Chapter 1

I knew my big brother liked me. He liked me the way a brother isn't supposed to like his little sister. He thought he was sneaky, the way he'd play tickle games in front of my parents, digging his fingers into my ribs or under my arms. I'd giggle and laugh and beg him to stop. My parents would shake their heads and smile and tell my brother not to tickle me too much because I'd get the hiccups when he did.

My brother liked to buy me things too; little things without any good reason for doing it, and that seemed strange. I'd never heard of anyone else's brother doing that. He'd buy me the sort of stuff I wanted, but my parents wouldn't get for me. Like makeup, for example, lipstick and eye shadow and stuff like that. I really wanted it, but Mom always said I was too little, so my brother would buy it and leave it under my pillow. That seemed really weird and I never said anything about it. I just wondered what he said when he was buying that stuff, you know? Since he was a boy and everything.

He liked to know what I was doing, not like he would try to hang out with me or anything, but he'd ask, you know. He was interested and wanted to know what I was doing, where I was going, things like that. My parents thought it was great because he was so responsible and protective. That's what my parents saw. I knew what it really meant though. He was stalking me, or at least it felt like that, kind of.

He left me notes too. Not signed or anything, and not very often, but once in awhile I'd find one hidden someplace where he knew I'd find it. Mostly they were love letters, the sort a teenage boy will write to a girl when he thinks he's in love and he has to tell her. It doesn't matter how embarrassing it is. He doesn't care what I'll think about it. He just knows he has to do it; like if he doesn't, all those thoughts and emotions will build up inside until his heart explodes.

They were cute, some of them, really sweet and I was just twelve and then thirteen, and so I didn't know what to think, really. Mostly I felt kind of sorry for him and I never said anything about those letters either. He knew I found them though, I was sure of that, I just never told him what I thought about it. Some of them, most of them, said that he would do anything for me. My parents never saw that stuff.

They didn't see him picking my dirty little panties out of the hamper downstairs either. My brother stopped writing notes shortly after my fourteenth birthday, when I got my first period. He had other ideas, bigger plans and deeper desires. He'd search for my used panties like a pirate digging for buried treasure. His eyes squinting and his mouth tight, holding his breath until he found what he was looking for. And then the air would rush from his lungs and he'd close his eyes and hold my panties to his face, breathing through them, tasting my barely mature sex on the air. My butt and pee and sweat. He'd lick at them, slowly at first while he stroked his dick, and then he'd take them into his mouth. He'd groan and swallow his spit and stuff my panties into his cheeks until he looked like a big, pale chipmunk, jerking off while he chewed my panties like bubblegum.

When my brother was about to cum, that was the best because he'd almost gag trying to get my panties out of his mouth. He'd pull and spit them out, and cough and wheeze as he tried to catch his ragged breath. His hand would be flying along the swollen shaft of his penis, the foreskin pulled tight over the shiny head, and he'd have that wad of wet cotton in his hand until he was cumming. Then he'd be smothering the head of his cock with my little girl undies, trying to smooth them out and failing. He'd be shooting too hard and too fast, all over my panties and his hands and the floor. He'd use my underwear to wipe it all up, his slimy mess spattered everywhere. He'd clean it up with my panties until they were sticky with his cream and then he'd wad them up and bury them deep down in the hamper so no one would ever know.

But I knew.

That wasn't what he really liked though. I mean, he did like it a lot, yeah, but that was more like desperation; when my brother had more time, that was best for him. He'd keep my panties then, and he had like four pairs that were really his because he wasn't ever gonna give them back, he'd kept the ones he liked best. The ones that meant something, although I didn't know what. I knew he would lie on his bed and play with my panties, stroking them like kittens, kissing them sometimes, and even talking to them.

My brother was pretending they were me, I thought, like he had my panties with him in his bed and so he had some of me there too. I'd heard him whispering, late at night. My closet was right next to his bed and the wall was thin, really thin, because it was just a closet, I guess. I could sit in there and hear him if I held my breath and closed my eyes and listened extra hard.

He'd tell me how much he loved me and how beautiful I was. The most beautiful girl in the whole world, he'd say. He'd wish I wasn't his sister sometimes, or he'd make up little conversations in his head. I'd just hear his half of it, whispered and muffled and accented with the sound of his bed moving with a cautious rhythm while he jerked off. He was living a whole other life, seeing me do the things I did all day long in those panties, walking and sitting and being me, but he was trying hard to put himself in there with me. When I was walking, I was holding his hand. When I was sitting, I was next to him. When I smiled, it was because I loved him back, the way he wanted me to.

It was more than love. Or less than that maybe, I can't decide sometimes. It made him crazy though, loving me like that, and I'd already decided I wasn't ever going to love anyone. Not the way my brother did, but it was okay to be loved. It was nice and I liked it and even though I never said anything or acted any different around him, even when we were alone and I could have, I was happy inside. I felt like I had a slave, sort of, a person who belonged to me. He tried to hide it, especially around my parents, and around me too, but he couldn't hide his eyes when he looked at me. He couldn't hide the quiver in his voice or the hesitant touch of his fingers.

It was obvious to me and I wondered if what he'd said was true. If he really would do anything I wanted.

Most people are scared. Like they're born that way. Afraid to say what they think. Afraid to say what they feel. Most people are afraid of their own shadows, but not me. That's what you have to understand or none of this will make sense. I've never been scared of anything and I'm not boasting. I wish it wasn't true. It must be nice to be afraid sometimes. Probably it makes you feel alive, like if you get really scared and think there's a monster under your bed. Your heart is hammering and your ears are full of noises only you can hear. You get goosebumps and your mouth gets all dry so you can't even swallow. You're more scared than anything else. It isn't just what you feel, it's what you are. Changed in that momentary panic that goes on and on forever.

Then, when the lights turn on and your mommy and daddy are there, you realize there wasn't ever any monsters at all. It was just a bad dream, nothing more. They hug you and kiss you and all that fear washes away. That's when you feel so good it hurts. You get big inside and you're not going to get eaten up. You're going to live forever because you're safe and alive. That has to be the best feeling in the whole world, I bet. Better than waking up Christmas morning. Better than ten birthdays all at once.

I never felt it though, because I've never been scared.

"You like me, huh?" I looked at my big brother and my parents had been gone for two hours. They wouldn't be back for three whole days.

"What?" He was making some cereal for himself, pouring Wheaties into a bowl.

"It's okay, nobody's here now," I said around my Rice Crispies.

"Yeah, I like you," he admitted, but innocently. "When you're not a brat."

"You like it better when I'm a brat." I still had milk in my bowl, so I poured some more cereal in it.

"No, I don't," he protested, shaking his head and spooning sugar on his cereal.

"Yeah, you do." I nodded. "You love me most when I'm being mean, don't ya?"

"You're so weird." He just grinned.

"I bet if I was a brat, like a real one right now? You'd love me," I decided.

"I bet I wouldn't." He started eating, the milk running out of his mouth while he talked. "Go ahead, try me."

"I don't wanna," I sighed.

"Cause you don't even know what you're talking about."

"Yeah I do." I ate my cereal slowly.

"I don't even know what you're talking about."

"You'll see," I promised him.

"Yeah, right." He shrugged. "You just better be cool, because Mom and Dad left me in charge."

"You're the brat anyway." I finished my cereal and started getting up.

I put my bowl in the sink and then I walked back to the table and picked up my brother's bowl, it was still mostly full and I picked it up, right out from under his spoon. He stared at me all confused for a second, his mouth full of soggy, half-chewed Wheaties as I set his bowl on the floor.

"Hey!" He started chewing again, but just so he could swallow and really talk. "What are you doing?"

"You're going to be my dog," I said. "Get down here and eat."

"What?" He laughed at me.

"I said get down on the floor, doggy." I just stared at him.

"You're crazy." He didn't know what to do.

"Get on the floor and start eating or I'm gonna tell Mom what you do with my panties," I told him, but he had to think about that for a second.

"What do you mean?" My brother swallowed hard and he didn't know that I knew.

"I mean how you sniff them and lick them," I said, nodding.

"That's ... I didn't ... I was just..."

"I saw your dick all hard too," I said, giggling because he'd started turning red.

"You won't tell." He shook his head.

"I will tell and you know I will," I told him. "But even if you didn't do that stuff, you'd still get on the floor and eat."

"Why?" He asked, almost choking on the word.

"Cause you love me," I repled.

"I don't love you that much," he snorted, trying to be brave. "If you tell on me, I'll just say you're making it up."

"Fine." I shrugged. "So you don't love me. You don't care if I tell Mom and Dad. You got nothing to worry about then, huh?"

"What's wrong with you?" he asked, cause there had to be something.

"Everything," I said. "I was thinking maybe we'd do stuff, boy and girl stuff, but I don't wanna do it with you anymore."

"What?" He rubbed his left eye with his finger. "Boy and girl stuff? This is so weird. You're weird. Did you take some drugs or something?"

Chapter 2 »