Chapter 11

Rory’s eyes shoot open. Something feels wrong. Very wrong. She doesn’t move, feeling that if she does, something bad will happen. The room is fairly dark, barely any light coming in through the windows. Without moving her head, she gazes at the clock on her nightstand. She is awake before her alarm has gone off, which explains the near total darkness. She feels a shift and the sound of breathing. It isn’t hers. She doesn’t remember picking up a guy and bringing him home. She only does that on the weekend, never on a workday. Then it all come flooding back to her. Her eyes clamp tightly shit. It is like a nightmare returning to haunt her. She fights back tears. She cannot believe that it happened—that any of it happened. And it wasn’t just once, twice or even three times. It was multiple times over the course of several hours.

Thinking of her yoga, Rory begins to get her breathing back under control. She flushes the thoughts from her mind. It is hard because of the repulsive things she had done not but a few hours ago and all afternoon. Slowly, she pulls aside the covers and pushes her legs over the side. Her feet touch the soft carpet and she wiggles her toes on it. A sudden bile shoots up her throat and into her mouth. She swallows the vile taste and it threatens to return, bringing with it more. Quickly, she pushes off the bed and rushes to the bathroom.

Dropping to her knees, Rory lifts the toilet seat and sticks her head in the bowl. But she doesn’t vomit. The tears begin to form all over again, and she thinks to let them fall, yet she doesn’t give in to it. She sits there on the floor for a little while, letting the recent memories flood through her mind. She accepts what she has done even if she cannot find a reason as to why she did it. She looks to the pros and cons, mentally weighing each one in turn against another. Finally she climbs back to her feet and leaves the bathroom.

Rory quietly walks to her dresser and pulls out a par of panties, slipping them on. She casts a glance over at the sleeping form of her brother. He is thankfully covered so that she cannot see much of him. She thinks about getting dressed, but decides against it. She still has a lot of time before work and she is going to need a shower to wash the filth surrounding her body. What she needs is coffee and time to think this through.

Rory slips from the room in nothing but her white cotton panties. Down the stairs she glides gracefully. As she pass through the living room her eye catches the discarded clothing as a result from their game. She stops and walks over to the piles. For whatever reason, the woman picks up her panties and brings them to her nose, inhaling her scent. She was so wet when she wore them and the scent of her arousal is still so strong. She drops them, smiling and heads for the kitchen. After getting a pot of coffee brewing, she takes a seat at the table.

Silence and the smooth, constant drip of the coffee maker is all that surrounds her. The same light coming in the bedroom greet her through the window above the sink. All she has in this moment are her thoughts. And no matter repulsive the thought of having her brother inside her is, she doesn’t really seem to mind. She enjoyed their shared experience. As much as she thinks she would do it all over and take a different route given the opportunity to do so, she knows she wouldn’t. Regardless of the repercussions, the wrongness, the repulsiveness or the enjoyment, she will not do it again. She will pretend it ever happened, just as she pretended her giving him a blow job didn’t.

Rory sits at the table, her mind a flutter of the passion, the pleasure, the enjoyment they shared all afternoon and into the night. Her fingers drum on the table as she waits excruciatingly for the coffee to finish. The memories are intense and repeat over and over and over again, running through her mind like an endless movie. She wants him again. Deep down, something makes her want him again. No matter what she tells herself, no matter the logic she throws at it, she is getting wet—wetter thinking about him.