Chapter 17

Alan twisted in his bed, the sheets tangled around his legs like invisible restraints, his body arching under a surge of sensations that crashed over him. Hoarse grunts escaped his throat, low and animalistic, moans he couldn’t hold back, as if his whole being was swept away by a scorching tide. Then came the sounds—those wet, muffled noises of deep suction, a throat opening and tightening around something hard, alive. Rebecah’s voice drifted in the air, soft and teasing, whispering vicious encouragements: “Go on, Alan ... let her do it ... look how gorgeous she is like that.” In the dream, Rebecah always flashed him that sly little grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief as she gently but firmly pushed Madison’s head down. Madison—his sister, for fuck’s sake—kneeling there, her lips stretched wide around his cock, swallowing him whole in one smooth, deep motion until the head bumped the back of her throat.

She nearly gagged on it, a wet gurgle echoing in the imagined room, her eyes watering but locked on his, that intense stare, the same one from their hellish night, right before he came: pleading, exposed, laced with a shared disgrace that sliced through him like a blade.

That look said it all—the betrayal, the buried craving, the forced surrender—and it tipped him over the edge. He gave in, hips bucking on instinct, a raw growl ripping from his chest as the convulsions hit him, fierce and unstoppable. He jolted awake, body still bowed, shuddering through the fading ripples of phantom pleasure, his breath ragged like he’d just sprinted a mile. His hand fumbled wildly for the bedside lamp switch, flooding the room with harsh light that made him blink hard.

He yanked the comforter off in one sharp motion, and reality slammed into him like ice water: his boxers were soaked, clinging to his skin, filled with a sticky warmth that left no room for doubt. He’d come. In his sleep. Because of that dream. “Fuck, no ... no, no, no,” he muttered, eyes wide, piecing together the fragments that were already dissolving like smoke.

The images lingered for a moment—Rebecah laughing, Madison...

Madison swallowing, her eyes boring into his, his dick buried in her mouth, choking back her moans. “Goddamn it,” he swore louder, sitting up in a rush, his heart pounding like a hammer against his ribs. He couldn’t believe it, wouldn’t believe it—this was his sister, for Christ’s sake, not some twisted erotic hallucination from a nightmare.

The memories faded fast, but that look ... that look stayed etched in, searing, twisting his guts with a raw revulsion.

“Stop thinking about it, stop,” he scolded himself silently, brushing away the flashes like crumbs off a table. His gaze landed on the digital clock: 8:47. “Shit!”

He hissed, leaping out of bed, legs wobbly, staggering toward the bathroom while trying not to smear the sticky evidence everywhere. He ripped off his boxers in a furious yank, the damp fabric sticking to his thighs, releasing a musky scent that turned his stomach. He tossed it into the laundry basket and jumped under the shower, letting the hot water pound his skin as if to wash away not just the cum, but the shame seeping into him. It’s nothing, he told himself, eyes squeezed shut under the scalding stream. Just a gross dream, some random brain glitch. It means nothing.

Absolutely nothing. But deep down, a sour knot lingered, gnawing at his stomach, reminding him that nothing was random after what had gone down with Rebecah.

The morning was pure hell, a suffocating haze that clung to Alan’s thoughts like wet spider silk, refusing to lift. He stumbled into class twenty minutes late, hair still dripping from the rushed shower, pulse slamming against his ribs under a crumpled hoodie.

Structural mechanics—normally a giant satisfying puzzle—turned into meaningless scribbles sliding off the board. Every equation dissolved into flashes of the dream: Madison’s eyes locked on his, watering, desperate, his cock buried to the hilt in her throat.

Fuck no. An unrelenting acidic knot roiled deep in his gut, equal parts visceral revulsion and guilt that chewed him raw from the inside.

He felt poisoned, like the betrayal had seeped into his pores and left a visible stain. It’s nothing, he kept chanting silently, biting the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper. Just a fucked-up dream, brain short-circuiting after ... after that night. The nausea never eased.

He spent the rest of the morning staring through the desk, hands trembling on blank pages, willing the clock to burn faster.

The cafeteria was its usual chaos—clattering trays, bursts of laughter, the heavy stench of greasy fries and scorched coffee thick in the air. Alan dropped into a seat with Sean and Larry, mechanically stabbing at a lukewarm burger, trying to disappear into the routine and scrape the shame off his skin. One bite in, Sean hit him with the grin and the jab: “Rough night, princess? You missed Harlan’s entire lecture—showed up like a goddamn rookie.” Before Alan could snap back, Bella and Madison clattered in with their trays and collapsed into chairs. Bella’s eyes went wide. “No fucking way—Madi rolled in at eleven too and completely bombed her econometrics midterm!” The table erupted. Larry slammed a fist, choking on his sandwich: “Jesus, did you two pull an all-nighter together? Spill it—was there a secret afterparty we weren’t invited to? Or did you finally decide to murder each other for real?” Questions flew thick and fast—Sean winking, Bella leaning in hungry for details, Larry piling on with crude brother-sister jokes.