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Disclaimer:
This story contains mature themes, including violence, taboo subjects, and psychological tension. The actions of the characters are fictional and are not intended to endorse or condone harmful behavior. All characters are depicted as being over the age of 18. Reader discretion is strongly advised.
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Emma was born seven seconds before me, but for most of our lives, I was the older twin. Our dad died when we were still young. He used to make up stories on the spot, weaving grand fantasy worlds out of thin air. After he was gone, I started writing. Mostly short stories--I wasn't very good. Emma was my harshest critic.
School made things harder. We drifted apart. She found new friends; we stopped hanging out. We began insulting each other in the way most siblings do. I was resigned to losing her, so I began writing a poem about her. About being her half--a reflection in a mirror, forced to look back at myself through her. She made me write a new one each night. That was the catalyst back into our twin bond. She'd lie next to me on my bed, watching as I whispered every word out loud. Even now, with her in college, she still comes to my room, curls up on my bed like always, and stares at the back of my head until I stop everything and read her what I wrote. It's always about her. I thought we'd stay like that forever, bound by our twin connection.
Then came that night, a year ago. The wind shook the windows, slamming against the glass. The storm had cut the power, so she was in my bed. I'd already read the poem, but she didn't leave. She said nothing. She rested her head on my shoulder, and her hand lingered on my chest. I covered it with mine. I kissed her hair--soft, black, coconut-scented. That scent always stayed on my pillow.
On any other night, I would've been alone with that pillow--holding it to my face, breathing her in, eyes closed, picturing her on top of me. Her body moving, her breasts bouncing with every thrust.
But not that night.
That night, she pressed her slim frame against mine, thigh to thigh, her eyes locked on mine. In the hush of the shadows, I felt her hand slip under my shirt. Mine wandered too--slowly up from her knees, tracing the softness of her legs. That feeling still lives in my fingertips. Her fingers drifted along the edge of my underwear, back and forth. My tip throbbed--aching for her.
Then we heard the front door open.
The heat vanished, leaving cold sweat on our skin. She pulled away. No words. Just got up and left me there, the scent of her still on my sheets. She went downstairs to stay with Mom. I lay awake, face buried in the pillow. Holding it like it was her. Thrusting into my mattress, imagining her underneath me. When I heard her footsteps sneaking past my door again, I came. Hard. And then I finally slept.
The next morning--and every morning after--she refused to speak to me. Refused to meet my gaze, no matter how hard I searched her almond eyes for a trace of that night's lust. She stopped coming to my room. But I kept writing.
I wrote about the girl I'd touched in the dark. The way she squirmed beneath my hand, how her eyes never left mine, how the heat of her palm hovered over my cock. I held on to those minutes--those precious minutes in my bed--with a desperation I didn't understand yet.
Each day, I saw less of her. She started leaving early for college, staying out until late. When she came home, she stank of alcohol. I stood in my doorway, watching her walk past--tight tops, short skirts, bare legs for anyone to see. To desire. To need. Skin damp with sweat from dancing to music she didn't even like.
I could've lived with it, I think--if she kept coming back to me. Safe in her room. Even if she reeked of cigarettes. Even if she stumbled in drunk, or passed out on the couch high off whatever.
But the first time she didn't come home...
I opened Instagram, scrolling through tagged posts, snooping through her friends' stories until I found her--caught mid-dance, bathed in swirling lights, her grey dress hitched high over her thighs. Her back arched into some guy's chest. His hands on her hips, his face buried in her neck. Her ass against his groin.
I kept scrolling.
There he was again.
And again.
Always where I should've been.
Touching my sister. My twin.
I waited for her. Days passed, but I knew she'd come home.
At night, I wrote more poems--about her in some asshole's hands, about her enjoying someone else's touch. And I messaged them to her. Every one of them. One by one. I typed each letter remembering her whimpering my name, remembering how I should have held onto her--how I should have crossed the point of no return.
The glow of my screen lit my face through the night as I waited for that read receipt. I buried my face in my pillow, but not a trace of her scent remained. So I slipped into her room. Her bed was still unmade from the last time she'd crashed after a party. I climbed onto it. Pressed myself into her pillows. Rubbed them all over my body. The coconut scent had faded--now it was tobacco. But it was still her.
And all of her was mine.
I wrapped one pillowcase around my face, breathing her in. The other I pulled tight around my cock, thrusting into the fabric until I stained it with precum. Inside the pillow against my nose, I felt something crumple--a plastic texture.
An old photo. Us. My arm around her waist, hers hooked around my neck.
So I could see her--right there beside me, fingers deep inside herself, wishing for me. How many times had she soaked her slit thinking of that night? I tore at the covers and sheets, pressing myself into the mattress, right where her pussy would've been.
And I inhaled her. And I licked. And I forced the tip of my cock everywhere. Every place with a trace of her, from the spots where her hot juices had once landed. I couldn't stop stroking, my cock was pulsating, I could almost taste her, feel her beautiful tits against me, making her scream for me. My body tensed up as my balls began to unload, I shot my cum all over her bed. I was still sitting half naked on her bed by the time the sun came up.
I spent most of the day sleeping. I woke in the evening, and somehow, I knew Emma would come home later.
I waited by the door, staring out the window at the streetlight casting its glow on the pavement. About an hour later, a car pulled up. She stepped out. Her dress clung to her slim silhouette, but she didn't look drunk this time. Instead, she was arguing with the driver.
He got out too, shouting. She kept waving him off, telling him it was over, that she wouldn't see him again.
Then he grabbed her arm.
I was already outside. He was on the ground before I even realized what I'd done. I shoved him back and kept Emma behind me. She was quiet now. The guy--he wasn't much bigger than me--climbed back into his truck and drove away. I took her hand and walked her inside. I examined her arm, searching for any marks he might've left. There it was: a reddened spot where his hand had gripped her skin.
"It's not normal..." she whispered, avoiding my eyes. "It's not okay."
"But you still came," I said.
I touched the same spot on her arm, pressing my fingers there--covering his prints with mine.
"I couldn't read it all," she murmured. "It was disgusting."
"You read enough," I said. "You wouldn't have come otherwise."
