Best in Show
Copyright© 2026 by Kinjite
Chapter 7: Green Room
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 7: Green Room - 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
The shell came up off us and the morning came out with it.
A whole morning of sealed air let go into the green room at once — the heat of it, the wet, the rank animal reek of two people who’d been doing that inside a closed box since the doors opened — and for a second it hung in the cool backstage dark, unmistakable to anyone standing close, before the room swallowed it. Jo had the frame half off my shoulders. She stopped with it there, three feet from the worst of it, and breathed it in, and said nothing — which Jo never did.
“I’ve got the belt.” Reese took it off herself, her own hands, the way she’d fought for on the floor — because the belt was the coupling and the coupling was the seat, and the seat was soaked through with the both of us, and there was no version of Jo’s hands on that buckle that ended anywhere good. She worked it with her back to the room and her body walled between it and Jo. Got us uncoupled. Stepped out of the frame. Turned around.
And I could see her.
The green room gave me back my eyes. All morning she’d been a voice at my ear and a weight against my chest and a set of signals I read blind in the dark, and now she stood two feet off in the work-light with her face on and I could see what the day had done to her. The thin tank gone transparent and pasted to her. The flush up her throat that wasn’t from any furnace. Her lip, bitten raw sometime in the last six hours and never felt. Her mouth, held in its bright performing shape since before the doors opened, not holding anything at all now, just for this one second with her back to the room.
“Don’t,” she said, watching me take it in. “Don’t make the face.”
“I’m not making a face.”
“You’re making the one where you’re about to say sorry for something we both did.” She pulled a hoodie off a folding chair — mine, out of the bag — and zipped it to her chin, and the transparent tank and the flush and all the rest of the evidence vanished under it, and the performer came most of the way home. “We’re not saying sorry. No time for sorry. We’ve got the whole rest of this to do yet and a trophy to win in the middle of it.”
Jo ran her handler’s circuit the way she always did — frame onto the stand, fans killed, the long back zipper dropped to air the shell out — and the whole time she did not ask the question sitting plain on her face, and the not-asking packed the little room so tight it was hard to breathe in.
“You have to bring it down in there.” To both of us, level. “However you’re running yourselves — it’s too hot, you came off that floor barely able to stand, the pair of you.” She put a water in my hand and a towel in Reese’s. She wasn’t looking at the suit when she said the next part. “You scared me.”
“We’re okay, Jo.”
“I know how you two move.” Quiet. She held my eyes a second past comfortable, then picked up the wrangler’s hat she hated, turned it once in her hands, set it down. “Line-up’s two-thirty. I’ll come for you.” And she pushed out through the curtain to go find where — left us the room, which was either kindness or the move of someone who didn’t want to be standing in it when she finally let herself add up what she already had. I couldn’t tell which.
Overbuild had the far corner, loose and sprawled with three years of winning in it — matching crew shirts, a road case of tools nobody was using, Dorian in the middle of it holding court. He came over the way he always came over, like it was a favor to us.
“The two-person thing.” He shook his head, delighted, swinging a chair around that nobody’d offered him. “I’ve thought about it all morning. The whole floor’s losing its mind out there over you.” It sounded like a compliment and landed like a hand laid flat on the back of my neck. “How do you even walk it? I put two guys in a Gipsy once, we looked like a drunk who’d missed his bus. You two move like one animal. It’s not natural. How are you doing it?”
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.