Numb

"You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style."

--Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

The thing about hearts? They can only break so many times before they just give up.

I wish I could say this story is all about young love--naivete, passion. All the things that make life worth living. That made life worth living.

It's not.

This is about mistakes. And loss. The irreplaceable and the irrevocable.

And it's about being in love with my kid sister. Anastasia.

Now, before you call Chris Hansen, she's not actually a kid. She's in her early twenties, has her whole life still ahead of her.

I'm in my mid-forties. My whole life is behind me. My parents had me to fix their marriage. Didn't work. They got divorced. Then they got back together just long enough to sire a second offspring--Ana--and discover how much they truly hated each other.

I'm not going to bore you with the family trauma. If you came from an abusive household, then you already know. And if you don't, you wouldn't understand.

The only thing you need to know is that my life pretty much revolved around three things: my own relationships, which blossomed into a failed marriage of my very own; my career as a writer; and Ana.

The first two were epic fails. Shocker. The third... jury's still out. But growing up, Ana was... crucial, I guess. I tried to look out for her the way nobody looked out for me. Running interference between her and our parents, covering for her when she fucked up. Eventually it was almost a siege mentality: me, this perennial fuck-up, and her, this kid who thought I was some kind of hero.

I hated her for that. Because I knew I'd never be able to live up to it. And I didn't.

So--one failed marriage, two dead parents, and a failed writing career later--I found myself at her apartment with my hat in my hand, asking--begging, really--if I could stay with her for a while. You know the cliché: just until I get back on my feet.

To her credit, she knew I was full of shit. And she still said okay. Even hugged me. I tried not to flinch. I'm not real big on being touched these days. But she'd never once hurt me (that came later), and she didn't deserve to be treated like a threat just because my only other blood relatives thought "spare the rod, spoil the child" was a fantastic way to raise a kid.

I never let them lay a hand on her. And my father had the missing teeth to prove it. Maybe that's why she put up with the constant parade of drama and failure my life had become. Or maybe she was just a better person than me. Not difficult, honestly--and she truly was.

My marriage had been a disaster. We both had brought too much baggage into the relationship. My fault as much as hers. So then, of course, I dove headfirst into a relationship with a woman who was the complete opposite of my former bride. And when that also tanked--well, you can only blame everyone else for so long before you're forced to acknowledge the common denominator.

I was done. Done with love. Done with life. I just wanted to spend my remaining years in quiet semi-solitude with Ana. Let the world forget me; we'd both be better off.

Ana felt otherwise.

"Big brother"--I hated it when she called me that, reminded me of childhood--"I'm not going to let you rot away on my futon."

"There are worse things," I muttered, trying to concentrate on the TV--

click.

Never mind.

"I'm not letting you just..."

"What, Anastasia?" I took some satisfaction in watching her flinch--she hates having her full name used by me. "Not decay? Fall apart? Waste my life?" I grinned at her and she recoiled. She hates this grin. Calls it a "hateful crocodile grin."

"I've got some bad news for you on that front. I have no life. You know what I have? Shit. You know what's waiting for me tomorrow? Shit. This weekend? Shit. Next month? Shit. And for my birthday after? Surprise, it's shit. So if you could perhaps spare me the 'hang in there, kitten' speech, I'd be oh-so grateful."

Her lips pursed and I saw tears form in her eyes.

And here... we... go.

"Fuck you!" she stormed out. I sighed. Like clockwork. My sister was nothing if not predict--

"I love you!"

I sighed and looked back at her, trying to muster up something resembling humanity. "I know. And it's okay."

"It is?" That hopeful, eager look in her eyes made me hate her.

"Yes. After all--everyone makes mistakes."

SLAM!

Her door was shut and her music was almost loud enough to drown out the weeping. Fortunately, I had multiple pairs of noise-canceling earbuds. They were the only reason I'd lasted those last six months under the same roof as my ex-wife.

"Like I said," I settled them into place and flipped them on--David Bowie drowning out the last of the angst from down the hall--"Predictable."

I know what you're thinking: What a hateful bastard! You don't deserve her!

And you're right. On both counts. But since when has what someone deserved actually mattered when it came to what they received?

Smash cut, and I'm jerking off in the bathroom. Because blowing my load on my kid sister's couch seems rude, and hey--brain needs endorphins. Even the pitiful little scrap that the latest quality sleaze on Literotica can provide. Erotic stories are better; you don't have to actually look at or otherwise acknowledge another person being involved.

I tried hookers, and honestly, they are a shockingly chatty bunch. Nobody wants to simply show up, get paid their $800 (because you don't cheap out on anything you're putting your dick inside and sex workers need to eat), be bent over the kitchen counter, railed, take a quick shower, and get out anymore.

Honestly, the whole process should take ten minutes and involve a total conversation consisting of "Here's the cash" as hello and "I'll text you next month" as goodbye. No drama, no complications. But apparently that makes me a "sociopath." So if there are any sex workers reading this, back me up here: cash up front, in full, no attempts at haggling, a quick clean few minutes of use, access to a shower, no threats, no danger, and no clingy "I'm going to save you" insanity--and you're out the door free to keep earning your wages. How is this a bad plan?

Anyhow, after one too many transactions ending with "asshole!" (and I didn't even pay extra for the dirty talk), I decided to switch to porn until I could stomach the idea of being with another human being.

Regardless--one spurt of sticky endorphin side product later, the door opens and there's a loud gasp. I sigh. Very calmly, cock still in hand--because I'm pretty sure I've been caught white-handed, so why bother pretending otherwise--I address my sibling.

"OK, if you're going to stand there, could you, like, put a bag over your head or something that helps me pretend you're NOT my kid sister, and I'll see if I can get another..."

I'm being ignored. Ana is just staring at my dick. As much as I wish I could claim I was swinging Mjolnir between my legs, I've got a very reasonable seven inches to my name and a comparable girth, so I'm not seeing the fascination.

"How about dinner and a movie first? I mean, if you're just going to peep on me--"

SLAM!

Seems to be a theme tonight. Whatever.

After a few belts of my bathroom scotch--not to be confused with my living room scotch, or my driving whiskey, or my kitchen... you get the idea--I'm on my back snoring blissfully, with my hand down my pants, true Bundy-style, grabbing my dick and--

Hold up.

That's not my hand.

Awareness forces its way into my mind like a drunken linebacker with his prom date, and faster than you can say "date rape," I've got one bloodshot eye open just a crack. When you grow up in a war zone, sons learn to pretend to be asleep pretty well, as most parents are reluctant to beat their sleeping son. (Don't ask about daughters; you don't want to know.)

Yup. There's my kid sister with her hand around my cock.

Oh, for fuck's sake.

She's staring at it like she's never seen one before. I refuse to believe that, so I'm at a loss. Her hand is smooth. Warm. A thousand lifetimes ago, this was called "soft" or "sensual." Currently it's simply weird. This is my kid sister going full Lannister on her forty-plus elder brother.

Her little tongue is sticking out of the corner of her mouth and she's concentrating so hard. She used to get the same look on her face when I helped her with her homework growing up.

Unfortunately, whiskey dick is a thing. There's no way I can--

The orgasm hits me like a fucking truck.

What the fuck?!

I'm upright and spurting and she is GONE. I hear her door slam as I look down at myself. I've got more semen than the Seventh Fleet on my stomach right now and I'm a little baffled.

I can't wait to hear how she talks her way out of this.

Still--and this is just further proof that I'm truly FUBAR material--it wasn't... terrible.

Let me be clear: my kid sister is not unattractive by any stretch of the imagination. Pixie-cut strawberry-blonde hair, blue-green eyes. She's got an adorable button nose, and her lips, when she pouts and bites them--

My cock twitches hard enough for a final spurt of incestuous satisfaction.

Terrific.

This I DON'T need...