Somnambulist Sis
This story contains descriptions of close family members engaged in entirely inappropriate activities that some may find either disturbing or hot. If you find family members fantasizing about or taking liberties with each other or otherwise behaving in naughty ways, then you probably should stop reading right about... now.
All characters in this story are fictional and are eighteen years or older. Any resemblance to any real person, living, dead, or under the age of eighteen, is in your own dirty little mind. Sadly, most of the events portrayed in this story are not based on true events. I wish.
If you are still reading and are not offended by SILF or BILF and believe siblings behaving in very naughty ways is hot, I hope you enjoy this story.
I killed my mother.
That's what my father tells me, although don't remember any of it. Why should I? Mother died when I was a half-hour old.
My very first memory is when my father had remarried, and my mother was a Vietnamese woman. A pregnant Vietnamese woman, so there is about a 2 1/2 year gap between when I killed Mother and I remember the woman I considered my mother growing up.
I am not Vietnamese. Far from it. Born blonde with blue eyes, just like the Mother I killed. My sister, though, she was Vietnamese. Well, half-sister and half-Vietnamese, although she looked pure Asian. Particularly next to her fair-haired big brother. As a kid, things like that don't bother you so much. So, my sister and mother did not look like me. Jenny Valentine, down the block, didn't look at all like her sister or her father. In fact, she looked just like Mr. Bonner across the street--I wonder if Mr. Valentine ever picked up on that?
My sister's name is Huong, which means pink rose, which we found funny growing up, because my skin was pink. Hers was gorgeous, an olive tan, which I tried to emulate by spending as much time in the sun as possible. Even with my best suntan, my skin barely reached the tone of the parts of hers which never saw sunlight. Siblings compare those things.
So, despite our apparent differences, Huong and I grew up as any normal brother and sister, and her mother was my mom. For a while, we had a normal life. Until the day Mama ran the stop sign while driving us to elementary school. The truck killed her. Riding in back, Huong and I were banged up, but basically okay. On the outside.
Inside, Mama's death hurt us all. I suppose Father considered Huong and I both killed her, since she was driving us to school, but he never said it aloud. We knew what he was thinking. I hid the pain of killing a second mother behind shyness. Our father dealt with the death of his second wife out of a bottle.
Huong handled it more creatively.
Her sleepwalking began right after they released us from the hospital. A neighbor almost ran her over a couple of blocks from the house, walking in the street wearing her nightie at 3 in the morning.
Her creativity was far from finished--not by a long shot. She put all her effort into being the kind of daughter her mother would have been proud of, and what do you know? She possessed that alchemy that Amerasian kids have. By the time she graduated high school, she was a cheerleader in the cool crowd with a 4.0 GPA. And she could freaking sing. And, she was gorgeous.
No one believed that shy blond kid was her big brother.
We could not have looked any more different, but we were close. Close as any normal brother and sister.
Sis went off to college on a scholarship, while I slaved away at the local community college and worked two jobs to support it. Besides, someone had to stay with Pop to bail him out when he periodically ran into a ditch while driving home from a bar.
Somewhere along the way, she stopped sleepwalking. The doctors attributed it to the trauma of watching her mother die right in front of her. And kids grow out of it--like she did.
So, when the horn blaring in the street outside our house woke me up one summer night, when Huong was home for summer break after her sophomore year at the prestigious college she attended, I didn't really suspect anything. But I looked out the window only to find my sis standing in the street barefoot, wearing nothing but a slightly large tee-shirt, and some jagoff with his bumper about 3 feet from her honking like he was trying to wake her up.
Turns out, the trauma of her breakup with her asshole boyfriend must have been enough to trigger her sleepwalking to return after 10 years.
"It was only a onetime thing--I'm sure of it."
Huong spoke with her typical confidence. Whether to reassure us, as Father and I both suspected, or perhaps she knew. Somehow.
"Was this because of your breakup?"
"Who knows? Maybe."
"What happened?" I was prying, and she warned me to back down with a flash of her dark eyes.
"What always happens. We broke up. End of story."
"It must have been more traumatic than that if you are sleepwalking again because of it."
"I'll kill him," said the gallant father, his words thick with alcohol.
"Not if I get to him first." Unlike him, mine was no idle threat. When her high school boyfriend dumped her, no one expected her introverted brother to do anything about it. Little did they know. Jimmy missed the Homecoming game and the rest of the football season with the injuries. The second-string QB had to fill in for the rest of the year, and Jimmy lost out on his big college scholarship.
To her friends, Huong said she hated me for it, but in private, she hugged me tight and thanked me. And we laughed about it for hours.
That night, she sat in her daddy's lap and looked sweet as a little girl. "Relationships end. They aren't Hallmark Movies with a happy ever after. Love is more Russian novel. It always ends in pain and sadness. Next time, it will be me leaving a broken heart."
"How can we be sure?" Someone had to be the voice or reason--why not me?
"If it happens again, I will go see Dr. MacNamara and he can give me more of those pills I took last time. It worked."
"If it happens again, we might be peeling you off the road."
She made a bratty face at me, then turned back to our father. "Not with the two men in my life here to protect me. You'll watch out for me, won't you, Daddy?"
Years ago, she learned how to twist our father around her little finger. All she had to do was call him Daddy and give him that doe-eyed look and he caved. Every. Time.
"Don't worry." She gave him a big kiss on the cheek, which guaranteed his capitulation. On her way out of the room, she stopped and gave me a brief peck on the forehead. "I trust you, big brother!"
Nothing happened for days, so we figured she must have been right. A one-off and she was back to normal. Which, in her case, meant sheer perfection. No one mentioned it, as if to avoid jinxing her, the incident soon forgotten. Summer rolled on, the days growing longer and hotter, the nights quiet and uneventful.
It was the craziest dream. I was on the Titanic, and everyone lined up to get on the lifeboats. Anna Kendrick stood guard at the lifeboat wearing a sexy sailor outfit, asking everyone, "Tickets, please." What ticket? I told her I didn't have a ticket for the lifeboat. "That's too bad," she said. "Next!"
Then the doomed ship shook with some sort of explosion.
The shaking continued, enough to rouse me from my slumber, and I was moving around on my bed. It took a few seconds to gather my thoughts, but everything was shaking, although I was back in my own bed, right in my own room.
It felt like someone was climbing over my bed.
