Best in Show
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 11: Teardown
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 11: Teardown - Two people, one monster suit. Eight hours in the dark where nobody can see you and you can't pull apart. She's my sister. The costume was just the excuse we'd been waiting for.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Heterosexual Fiction Incest Brother Sister Cream Pie First Pregnancy AI Generated
I woke before her with the sun coming hard through curtains we’d been too wrecked to close. I didn’t move. She was still there — face down, one leg thrown over mine, her hair everywhere, drooling a little on my arm the way she had since we were kids sharing a tent on the back lawn. When she finally surfaced she blinked at me, and I watched it go across her face — where we were, what we’d done, the whole of it — and she didn’t flinch. She reached up and pushed the hair off my forehead, the thing I’d done to her in the garage a hundred years ago, and left her hand there.
“Your arm’s dead, isn’t it,” she said.
“Completely.”
She didn’t move off it.
We loaded the car in the motel lot — the suit folded down into its bag, the plaque wrapped in a towel so it wouldn’t rattle. It rode in the back the whole way home and I looked at it maybe twice. Reese had her bare feet up on the dash and one hand hooked around the back of my neck, calling the road for me the way she’d called the hall all day — “gold going white, hawk on the left, slow down, there’s a cop in the median” — and somewhere past the state line the plaque slid off the seat into the footwell with a crack, and neither of us turned around to pick it up.
The house was ours for the last two weeks of it. Our parents had gone ahead to the lake, trusting us the way they always had — completely, and without ever once looking. We didn’t build anything. There was nothing left to build and nothing left to route it through, and it turned out we’d never needed either.
The first morning I woke before her with the sun coming through the blinds in bars across her back, and for once there was no reason in the world not to. I peeled the sheet down off her, slow, and took my time — my mouth on the knob of her spine, down the dip of her lower back, the curve of her ass, the backs of her thighs I’d ridden blind for a whole day and never once been allowed to look at — until she came awake under my hands with a sound muffled into the pillow and rolled over and pulled me up her body and guided me in. No roar to bury it. No clock. No foam, nothing on either of us to drag aside, a real bed and the whole morning and her under me in the light where I could finally see all of it. I went slow because there was nothing making me go fast, slow enough to watch everything her face did while I worked in and out of her, slow enough to feel her climb the long way and tighten and start to go — and when she came she dug her heels into the backs of my legs and pulled me the rest of the way in and said my name like it was the only word she had left, with her eyes open on mine the entire time, nothing hidden, no one watching, nowhere else to be.
That was the two weeks. That morning and worse, her room and mine and once the kitchen floor at two in the morning over cold leftovers, and I’d surface most days already reaching for her and find her reaching back. The only costume left in the house was the one zipped in its bag in the garage, switched off, and we never once went near it. We’d built the monster to get us here. Here we were.
Then it was the morning she left. We stood in the driveway with her bags and I hugged her the way a brother hugs a sister going off to school — hard, fast, a thump between the shoulder blades — except my hand held the back of her head a second longer than a brother’s would, and her fists stayed knotted in the back of my shirt a second longer than a sister’s, and across the street Mr. Kessler looked up from his hose and called, “good luck out there, you two!” and we waved, and not one soul on that whole street saw a single thing.
“Thanksgiving,” she said into my shoulder.
“Thanksgiving.”
She got in the car. I watched it to the corner and around it. Then I went back into a house gone so quiet it rang, and the thing I’d braced all summer to feel never showed up. She’d text me from the gate. She’d call me that night. I’d have her at Thanksgiving, and every Thanksgiving, in a kitchen full of family who’d never look twice — and it held like something I’d built to spec. I put my whole weight on it and it didn’t move.
Epilogue — Late
It was past midnight, six weeks into my first semester of a mechanical-engineering program, and I was losing a fight with a statics problem set when my phone lit up on the desk — Reese, FaceTime, the dumb photo I’d set for her grinning up off the screen. I’d been taking her calls every night since August. I’d warned her she’d get sick of me. She hadn’t, and neither had I, and her name coming up still did the exact thing to my chest it had done across a hotel room.