, kneading her. Emma's eyes were closed, back slightly arched, easing into it.
I glanced at Ted to see if he'd caught Sam's hand on Emma, but the movie held his focus, his hands firm on my hips. He overreacted to Sam's slip-ups with his sister, and I suspected his harshness hid a flicker of un-fatherly interest in her, unsettling me more than I could admit to myself or bring up with him. I decided to text Emma and Sam to make them stop. After the movie, they'd be in deep shit.
But I couldn't pull my phone from the recliner's crease. I jimmied it, a faint buzz fogging my focus, and only realized my mistake when Ted bucked his hips against me. Somehow, I'd grabbed his erection through his pants, mistaking it for my phone. It was a mortifying slip, and I let go fast. But not fast enough--Ted, now riled, slid his hand under my shirt, his touch heating my sides.
"I'm sorry, honey, not right now," I whispered, heart pounding, but a faint buzz twisted my words to "Yes, Daddy," our code for Ted to get rough. He tugged my shirt up, baring me under the blanket. It was wrong and humiliating in the middle of family night. I pulled away, frantic to cover myself, but Ted pinned my arms, his grip tight, trapping me. With every ounce of will, I choked back a moan, appalled by my body's reflex, dreading my son and daughters noticing.
On the loveseat, Sam's lust made him reckless. He turned toward his sister, her back flush against his chest, gripped her waist, and pulled her onto his lap. Emma glanced up to check if anyone was watching and caught my eye. Her green eyes, inherited from me, held the same eerie trance and haze of lust I felt--a faint buzz binding us both. Sam's hands slid under her shirt's hem, lifting it to bare her midriff as he moved back to her chest. Ted nuzzled my neck, grazing my sides, blind to our son groping our daughter. Emma and I looked away, shamed, then locked eyes in grim fascination. Ted's hands under the blanket must've been visible to her. "I'm sorry, I can't help it," she mouthed.
"Me neither," I mouthed back, a faint thrum stoking the heat between my legs until I swayed against Ted's lap. My gut twisted at the sick thrill, loathing the stranger I'd become in Emma's eyes.
Alex's Point of View:
I was growing comfortable with my powers, letting the Smiths' chaos teeter on the brink. Ted and Sam were blind to all but their lust and the women in their laps. Chelsea and Emma drowned in arousal, feeding each other steamy displays they couldn't resist. I ached to see it closer.
Stacey's Point of View:
A faint, rhythmic squeak nagged at my senses, but I didn't have time to look. College sophomores were texting about a lake house frat party this weekend. Chelsea would be a bitch about letting us go, I was sure, but we had to be there. Hooking up with college boys for summer flings was too good to miss.
"Stacey!" Tracey hissed. "Oh my god, look."
On the loveseat, Emma was in Sam's lap, his hand up her shirt, working her chest. His other hand gripped her waist, her head on his shoulder, her soft whimpers the source of that squeak.
"I don't fucking believe it," I whispered back. For a few minutes, I really couldn't.
Emma was Miss Perfect--Perfect Grades, Perfect Scholarship, Perfect Athlete, Perfect Behavior. We couldn't stand her, especially since she teased Sam until he lost control. But there she was, letting him grope her in front of Dad and Chelsea.
"No way she's getting away with this," I whispered back. "I'm texting Dad to make him look." Tracey nodded fiercely. Sam would catch heat, too, but it'd clear his name from all those times Chelsea called him a pervert.
Our jaws dropped when we checked Dad's reaction. I'd expected some hanky-panky on the recliner during the movie (gross!), but this was wild. Under the covers, Chelsea was pinned by Dad, staring at her daughter, brow furrowed like she was in pain. But her slack mouth betrayed intense pleasure. Both men were lost, rutting against the women in their laps. For a long moment, neither of us moved, clueless about how to react.
"Record it," Tracy said, and despite my shock, I saw her logic. No one would believe this without video proof.
I framed mom and daughter, both fit, moaning, eyes locked as they unraveled. My pulse quickened, but we didn't enjoy it--absurd thought. I zoomed in on Emma's hips circling against Sam, then her face, lip bitten, glazed eyes on Dad stroking Chelsea. *Completely disgusting, * I told myself, heart racing, wondering where Sam learned to push a woman to the edge.
Beside me, Tracey zeroed in on Chelsea. Ted gripped her waist, grinding against her under the covers. At first, I thought it was heavy petting, but something felt wrong.
"Could he--" I paused, the idea too wild, "be fucking her under there?" The words hit, and I knew. I'd worn that face in a sex tape with the varsity quarterback, eyes glazed from him stretching me. My phone caught Chelsea's same look, overwhelmed by pleasure--like she was his to dominate. A shiver gripped me.
"Oh my god, what's even going on?" Tracey asked, shaken, but we kept filming.
Alex's Point of View:
I savored the chaos, but the unraveling family also alarmed me. Mother and daughter watched each other crumble, swept by fierce waves of arousal. The twins, stunned, filmed it for me. Just a bit more, I thought.
Emma's Point of View:
I'd caught Sam sneaking glances at my low-cut top all night, his eyes tracing the way it hugged my curves. I'd picked it out to feel cute for family night--dumbest idea ever, clearly--but I didn't expect it to spark something like this. Guilt churned in my stomach when he scooted closer on the loveseat, his hands brushing my thighs, hesitant yet daring enough to make my skin tingle. Then this strange hum kicked in, buzzing through me like static I couldn't shake, dissolving every ounce of willpower I had. My hips twitched against his lap before I could stop them, my body acting like it didn't even belong to me anymore. His touch sent sharp, electric sparks racing through me, impossible to ignore. Across the room, Mom's eyes met mine, her face flushed as Dad's hands roamed over her. It hit me hard--her shame was a mirror of mine, and this whole screwed-up moment veered into territory far beyond messed up. "Sam, we can't," I rasped, my heart pounding, panic tangling with this twisted thrill I couldn't name.
Sam's fingers lingered, tracing slow circles on my skin that made my breath catch. The buzz swelled, swallowing the voice in my head, yelling this is crazy, leaving me lightheaded. My top turned traitor, clinging too tight, showing every shaky breath I took. I hated how good it felt, how some dark part of me wanted him to keep going, even as I scrambled for an escape in my mind.
I squirmed on his lap, trying to pull back, but my hips pressed harder against him instead. I felt him shift beneath me--oh crap--his shorts pulling tight, and my stomach flipped. "Sam, we can't," I gasped again, my voice cracking, begging myself as much as him. My hands dangled there, too heavy with that buzz to move, and a soft moan slipped out before I could stop it. My cheeks burned, shame crashing over me--I wanted to vanish.
Across the room, under a mess of blankets, Dad tugged Mom's shorts down in one swift pull. She wriggled, half-protesting, but he guided her onto him anyway, his hands steady. Her face flickered--shock, then a shaky breath as she gave in. I couldn't look away, couldn't unsee how she stopped resisting.
Sam yanked my shirt up in a clumsy rush. "No, Sam--" I tried to snap, but it came out weak, "No, Sam, don't--" The fabric bunched over my chest, and cool air hit my bare skin, making me shiver. My breasts spilled out, and I froze, mortified. Dad was too distracted to notice, thank God, but Mom's dazed eyes flicked toward me. My head spun--this was the second time I'd ended up like this today, and it still felt like a warped dream. I glanced at Alex's window, that dark square glaring down like a silent witness. Was he up there? Watching and recording?
Dad tossed the blanket off Mom, leaving her bare against him. She's tiny--short and lean from yoga--and he's this huge guy, his hands dwarfing her. I wasn't ready for how rough he got, grabbing her small breasts until she flinched, a sharp gasp slipping out. For one sick second, I pictured those hands on me instead of Sam's shaky ones. I shoved that thought down fast, disgusted.
Another thought slipped into my head, quiet but insistent: *If I make Sam finish, this will end sooner.* It felt like a lifeline, a way to escape the haze that gripped me. It didn't make much sense--some part of me knew that--but the buzz pulsed in agreement, and in my muddled, aroused state, it was enough. I latched onto it.
My hands slid back, hesitant, brushing the waistband of Sam's shorts. *This is wrong,* I thought, the words faint against the roar of the buzz. My fingers trembled as I tugged the fabric down, slow and uncertain, until he was exposed. I wrapped my hand around him, and a shock hit me like a jolt of electricity. This wasn't just anyone--it was Sam, my pervy little brother, and Mom was watching. The realization made it forbidden, thrilling, and wrong all at once, a rush that left me reeling.
He let out a low groan, and I hissed, "Shh, dork, don't make noise." Calling him that was a reflex, but the word felt hollow now, a thin shield against what I was doing. My hand started moving, stroking him gently, guided by the buzz that wouldn't let me stop.
The heat inside me flared, and I slipped my other hand between my legs, pressing against myself through my jeans. The dual sensations crashed together--Sam's warmth in my grip, the friction against my own body--and I bit my lip hard to keep quiet, drowning in the forbidden pull of it all.
Giving in flipped something in me--I had a sliver of control. His hands cupped my breasts, squeezing in time with my strokes, and I used my own wetness to circle my clit, slow and deliberate. The sheer wrongness of it--jerking him off, touching myself, sitting there topless--sent adrenaline rushing through me, chased by this wild, falling sensation.
Mom's mouth formed a silent "O" as she began to thrust onto Dad. Sam pulsed in my grip, and I glanced down--the sight of him, hard and bare. Mom's wide eyes locked on it, too. "Oh, noooooo," she moaned, her voice cracking as her legs trembled. She was coming--I could tell.
Dad muffled a grunt and thrust up into her, and Sam made a choked sound, spilling hot and sticky over my hands and his shorts. A twisted pride at his copious yield flared in me, even as the buzz crashed through me, flooding my panties. The room tilted, and I clung to Sam, gasping for air and arching my back as quivers of pleasure ran through my center. When they died down enough for me to focus again, the situation was a mess, Mom and me fumbling to cover up, breathing hard like we'd survived something insane, which we had. Sam and Dad were passed out post coitus, heads lolling unconsciously and hopefully unaware of what the others had done and seen.
Alex's Point of View:
The credits rolled, and a heavy silence hit the room. Sam tugged at his shirt, avoiding Emma's eyes. Ted mumbled, "Weird movie," shifting uncomfortably. Chelsea smoothed her top; Emma triple checked she had her shorts and tank top on straight. The twins pocketed their phones, smirking at each other.
I let the buzz ripple out. Ted relaxed, Sam yawned, and Chelsea and Emma stilled. The twins stayed quiet, their secret intact. They shuffled to bed--Ted and Sam first, then Chelsea and Emma, then the twins. I lingered, guilt vying with excitement. Tomorrow would be chaos, but tonight, they'd sleep, I made sure.
Alex's Point of View:
The muffled engine of a lawnmower jolted me awake, cutting through the haze of sleep. The only proof of last night besides my memory was the crusty sock by my bedpost. I tossed it in the bin on my way to the bathroom, grappling with what I remembered: Chelsea gasping under Ted's hands, Emma squirming as Sam groped her. It felt too real--their shaky breaths, flushed skin--but too twisted to believe. Did I make it happen, or was it just a sick dream? Either way, it got me off again in the shower, though a weird knot stuck in my stomach after.
With post-nut clarity, I worried about my sanity and what I was doing to Emma's family. Eventually, I reached a practical decision--if I were nuts, there was no reason not to have the best crazy delusions I could, and that meant using my hallucinatory powers. If I weren't, as long as I was careful, I could always leave the Smiths the way I found them. Even then, I knew it was a flimsy excuse, but my mixed feelings and urge to mess with them again clouded my head.
I grabbed some cereal in the kitchen. My mom, Sandra, had left a stack of food delivery gift cards for the weekend while she was off at a conference. Compared to the hot July day outside, our house felt cold, quiet, and still.
Back upstairs, the neighborhood's green yards stretched into the distance, each a mirror of the next. In the closest yard, shirtless Sam shoved a lawnmower back and forth while Ted trimmed the edges and Emma sunbathed out back. She wore a sports bra and stretchy shorts, not the string bikini. I envied Sam's wiry muscles and wondered if Emma ever scoped him out like I did her. Inside, Chelsea poured coffee, her hands steady but eyes distant. The twins, Stacey and Tracey, sat close on the couch in matching summer skirts and button-ups. It looked like a normal Saturday to anyone else, but I knew the dirty truth.
Sam was desperate to corner Emma, but she kept slipping away, eyes dodging his. Their cat-and-mouse game dragged on through the house until Ted, oblivious to the tension, pulled Sam into helping with the yard work. Ted stayed smug, still thinking he'd gotten away with covert sex with Chelsea during family night. Stacey and Tracey, ever the schemers, huddled together, whispering about blackmail with their secret videos--though I wasn't about to let that happen. Chelsea wore a mask of calm, her face blank, but inside, she churned with shame over what she'd seen and done.
The whole situation was spiraling, and for a second, I thought about wiping their minds clean and starting over. But that seemed too extreme, too messy. Instead, I went for small tweaks, nudging their vibe to fit my plans. I couldn't believe how easy it was--a dropped guard here, a subtle push there--and they were sliding toward my wildest fantasies.
Sam's Point of View:
The last half hour was a blur--I heard a crash during my post-yard shower, then muffled yelling. Minutes later, Dad called for a family meeting. I scrambled out of the bathroom, my clothes sticking to my damp skin.
I spotted the broken lamp before the room came into view. Glass shards formed an arrow in the carpet, like someone hade chucked it. But as I got closer, the scene turned wilder. Emma stood, arms crossed, glaring, while Mom scowled at the twins' phones, jabbing the screens with sharp, pissed-off swipes. Stacey and Tracey bent over the couch's back, skirts flipped up, and pink bikini panties bared. Dad stood beside them, gripping a thin birch switch I hadn't seen in years. Its memory stung my ass.
"Son," he said, "come here next to Stacey."
I was sure I'd catch hell for last night; nothing else explained this morning's chaos. But the twins' role in it stumped me.
"No, not beside them," Dad said. "Behind. You too, Emma, behind Tracey." He handed me the switch. I grabbed it warily, like it might snap at me; I'd never touched the handle side. The wood gleamed, smooth from years of use.
"I'm putting you and Emma in charge of your sisters this summer," he said. "They're too much for your mom and me to handle alone now. Here's the tool to keep them in line. You know the drill--ten hard ones." Stacey whimpered, her legs shaking. I stood frozen, trying to wrap my head around it.
"Uh," I mumbled, voice shaky. "What's going on?"
"They filmed Emma in private and tried to blackmail her," Dad said, his voice rough but worn out. "Your mom's been digging through their phones and... shit, they've been into some wild stuff." He clapped a hand on my shoulder. "It's a lot, I know. We'll talk later, but this is what's gotta happen now. You ready?"
I glanced at him, then down at Stacey. She was my sister, but those panties weren't sisterly. I steeled myself, flashing back to the ritual from years ago when I took the hits, and pressed my hand to her back.
"Count," I tried to say authoritatively, but it came out as a squeak. There was nothing for it. I raised the mean strip of wood and brought it down sharply. It smacked against Stacey's ass, she raised on her tiptoes, and a thin red line formed on her cheeks.
"One!" she cried out in shock and pain. I looked to Dad for confirmation. He nodded, "Harder." I caught Tracey sneaking fearful glances at me and her twin from beside me. A tiny seed of sadism sprouted, and I realized I enjoyed my power over them.
"Two!" yelped Stacey as the switch met her ass. She pushed forward away from me against the couch. "Three!" she counted, and I got in the rhythm of it, feeling her buck under my hand when I struck her. I moved the strikes down her ass leaving behind ten neat horizontal lines as though she'd been grilled. By the end, she was jumping a little on the balls of her feet, unable to stand still.
"Good work," Dad said. "What do you say, Stacey?"
"Thank you, Sam," she intoned weepily, completing the ritual.
"No," Dad corrected, "Thank you, Sir."
"Thank you, Sir," repeated Stacey.
"Your turn, Emma," Dad said. I passed her the switch, dodging her gaze. The room's focus drifted away from me. I took the chance to scan the bent-over twins closer. Their slim waists and full, heart-shaped curves got my hormones going, siblings or not. I mulled over Dad's words about putting us in charge of them. Besides Stacey, Tracey jerked as Emma swung the switch, landing a crisp crack. I winced; Emma wasn't holding back.
"One!" Tracey counted, teeth gritting. Emma's fierce swings forced her to shift in place, half-rising. Dad seemed ready to step in a few times but stayed put. Tears streaked Tracey's face by ten, a desperate "please" slipping out before the final strike. Then, trembling, she gasped, "Thank you, Ma'am!"
Dad left them butts up as he explained to Emma and me the new house rules. She and I were to be mom's and dad's eyes, ears, and disciplinarians. The goal was to keep the twins busy and out of trouble. They were grounded--no phones, no car, no parties. He referred to it as the "summer of penance." Mom nodded sternly in the background, and the girls looked back at us with faces of horror and disbelief.
"Ten is not enough for what they did today," Dad continued. "Each of you will give them another session on your own time to get them used to obeying you. More if they resist." Emma glowered down at them, and the two cringed. "Girls, your mom will give you a chore list for today. And if you think things can't get any worse, you're wrong."
Alex's Point of View:
I smirked to myself. Stacey and Tracey had ruled trade school as queen bees, scaring the shit out of everyone. But I'd have those two tamed and under my thumb by college. Downstairs, they'd ditched their trendy skirts for shorts and T-shirts, better for scrubbing the house. I stood and stretched, mulling over what to do next with all the twisted shit I could try. The thing about having total control is that it kills the rush to pick one move. I ordered pizza, fired up my computer, and watched the chaos I'd kicked off unfold.
Stacey's Point of View:
We hadn't spoken since the spanking, but I knew Tracey and I fixated on the same thing: the fastest way out of this mess. Going to the cops was a last resort--too permanent. This, whatever it was, we could probably slip free from in a few days. But one way or another, Emma and her mom would pay. "Bitches," I hissed under my breath, picking shards of the broken lamp from the carpet. Somewhere, likely Chelsea's nightstand, our phones buzzed with texts from friends wondering where we'd vanished.
The whip marks Sam left on my ass still smarted, but they were nothing compared to Emma's on Tracey's. I remembered how Sam watched her spanking, eyes locked on her ass the whole time, and wondered what was in store for us next. Then came the knock on the doorframe.
"Hey," said Sam. He stood leaning to one side, holding the switch. His sandy-blond hair and all-American face made our girlfriends coo. Tracey tossed her hair defiantly and muttered, "This is bullshit," under her breath, her jaw tight as she glared at him. I cut her off before it escalated. "Hi, Sam," I said placatingly, "what can we do for you?" He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, looking unsure of himself.
"I'm supposed to give you another spanking," Sam said. The thought of bullying him out of it crossed my mind--he wasn't exactly radiating confidence--but that could backfire if he dug in his heels. A flicker of something hot and uneasy curled in my stomach at the idea of that switch coming down again.
"Of course," I said, keeping my voice even and agreeable. "Can we take it to our bedroom?"
"Yeah," he said, his shoulders relaxing, clearly relieved I didn't push back. We headed down the hall, Tracey stalking ahead with her jaw still clenched, me trailing behind Sam, the chafe of my earlier marks a nagging reminder. Emma noticed the parade from her room, and I shut our bedroom door firmly, cutting off her smug face. The three of us stood between our two pink beds, Sam tapping the switch lightly against his leg, each of us waiting for someone else to move first.
"We used to have a choice," I reminded Sam, testing the waters. "It was switch or hand."
He reddened and stuttered, "It was a switch or bare bottom spanking..." Tracey caught my hint and flushed too, her eyes flicking away for a second. We both knew Emma still had one more turn with us, and the thought of that switch biting into me twice more made my skin crawl. I shrugged at Sam, keeping it casual. "If we have a choice, it's bare bottom." Tracey gave a quick nod, her lips pressed tight.
Sam's gaze darted between us, and he cleared his throat. "Uh, ok." He shifted on his feet, the switch twitching in his hand, so nervous I couldn't help but smile a little. Newfound authority or not, he was still our little brother, shyly unsure of himself.
"You sit on the bed like Dad used to, and we lie on your lap, remember?" Sam plopped down obediently, the mattress creaking under him. Tracey and I shared a quick look--hers sharp, mine steady--and I unbuttoned my shorts, shimmying them down my hips. Sam's eyes locked on me, wide and unblinking, and whatever was left of our platonic sibling facade cracked a little further. I felt the heat of his stare on my bare legs and panties, hyper-aware of how exposed I was, and leaned forward over his lap, bracing my hands on the bed until I settled--feet planted on the floor, butt tilted up. For a long, awkward beat, his hand hovered, then landed lightly on my ass, warm against my skin.
"Sam, no," Tracy said, her voice sharp but with a hint of a plea. He froze mid-grope and pulled at my panty waistband instead, tugging them down. The cool air hit my bare skin, making me feel more exposed than I already was.
The first strike stung, but it was nothing like the switch. "One," I counted out obediently. Beneath me, I felt a half-erection nudge against my stomach through Sam's shorts. A faint buzz hummed in my head, soft but insistent, dulling any urge to pull away.
The second strike hit harder, making me jerk a little, and under the motion, Sam's cock stiffened, pressing hot against me. He was holding back--those athletic muscles could've done way worse--and I thought, of all the sexual favors I'd traded, this topped the list for weird. "Two," I said, voice flat. Then, with a jolt of horror, I felt a tingle spark between my legs.
By three, I was slick with arousal I didn't want, the buzz smoothing out my resistance like it was nothing. I kept my voice steady, praying no one noticed how wet I was, sprawled over his lap like this. The sting on my ass burned, mixing with that heat between my legs, and I couldn't stop squirming. By four, Sam's hips shifted under me, matching my wriggles, and I wanted to die right there. "Five," I counted, picturing myself anywhere else. But six, seven, and eight snapped me back--my stomach muscles clenched tight, then let go, over and over, and I realized I might not hold off an orgasm. "Nine," I whimpered, the buzz drowning my fight, and then, just in time, "Ten." I sucked in shaky breaths before managing, "Thank you, Sam."
Sam ran his hands over my backside. "Wow, Stacy, your ass is burning."
The casual way he touched me snapped me out of it. I was letting my brother feel me up right in front of Tracey, and I scrambled off his lap, yanking my panties back up as I stood. I caught her stare and thought I'd grossed her out, but her eyes stuck to Sam's lap--his bulge straining against his shorts. She froze, like she might snap at him, but her gaze moved to the abandoned switch on the bed, and she peeled her shorts off, hesitating. At the same time, I tugged my shorts up, the rough fabric pressing against my sore butt, making me wince.
Sam, red-faced now that we could both see his hard-on, shifted uncomfortably. But it didn't stop him from sliding his hands over Tracey's panties like he'd done with me, fingers brushing the red marks Emma left on her lower cheeks before giving them a light squeeze. Tracey, facing me across the bed, squeezed her eyes shut, her jaw tight. I coughed sharply, hinting he was crossing a line again. He tugged her panties down, and Tracey flinched, her body tensing for the smack.
"One!" Tracey counted as Sam brought his hand down. He was steadier now, and instead of lifting his hand right away, he squeezed and pinched her ass between strikes, no hesitation. The muscles in his arms flexed, a quiet reminder that if he wanted to hurt us, it'd dwarf what Emma dished out.
"Two!" Tracey yelped, a red handprint blooming where he'd smacked her. I watched her on three and four, wondering if my identical twin would mirror my arousal. By five, her voice hitched and her hips squirmed--same as mine had--and I knew she did. Heat crept back into me, my eyes catching how Sam pinned her hips down, how she bit her lip and clutched the comforter as he spanked her, her ass rippling under each hit. "Eight!" she gasped, her tone raw and needy, like something out of a porno. It rattled me, but settled something too, knowing I wasn't alone in getting off on our brother's hands.
Sam, lost in the experience now, paused at nine and nudged the inside of Tracey's leg with the switch, signaling her to spread them. She tensed, holding out until he said, "Spread," sharp and low, and she gave in, her panties stretching tight around her thighs. The shift forced her legs apart, leaving her wide open.
"Nine!" she yelped as his fingers slapped the soft inside of her thigh, leaving a red mark. I held my breath, afraid my shaky inhales might slip into a moan. The next stroke grazed her lips, and her hips bucked hard. It took her forever to choke out "Ten," her voice thick with relief when it finally came.
"Thank you, Sam!" she squeaked as she shot up, yanking her panties back into place. She tugged her shorts on quickly, grabbed my hand, and we bolted out the door. I glanced back just as Sam slipped out of view--his eyes still fixed on our asses.
Chelsea's Point of View:
It'd been a wild night and morning, and I couldn't grasp it all. Mental images hit me out of nowhere--Sam's hands on Emma, her wide eyes locked on me as Ted moved inside me. Then I'd seen it again on the twins' phones, their angle showing Emma's arched back and bare chest in profile like the modflap girl, the streak of cum on her hand, my dazed face staring back at her. I was pissed at them, sure, but deeper down, I was mad at myself, terrified someone else might see this. The phones sat on my nightstand, safe for now. I'd delete those videos when I could steel myself to face what I'd let happen. Until then, I steered clear of them and Emma.
Even deeper than my anger, though I fought to bury it, I was turned on. It started last night, a strange buzz in my head stirring waves of irrational heat that faded overnight but crept back as I sipped my coffee this morning. The day's chaos had kept it at bay until Sam spanked Stacey. It was like a page from my bondage novels--my son's nervous glances, his hand hesitating over his sister, the way she danced on her tiptoes, desperate to squirm free. That they were family twisted me up, equal parts shame and unwanted thrill. When Ted left for errands, I shut myself in my bedroom, desperate for relief before that buzz pulled me under again. It didn't help that I could hear Sam's second session with the girls next door. "Two," came Stacey's muffled count through the wall, and a sharp image flashed--Sam bending me over in front of the family, his hand raised.
I shook the image out of my head and opened my phone to my go-to bondage story site. "Three," came Stacey's next count through the wall, her voice sharp and strained. I tried to tune it out, scrolling through my favorites--*Kidnapped and Trained,* *The Breeding Farm,* *Slave Finishing School,* *Sold on My Eighteenth.* I hovered over *Magical Breastraunt: Five Star Milkers* when Tracey's count started from one, her tone cutting through the buzz humming faintly in my skull. It scattered my focus again. I set my phone next to the twins' on the nightstand, rolled onto my stomach, and shut my eyes. My hand slipped down my pants, chasing relief as the buzz stirred that unwanted heat.
When I opened my eyes again, I was lost in my favorite fantasy, sunk into the plush leather seat of a Rolls-Royce gliding toward Baron Astor-Bentworth's sprawling estate. A faint buzz hummed in my mind, pulling me deeper into the scene. The car turned onto the long drive, and, as my imaginary master had ordered, I unbuttoned my blouse, slipped off my skirt, and, left in nothing but heels, fastened a heavy metal collar and leash around my neck. The chauffeur's eyes moved over my bare chest in the rearview mirror, stealing glances as we jostled over old cobblestones, and I played along, pretending I didn't notice. The leather was warm and soft against my skin, cradling me. The manor loomed through the trees, its shadow sparking a shiver of dread. The Baron chose this remote place so my cries would echo unheard within those stone walls.
Servants stood in a neat row outside to greet me, their eyes waiting to take in my naked march through the grand entrance. Astor-Bentworth loomed under the stone arch in polished riding boots, a crop in hand meant for me, not horses. A faint buzz pulsed in my mind, sharpening the scene as my gaze climbed to his face--it was Alex, the boy next door. I blinked hard, trying to pull the Baron's stern features back, but Alex stayed, his cravat loose, white shirt open, staring at me with a knowing look.
I tried to recall the Baron's real face, but Alex's fit too well--his dark hair was the right shade, and his height was spot-on. His brown eyes matched, and that smug, maddening smirk was exactly how I'd remembered the Baron. A faint buzz thrummed in my head, blurring the line between them. The car stopped, and a man in a tailcoat swung the door open, my bare body exposed to the courtyard's gaze.
Baron Alex Astor-Bentworth sauntered over, his smirk stretching into a grin as he leaned down to grasp my leash. "Hello, Chelsea," he said, extending his hand. I took it, stepping out, the gravel cool under my heels. Alex's presence in my fantasy was starting to feel less jarring, almost familiar. Had I always woven him into this without knowing? We paused on the way in, the Baron presenting his naked guest to the servants' staring eyes.
"This is Chelsea," Alex said to a man in a crisp butler suit, standing a few steps ahead of the others. "She's my sexual plaything."
"Hello, Ma'am," the man said, his tone formal, eyes fixed carefully above my neck.
"Chelsea, this is Jeeves. He runs the estate," Alex said, his voice low and teasing. "If I tire of you, he gets his turn."
I curtsied to Jeeves, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and trailed Alex into the manor, keeping one step behind as the slave protocol in my fantasy required.
Alex's Point of View:
I could sense Chelsea's fantasy unfolding from my window, my buzz weaving me into it as Baron Astor-Bentworth. That afternoon, my avatar rigged her in a web of leather harnesses at the estate, suspending her as the centerpiece of a charity ball. A gag forced her lips apart, drool glistening on her chin, and she squirmed, eyes wide, awaiting the final piece--a device set to pierce her ass with each donation made to save the town's old clock tower. Her stifled moans would toll the "hours" for the guests' amusement. When the donations reached "midnight," the massive phallus would thrust deep, the clock tower repairs fully funded, and her cries marking the accomplishment like its chimes.
The vivid detail and the graphic content were Chelsea's. All I did was replace her fantasy man with myself, sit back, and watch.
In reality, Chelsea lay bare on her bed, her open blinds giving me a clear view. Compared to Emma, she was smaller and leaner but just as athletic--her back and thighs rippled with taut muscles as she touched herself. My buzz held her climax at bay, prolonging her torment. I savored her body twisting in frustrated pleasure, but more than that, I knew it was reshaping her mind. The buzz flooded her with arousal, drowning rational thought and etching my face into her deepest desires. Part of me recoiled at what I was doing--rewiring her fantasies to center on me--but the pull was too strong, my resolve crumbling with every second.
I pushed the buzz a little stronger, flooding her mind, and her mouth fell open in a silent O of raw pleasure. In her fantasy, Baron Alex tightened the leather straps of her harness, forcing her back to arch and legs to splay wide. He displayed her on a pedestal at the room's center, Jeeves announcing the first guest's arrival. Drool slipped from her gagged lips, unstoppable, as the massive phallus pressed against her entrance, parting her cheeks. Fantasy Alex slid a hand between her thighs, finding her slick with need, and I let the buzz release her climax. On her bed, her body quaked, thighs trembling. In her mind, a wave of pleasure reshaped her desires, my face etched deeper into them. Later, too late, she'd wonder why the thought of me breaking her will and bending her to mine set her core ablaze. The heart has its reasons...
Alex's Point of View:
The Smiths' house hummed with unspoken tension like the charged air before a storm. A client emergency pulled Ted to the office, and he left with a casual pat on Chelsea's ass, distracted from her distress by last night's leftover excitement. The girls avoided each other, and especially Sam. Their sexual escapades, followed by the morning's disciplinary drama, were a lot to process.
Across the yard, my room was stale and musty--I needed another shower and was bleary from poor sleep. I sprawled on my bed in the same clothes from the day before, replaying the scenes in my head--Chelsea's glazed stare, Emma's arched back, the twins' helpless yelps. A rush of thrill and lust surged over my guilt and anxiety. A small voice whispered--*What if they figure it out? What you're doing to them is wrong*--but the high drowned it out, shoving it deep.
I rolled to my feet, peeled my sweat-soaked shirt over my head, and stumbled for the shower. Cold water hit like a slap, then eased into a warm rush, washing away the grime but not the faint hum in my skull. Steam curled around me, the smell of my Eucalyptus body wash cutting through the haze. For a few minutes, I was just Alex--about to start college, not some twisted maestro pulling strings. I stepped out, the towel rough against my skin. The mirror showed the same lanky kid as yesterday--dark hair, brown eyes, awkward--but my jaw was tight now, something inside hardened.
Back in my room, an overdue psychology book peeked out from under my backpack, the six-month-old library stamp silently accusing me. I'd borrowed it for a class on social psychology--perception, influence, how small nudges could reshape behavior. I wasn't just some student cramming for a grade anymore. The Smiths were unraveling, and if I could press those levers just right, I'd keep this chaos on my leash.
A damp towel bunched under my head, the Smiths' house hummed in my mind like a live wire as I stared at the ceiling--Chelsea choking on guilt in the master bedroom, Stacey and Tracey scheming, Emma hunched over a dog-eared Jane Austen novel. I didn't need to see them; I felt them, their emotions jagged and loud, clawing at the edges of my skull. The faint hum sharpened as I closed my eyes, letting my focus stretch out, threading into their thoughts like invisible strings. Last night, I'd cracked something fragile open in their world--this morning, I'd widen that into a doorway, bend their mess into something manageable.
Reaching out with my thoughts, I found Chelsea first pacing, heels striking the hardwood like a heartbeat, her phone clutched tight. Her mind churned with upsetting images. A restless heat simmered beneath her skin, coiling low and insistent, a slow burn begging for release. She tried to deny it, her finger hovering over the call button, itching to spill it all to Ted, to confess and unravel the chaos.
Then my voice slipped into her inner monologue, *You're their anchor, Chelsea. They're tangled in want, and you can steer them.* Her stride broke, breath hitching as the thought sank deep. *Bend like a willow--yielding, strong.* The phone tumbled from her grip, forgotten, onto the bed. *Self-control lies in giving up what you can't control.* Heat bloomed up her chest, her pulse thudding as her mind flared with an electric buzz--Emma's arched back, Sam spurting, Ted thrusting into her. A shiver rippled through her, settling into a warm, secret ache between her thighs, and she couldn't reject it.
Doubt flickered, sharp and brief, but I eased back, leaving the whisper of possibility. Chelsea sank onto the bed, the phone abandoned beside her, her body alive with a pulsing thrum. She'd meet it head-on--the family's hidden hungers, her awakening--with a strength that bent instead of breaking.
Next, the twins' room grew in my mind, their voices a soft thread weaving through the shadows, the sharp edge of their low tones--schemes to undermine Emma and Sam. Tracey sat on the bed, one hand idly twisting a strand of hair. Stacey stood with her hands on her hips, her eyes fixed on the middle distance. Sam's touches and looks had unnerved them. They liked their handsome, all-American boy brother as a sort of familial fashion accessory, but he had become unsettling, a problem. And Emma as well--her repressed rage fueled by years of their Machiavellian bullying.
I nudged their minds, my influence a faint ripple: *Sam's focus could turn your way.* *Emma's anger is an angle you can exploit.* Their rhythm broke, a pause hanging in the air. Stacey slowed, her voice murmuring, "Sam's been weird lately. What if we play into it?" Tracey's eyes flicked up, considering: "Gross, but... maybe." Stacey nodded, her thoughts sharpening: "And Emma--she's dying to see us slip. We could fake nice, throw her off."
Their defiance relaxed into something sly, their words dipping to a hushed, intimate cadence. I drew back, the buzz of their minds fading as their plan took shape. The thrill of guiding them, unseen, settled deep--a dark, quiet satisfaction. For now, they'd spin their web around Sam and Emma, holding the family in their grip.
Downstairs, Emma sat curled on the faded couch with a dog-eared Jane Austen novel, bare feet tucked beneath her. She clung to it, desperate to barricade herself against the memories crashing through her defenses--her mom's glazed eyes, exposing and exploring her, Sam's touch lingering like a question she couldn't answer. Shame twisted tight in her chest, a heavy knot for the girl who'd always followed the rules. Last night had frightened her, and now my subtle pull gnawed at her remaining control. My presence hummed faintly in her mind, a persistent static she couldn't tune out.
I began gently, my voice slipping into her thoughts like silk. *Here, in these pages, you're untouchable. Let the words wrap around you like a lover's arms.* Her shoulders eased, her breathing slowing as the story's rhythm steadied her pulse. I pressed deeper, keeping my tone warm and inviting: *Elizabeth knew it too--the heat, the want, the storm beneath her poise. It's not weakness; it's alive in you, just like her.* Emma's fingers stilled on the page, the lines of text blurring as the thought took root. She pictured Elizabeth's defiance, her hidden fire, and felt a flicker of recognition. The shame didn't fade--it pulsed, sharp and vital, a current threading through her core.
My influence swelled, a warm tide lapping at her edges. *Your body remembers, doesn't it? The way it felt to be touched, to be seen. It's not wrong--it's yours.* Her chest bloomed with a red flush, her breath catching as last night flared back--The heft of Sam in her hand, Ted thrusting into her mom, and the electric jolt sparking under her skin. She leaned into it for a heartbeat, the sensation less foreign, almost hers. *This belongs to you,* I murmured in her mind, low and coaxing. No one's watching but you.* Her lips parted, a trembling breath escaping as the book slipped in her weakening grip.
But then, a spark flared. *This isn't right. I'm not supposed to want this,* her mind snapped, slicing through the haze--a reflex honed by years of being the good girl. Her jaw locked, her hands trembling as she gripped the book's spine hard enough to crease it. My nudge had stretched too far--her subconscious reared back, clawing at the Emma she knew, fierce and unyielding. Yet, a faint echo of my voice lingered, like a touch she couldn't quite shake, humming beneath her skin. She turned the page with slow, stubborn care, her fingers lingering on the paper as she anchored herself in Elizabeth's world. Her mind balanced on a razor's edge, caught between yielding and holding fast.
I remained cross-legged on my bed, eyes closed, reaching out to the Smiths' whole house with my mind. I felt them all at once except for Ted, who was too distant. Chelsea was beginning to think about ordering lunch, the twins were still whispering, their scheming was rerouted rather than derailed, and Emma was desperately lost in her quiet focus. I matched my breathing to their collective rhythm, letting myself blend into their energy. Then, I planted a single thought in their heads: *I've always been here, just part of the background.* It hit them--Chelsea's steps slowed, the twins' voices faltered, Emma's page stayed unturned. They didn't question it; they just accepted me as something ordinary, like the armchair in the corner or the clock ticking on the wall. I could slip into their house, unremarkable, a figure they'd see but never think to notice.
I rolled off the bed, the mattress creaking as I stood. My room felt warm, alive with the thrill of what I'd done--planting that thought in their minds--time to see it play out. I grabbed a t-shirt, pulled it on, and headed downstairs through the silent house.
I pushed the back door open, and the screen clicked shut behind me. The sun was bright and warm on my skin. Across the yard, the Smiths' house stood as usual--neat lawn, shimmering pool, patio chairs in a row. But today, I owned it.
The damp grass stuck to my sneakers, and its sweet, sharp scent made my nose itch. I jumped our low backyard fence, crossing through their lawnchairs that, yesterday, I had only dared observe from my desk. My bedroom window was now a small, almost invisible square on the shadowy side of the house, backlit as the sun fell behind it.
Halfway across, through their curtains, I saw shadows against the glass. I stepped sideways to have a clear view into the room. Sam stood with the thin switch in hand. Tracey bent over the couch, her discarded shorts on the floor. She braced for the coming strikes, bare thighs tense with anticipation, shirt falling forward, revealing the curve of her hips and slender, almost scrawny torso. The situation had developed in the few minutes in which I hadn't been paying attention.
Tracey's Point of View:
I leaned over the arm of the couch, palms pressing into the seat, my expression a careful mix of defiance and fear, just enough to sell the act. Sam stood behind me, the thin birch switch dangling loose in his grip, his shadow stretching across the carpet. *He's still that awkward kid I can twist around my finger,* I told myself, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mind. This was my move--play the repentant little sister, disarm him with a few soft words, and flip this punishment into something I controlled.
"Sam," I said, in a low, syrupy drawl honed from years of bending people to my will. "Please, not too much. You're *so* strong." I tilted my head, peering back at him through my lashes. His gaze flickered, snagging on my lips, then dipping to where my panties hugged my hips. He swelled with boyish pride and flexed his arms, which were genuinely impressively thick. *Got you, * I thought.
"I'll decide that," he muttered, voice rough with the power he thought he felt over me. I arched my back slightly, a subtle shift--nothing too obvious, just enough to keep his eyes on me--and braced myself. The first strike snapped against my bare thighs, a crisp tap with no real force. "One," I gasped, a perfect little tremor in my tone. His hand pressed against my lower back, steadying me, and I felt the faint shake in his fingers. A small part of me was horrified at how easy it was to manipulate my little brother, but another part rode the thrill, comfortably controlling a man who thought he was in charge.
"Two," I whimpered as the switch bit again, harder this time. I swayed my hips--a practiced flinch, all part of the show. "I'll be good," I murmured, layering in that fake remorse I'd mastered with Dad years ago. His hand slid down, brushing the edge of my panties, and I tossed in a shaky "Please, Sam" to seal it. He swallowed loud enough for me to hear.
But then, something odd flickered at the edge of my vision through the window--a shadow, maybe, or a trick of the light. I frowned, squinting at the glass, but the green yard looked empty. Just the adrenaline, I decided, shaking it off. Stay sharp. The third strike landed, sharper, and my "Three" slipped out ragged, less steady than I'd meant. A slow heat bloomed low in my belly, uninvited, spreading like spilled ink. My thighs clenched, and a soft buzz settled into my thoughts, dulling their edges. *What the hell?* This was my game--why did my skin feel so electric?
Sam's hand pressed harder, fingers grazing my bare lower back where my panties didn't cover. "Four," I said, but the word wobbled. That warmth pulsed again, stronger, and a faint sensation, like a feather brushing my hip, sent my pulse racing. No one's there. Focus. My breath caught, and I tried to steady it, but my chest tightened, my nipples stiffening against my shirt. *This isn't right.*
"You're shaking," Sam said, his tone carrying a newfound confidence that grated on me. I was losing control of myself, of him. The fifth strike cracked against me, and "Five" tore out, raw and real. My hips tilted back without my permission, chasing something I couldn't name. A slick heat gathered between my legs, and I bit my lip hard, panic spiking. *This isn't supposed to happen.* The switch snapped again--"Six"--and that faint touch grew bolder, tracing my inner thigh. My thoughts scrambled. It's not real. It can't be. A moan slipped out--soft, real, mortifying.
"Seven," I gasped, the sting merging with a dark, pulsing need I couldn't fight. My body arched under Sam's hand, shame burning my face as pleasure drowned it out. *Stop it, Tracy. Get a grip.* But I couldn't--the heat swelled, urged on by that unseen caress, and my whimper turned desperate, no act left in it. The eighth strike landed, and my cry broke free, loud and helpless, as my body shuddered, teetering on the edge. The sensation crept up my hips to my chest. The ninth strike pushed me over--a sharp jolt that fused pain and pleasure into something overwhelming. "Nine," I choked out, thighs trembling, slick with arousal I hadn't planned. The tenth hit, and I slumped over the couch, panting, thighs wet, waiting passively and ashamed for Sam's next command.
He stepped back, face flushed, eyes darting away as if he couldn't bear to look at me. "We're done," he muttered, voice thick with something--embarrassment for me, maybe, or his own arousal. He turned on his heel and left, I heard his footsteps fade down the hall to his room, probably retreating to deal with the tension I'd left him with. The silence settled heavily, pressing on me, and I was too unsteady to move, sprawled over the couch, trying to catch my breath.
But the heat wouldn't fade. My skin still tingled with need, and my body ached for something more--something Sam hadn't given me. He hadn't made me (let me?) finish, frustration mixing with lingering shame. I squeezed my eyes shut, willing the sensations to stop, but they wouldn't. If anything, they sharpened--a whisper of touch brushing my inner thigh, light as a breeze. I froze, heart thudding. *What was that?* The room was still, the curtains unmoving, and no one was there. It's nothing, I told myself, but the feeling lingered, a teasing stroke that sent a shiver up my spine.
A shadow shifted near the window, faint but undeniable. I blinked, squinting at the glass, and for a heartbeat, I thought I saw someone just inside the room. But when I focused, there was nothing unusual: the furniture, the soft buzz of the air conditioning, and Alex, standing quietly. *Alex?* The name floated up, familiar yet unremarkable, like noticing the couch or the lamp. He was just... there, part of the house's background. I'm losing it, I thought, shaking my head. It's just my nerves. But the touch returned, bolder now, tracing the welts on my thighs with deliberate slowness. I gasped, my hips twitching, but I didn't pull away--phantom sensations, I rationalized, from the spanking.
Alex knelt beside me, his fingers grazing my reddened skin, exploring the marks Sam had left. He was as noticeable as the fridge's hum--present, but not worth a second thought. His touch was light, curious, and as his fingers trailed higher, brushing the edge of my panties, a quiet thrill curled through me. *It's nothing,* I told myself, but my body disagreed, arching into the sensation. His hand slipped beneath the damp fabric, fingers finding my heat, and I bit back a moan, my breath hitching. *Why does this feel so wrong?* But the touch persisted--circling my entrance, teasing my folds, sending sparks of pleasure through me.
His other hand tugged at my shirt, brushing my hardened nipples through the fabric, and I jolted, overwhelmed. *Someone's here,* a fleeting thought warned, but it sank beneath the tide of arousal and that soft buzz clouding my mind. His fingers dipped inside my underwear, tentative at first, then bolder, curling against my sensitive spots. My hands gripped the couch, knuckles whitening as I fought to make sense of it. A thumb pressed against my clit, rubbing slow, firm circles, and I was lost--a cry breaking free, raw and desperate.
My hips rocked instinctively, chasing the building pressure, the coil tightening in my core. Alex's touch was relentless, driven by teenage curiosity--exploring every reaction, every gasp, as if testing how far he could push me. His fingers moved faster, deeper, until I was trembling, thighs clamping around the hand I barely registered. Just as I teetered on the edge, a flicker of doubt pierced the haze. *What's happening? Why am I letting this happen?* But the buzz swelled, drowning the thought, and I surrendered, my body shuddering as pleasure crashed through me.
When the waves subsided, I lay there, spent and confused, the room quiet again. Alex was gone--or maybe he'd never stood out enough to leave. The lingering warmth of that touch stayed with me, along with a question I couldn't quite grasp. *Was that real?* I wondered, but my mind, still buzzing faintly, offered no answer.
Chelsea's Point of View:
I'd ordered pizza for lunch and sat on the edge of the bed waiting for the delivery alert, scrolling on my phone. I'd heard the moans of Tracey or Stacey in the background, her voice deeper, more insistent than a yelp from a just spanking. Yesterday, I'd have investigated the noise and got to the bottom of whatever was going on. But I was inured to the feeling of helpless passivity, I didn't fight it--*Self control lies in letting go, of giving up what you can't control.*
The door creaked open a few minutes later, and my eyes darted to Alex--*Oh, just him*--then slid away, dismissing him as easily as the bedside lamp or the half-open blinds. He crossed the room and sat beside me, the mattress dipping under his lanky frame. I scooted over, making room, but my focus stayed on my phone, one cat video after the next.
His hand, warm and hesitant, settled on the back of my neck fingers brushing my skin like he wasn't sure he belonged there. The sensation, kindled a murmur in my thoughts: *Bend like a willow--yielding, strong.* My shoulders eased, leaning into his touch as if on autopilot. My blouse clung to my skin, too tight, too warm. Without thinking, I unbuttoned the collar, cool air grazing my neck.
Alex's fingers crept to the next button, fumbling with an inexperienced excitement I remembered from boys decades ago, long before I'd met Ted. One after another he worked down until the blouse parted, and I shrugged it off, letting it pool on the bed behind me. His hands returned, trembling as they traced my shoulders, then slid to my bra straps. He tugged at the clasp, his fingers awkward, a soft huff of frustration escaping him. Half-aware, I reached back, helping him. The clasp snapped free, and the bra slipped down my arms, landing in my lap. I felt goosebumps form in the cool air, and Alex's eyes shone with youthful enthusiasm.
His hands cupped my breasts, tentative at first, then bolder, kneading the soft flesh. His thumbs grazed my nipples--too light, then too firm--testing, learning. A jolt of pleasure sparked through me, my breath catching as warmth pooled between my thighs. *It's just Alex,* I reminded myself, the thought skimming across my mind, fleeting and shallow. His touch grew surer, squeezing, stroking, and a quiet sigh slipped from my lips, my body waking up even as my mind drifted, untethered.
Alex leaned forward, his head at the level of my chest, and made a seal on my breast with his mouth. "Alex," I murmured, my head tilting back, almost a plea, but a soft buzz formed in my skull, and I couldn't finish the thought. He didn't answer, and began to suck, his tongue finding my nipple and his hands moving lower to my waistband. I lifted my hips, helping him peel down the denim. Then my panties, his hands were shaking, the phrase *Just Alex* echoing in my mind.
He straightened, the wet outline of where his mouth had been cool in the air, and undid the zipper of his pants. He put his hand on my neck pulling me down into his lap, which I let him do passively. *Of course he wants this,* I told myself, *nothing unusual for a teen boy.* My lips met the rigid tip of him, harder and bigger than I expected. The pressure of his hands on my head parted my mouth open around him. He tasted of salt and, I was relieved to discover, smelled cleanly of bodywash, I think it was Eucalyptus. He groaned a little as he felt the warmth of my mouth around him.
He, predictably, didn't last long. I felt him throb, and then a dribble of precum on my tongue. I gagged and swallowed, trying to push up and off him with my hands on his thigh. But he held me in place with strength I hadn't expected from his skinny frame. For a flash, he wasn't the unobtrusive boy next door holding me down, but the Baron, sadistic, powerful, and compelling. My throat opened to him, and I felt him thrust deeper into me throbbing and pulsing. *Give up what you can't control,* and I went helplessly slack as he filled my throat with cum.
Alex's Point of View:
Chelsea, beside me, breathing hard and still swallowing, had a bewildered expression, like she was trying to recall a word on the tip of her tongue. Her helpless nudity had been unbearably hot to me a few minutes ago. But after forcing my cum into her mouth, my feelings of power and control turned to ash in my stomach. Seeing the effects of my powers up close and in person had been intense, not at all like my fantasies. After my orgasm, the thrill soured into guilt, and I regretted what I'd done.
Also, I felt like my power might deflate with my erection, leaving me literally and figuratively with my dick hanging out. That fear turned out to be misplaced, but at the time, it felt real, and I needed the security of my own bedroom. I zipped myself up. My boxers were uncomfortably wet from sweat, slobber, and leftover cum. Just before closing the door behind me, Chelsea managed, in a quiet, desperate voice, "Alex?" I looked back at her on the bed, bracing for the consequences. But that was as much self-awareness as she could manage, and her expression lapsed back into passive confusion. She looked small and helpless. Across the hall, the twins were arguing. "What do you mean you can't stand it," Stacey hissed at Tracey through the door. Another of my messes.
I passed Emma's open, empty bedroom, familiar yet strange from this new angle. Sunlight poured through the window, casting thick, golden rays that illuminated the debris of a girl's life--Hunger Games novels, unfolded laundry, a battered lacrosse stick, and two state championship trophies, remnants of her pre-college days. Her desk was chaos--pens strewn like fallen pick-up sticks, a cracked coffee mug bristling with highlighters, and a notebook bursting with doodles that spilled over the edges. An unmade bed stood against the far wall, the comforter bunched up in a blue heap, pillows huddled together on top. A small brass trophy on the nightstand gleamed--First Place, Regional Debate, 2018. A wall of photos, hidden from my house next to the window, caught my eye. Among the horde of smiling girls--camping trips, horseback rides, lakeside parties, prom night--one seized my attention, pulling me into the room.
In it, a much younger Emma gazed out from the photo with the goofy, self-conscious smile of a happy teenager. And I, even younger, was grinning along with her, my arms around her waist. It was a Polaroid. The day came back to me in a flood of images and sensations. My mom was away for the weekend, and despite my protests of independence, she hired Emma to babysit me, ensuring I didn't survive solely on chips. I'd pretended to be incensed but was secretly thrilled. The older girl had a happy, easy smile that awakened emotions in me I was too young to understand. We discovered the old instant camera in the garage, a relic compared to our smartphones. We spent the day coaxing the temperamental device to produce its signature photos. The familiar sights of my home transformed into something magical as they emerged from the chemical mist of the developing film.
Seeing she'd kept this photo for years pierced my conscience. It reminded me of the distress I'd inflicted on her yesterday. She felt real again, and I couldn't ignore how I knew she felt. I wanted to fix the mess I'd made of the Smiths, to put them back the way they were. I was staring at the photo wall, lost in the past, when a wave of citrus-scented humidity preceded Emma in as she returned from the shower, wrapped in a towel. I froze, but she didn't--couldn't--notice me. She closed the door, lowered the blinds, and let the towel drop without a second thought. Her bare body was graceful, unselfconscious. She flopped onto the bed, her damp hair spreading out, and started scrolling through her phone, completely unaware I was watching. The sharp scent of her shampoo filled the room, a reminder of how close she was--and how wrong this was.
I should have left then, but instead I paused, just for a moment, to see up close what I had only seen from a distance. The long, sinewy torso, thick, powerful thighs. She looked like a statue of an Amazonian come to life, tan and muscled. Without thinking I did something I'd always wanted to do and put my hand right where the hip flared out from her small waist. *You have to stop, right now* I told myself, but didn't.