From the moment Candace and I reconnected after our dad passed, our conversations were never normal sibling chit-chat. We were both wired the same way—open, filthy-minded, zero shame about sex. She’d text or call me late at night, voice low and excited, spilling details like it was the most natural thing in the world.

She’d start casual, then dive in: “So last weekend I hooked up with my manager at the dealership again. Married guy, wife has no clue. We fucked in the back office after close—bent me over the desk, no condom, came inside me while I rubbed my clit. Then his buddy showed up, the one from last time. They DP’d me on the couch—manager in my pussy, friend in my ass. I came so hard I squirted all over the leather. Felt like such a slut, but I loved every second.” She’d laugh, ask if I was hard listening, then wait for my turn.

I’d match her energy: “Yeah, that’s hot as fuck. Last month I had two dancers from the club after hours—one blonde spinner, one thick Latina with an ass that doesn’t quit. Took them to the VIP room, fucked the blonde doggy while she ate the Latina out. Switched, came on both their faces. Then a porn girl I know flew in—brunette with fake tits, does gangbangs for a living. We swung with a couple we met at the club: me and the husband tag-teamed her while the wives 69’d. Raw, messy, everyone came multiple times. Love that life—running the clubs means I get the pick of the litter. Been with well over a thousand women at this point.” She’d moan softly on the line, say things like “Fuck, that’s so hot. I love that you’re such a slut magnet. Makes me feel so connected when you tell me about all those bodies you’ve owned. Wish I could watch.”

She got off on my stories, the sheer volume of it—dancers, porn stars, swingers—made her feel seen, like her own slutty side was celebrated. It bonded us deeper than blood ever could. But until that night in Toledo, it had all been words—no touch, no in-person heat. The temptation had simmered, unspoken, waiting for the spark. We had been estranged for most of our lives—different mothers, no shared childhood—until she reached out at 15 (I was 19) after Dad’s death. Now at 22 and 26, this visit was our first real time together, the air thick with years of pent-up curiosity.

When she flew out, that openness set the tone. We drank heavy that first night, the sharp bite of whiskey burning our throats as we laughed in the dim bar light, the air thick with smoke and the thump of bass from the speakers. We wandered to a strip club I knew, the kind where the neon buzzed like a heartbeat and the scent of perfume mingled with sweat and spilled drinks. We got a private lap dance together in a curtained booth, the redhead stripper—curvy, with pierced nipples that glinted under the low purple lights and a thigh tattoo of twisting vines that disappeared under her tiny thong—assuming we were a couple from the way our knees touched and our eyes lingered. She straddled Candace first, grinding slow and deliberate, her oiled skin sliding against Candace’s shirt until it rode up, exposing the curve of her breast. The stripper whispered hot in her ear, “Your man’s watching—let’s give him a show,” then turned to me, pressing her ass into my lap, the heat of her body radiating through the thin fabric, her hands guiding mine to her hips as she rolled like waves. Candace’s breath hitched beside me; I felt the shift in the air, the first real crackle of what we’d only talked about. The stripper’s top came off fast, her pierced nipples brushing Candace’s arm; Candace’s shirt followed, those full 34Ds bouncing free, pink nipples stiff in the cool air. My hands roamed Candace’s thighs for the first time, the skin soft and warm under my fingers, while the dancer ground on us both, her scent—sweet vanilla lotion mixed with arousal—filling the booth. As we left, the stripper slipped us her number on a cocktail napkin: “Call me for a threesome sometime. I’d love to play with you both—make her squirt while you fuck me from behind.” Candace pocketed it with a wink, her cheeks flushed, the night already electric.

We left around 2 a.m. wired, each with an 8-ball, me on an ED pill to keep things working.

We hit a 24-hour adult bookstore—flickering neon outside, inside a haze of stale sweat, cum, and bleach cleaner clinging to the air like fog. The shop front was crammed with racks of DVDs (titles like “Gloryhole Guzzlers Vol. 12” and “Shemale Surprise”), vibrating dildos in every color, anal beads dangling from hooks, fleshlights molded from porn stars’ pussies, and bins of lube bottles sticky from handling. Arcade in back: dim maze of hallways, booths humming with porn audio leaking out—slapping skin, exaggerated moans, the occasional “fuck me harder” echoing. People played without us everywhere—shadowy figures cruising the halls, doors clicking open for quick sucks or fucks, a cross-dresser in heels slipping into a booth with an older guy, the faint buzz of a vibrator from another.