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1.
The first time it happens is the scariest. Liam makes it out to be a special night, but you know it’s because it’s really a bad one.
He had eight months sober when he comes home high that afternoon; you recognize it because he always used to be high around you, almost ever since your dad died when you were six and Liam was twenty. Your mom died less than a year after you were born. They’d found the cancer during a routine ultrasound and told her to terminate and start treatment, but she refused. She wanted you, her longed-for little girl…but by the time you were born and chemo could begin, it was already too late to make a difference. You think Liam has always resented you for killing her.
Your brother stayed just present enough to keep you dressed and fed, and that was enough for four years. Then he got Megan pregnant and she told him she’d leave him if he didn’t stop. He still wasn’t quite sober when Erin was finally born, and you still remember how angry Megan was when he dropped her. That was almost the end, but instead it woke him up, cleaned him up. Your family grew and things got better. On your eleventh birthday, you use your wish to make it stay that way.
(It doesn’t. Life isn’t fair; it decays, sometimes slowly but always inevitably. You think because you knew that already, it wouldn’t hurt so much when decay finally comes. But it does.)
Megan knows something is off with Liam. You hold your breath until she learns the truth—and then you hide and sit on the floor with your knees hugged to your chest next to Erin’s pack and play and you try not to listen to them screaming at each other. Erin babbles and kicks her legs happily and you do your best to smile back at her. Then Megan is in the room and she’s not talking to you; she throws the diaper bag over her shoulder, grabs Erin, and goes. You hear the garage door slam a few seconds later.
Liam appears in the doorway a minute after that, a hand running through his messy hair. He holds an open beer bottle in the other, taking a swig while your eyes follow every movement. “Guess it’s just us for now,” he finally says, “but they’ll be back.” He seems to really believe it.
He dubs it a special night and begins plying you with alcohol. You’ve never more than tasted beer, but now he’s practically pouring the bitter brew down your throat as you watch Finding Nemo on the couch. You say you don’t want more, you tell him to stop, but he doesn’t. At one point, you’re almost sure you see him use again, but he’s only wiping his nose by the time you lazily turn your head to get a better look. Nemo’s not even to the dentist office yet when you fall unconscious, your stomach overfull and nauseous.
Your tummy feels funny when you drift back into awareness. You don’t know how long it’s been, but you can tell you’re lying down on the couch now. The room is cold but it’s warm between your legs. Your eyes are still closed when something hard and thick glides against your folds, rubbing a bundle of nerves toward the top that makes your whole body shiver. But your head is still spinning from the beer and your eyelids have never felt this heavy, so you can’t be sure you’re not only dreaming.
The thing keeps going, rocking back and forth along your slit while the heat in your core builds. At some point, it occurs to you that you’re not wearing your undies anymore, but you’re almost blackout drunk and it feels really good, anyway, so you don’t look. You’re breathing harder and you think you can hear someone else panting, too. Your brow knits together and a thumb is massaging your right hip in small circles, anchoring you there and stopping you from rolling right off the couch—if that’s something that even occurs to you to do, which it isn’t.
It’s only when the thick, hard thing begins prying you open that your eyes blow wide, tears already forming as your brain registers the harsh pain. The room is dark and the TV is off, but there’s enough light coming in from the hall for you to see it’s Liam on top of you. You’re not quite sure how, but he’s inside you, though you know on a visceral level that he shouldn’t be.
Everything about this feels wrong. It feels so wrong, it makes you wonder whether anything will ever be all right again. You cry out and shake your head, pushing at his chest uselessly as you say, “You’re hurting me, take it out—”
“Shut up,” he hisses, and he barely sounds like himself. When you stare up at your brother, you don’t think you recognize him. He’s half a monster now. His voice is dark and frustrated, desperate and insistent—just like the thing splitting you open from the inside, sharp and unforgiving.
You kick out your legs as if moving enough might dislodge him, but it only makes him angrier. He grabs one thigh in each hand and fully folds you in half, forcing his—you look down and realize it’s his penis, your nose wrinkling in disgust—deeper inside you and rending more of you apart. Your heart thrums in your chest like a panicked bird when you see how much blood is on it, your blood.
“Stop squirming, stupid slut,” he snaps, but you can’t. You’re in too much pain to register his insult. Every atom in your body is screaming for relief, for this nightmare to stop. You pummel his chest with your fists, but he only digs his fingers into your thighs, and you know they’ll leave bruises.
Half-growling, your brother shoves more of his penis inside you, and you hear a yelp like an abused dog. It takes you a second to realize the sound came from you. “No stopping,” he says, grinding his hips forward in a way that makes you want to crawl out of your skin. “Once we start, we finish.”
It sinks farther in and you whimper, squeezing your eyes tight and praying that’s all there is. But every time you think that surely, he can’t possibly fit more of himself inside you, he does. You must be sobbing like a baby but you can’t hear it; all you can hear is Liam panting above you, grunting and groaning and muttering at you to just take it.
When he draws back for the first time, you hope it’s the end. It would still be terrible if this was all there was—it would still feel like the world had ended even if he pulled out now, stuffed his bloodied penis back in his pants, and never mentioned this again. But then he thrusts forward again, burying himself almost entirely in your ruined body. Again, you know you’re screaming, but your brain is only registering his guttural moans, your flesh slapping together, the sickly wet sound of him sliding into you as he bleeds you out.
You really think you might be dying. You don’t think that would be so bad, as long as this ends.
“No, no more, please,” you babble, snot dripping into your mouth. But when you open your eyes, Liam is looking at you like you’re not you—like you’re a bug he wants to squash, like you mean nothing. Like all that matters to him is the space he’s carving out between your legs.
His groan is exasperated when he releases one leg—the one squished between your bodies and the back of the couch—and moves his hand upward. He ruts into you and steals your screams, his palm pressed so hard against your mouth, your teeth are scraping the inside of your lips. “Good girl,” he says for the first time. You don’t feel like a good girl at all.
Your eyes roll back from how rough he’s being. You didn’t know this kind of pain existed. You don’t know what you did, but it feels like you deserve it, or at least like Liam thinks you do. You wish you could just go back to sleep.
“So fucking tight, that’s it,” he’s groaning and then he’s pounding you even harder, “that’s it, take it, that’s a good girl.” His voice is strained. You wonder if this is really a nightmare, and you’ll wake up without a bloody gash between your legs and your brother on top of you.
It does end, and you’re still alive. Liam buries himself in you one last time with a shuddering moan and fills you with something warm. Bile rises in your throat faster than you can react, and then you’re vomiting into his hand, your body rejecting the alcohol, or him, or everything.
He jerks back in disgust, like you ruined the moment for him, and maybe you did. He straightens enough to let you twist beneath him so the rest of your puke ends up on the floor. You cough and sob uncontrollably, your skin suddenly clammy.
Liam leans backward and you feel his penis dragging along your battered walls one last time. The head of him gets stuck in you and he has to yank it out, tugging your whole body closer to him like you’re an electronic he unplugged too fast. There’s a foreign emptiness in his absence. You don’t recognize yourself; you can barely believe this is really happening to you, in your body.
“Fuck,” he says about the mess between your legs, and you can tell he’s annoyed with you. He casts his eyes around the room, but he doesn’t find whatever he wants. “Need something to clean this up,” he mutters, getting up and leaving you there in a daze.
You just lie there, staring at the ceiling until he returns—you don’t care from where. It doesn’t matter. You’re ready for the night to be over. All you want is to go to sleep and forget this ever happened.
Liam sits beside you with a bowl of warm water. He soaks a towel before wringing it out and brushing it against your folds. It stings so badly, you have to bite your tongue to keep from crying out, but he still sees the way your whole body jolts from the pain. “Sorry, I’m sorry,” he murmurs, grimacing sympathetically every time you wince. At least he seems to feel bad now. He wipes you clean as gently as possible, pulls your undies back on for you, covers you with a blanket, and tells you to sleep. You don’t need to be told twice.
In the morning, the wound between your legs hurts more than the headache. When you go to the bathroom, there’s blood in your underwear, though you don’t think you’re still bleeding now. You hover in the kitchen doorway while you watch Liam make pancakes. He’s not the same brother now, and you’re not the same you. It’s a scary feeling to realize you’re afraid of him. Your world holds a new kind of violence now.
The pancakes are chocolate chip, your favorite. He pulls out a chair for you and pushes it back in, but it isn’t until he squeezes your shoulder that you flinch away. He tells you he’s sorry, that he didn’t mean to do it and it will never happen again. He promises to do better. He’s already called Megan while you were asleep, he says—she’s coming home from her parents with the baby soon, and he’s leaving for rehab shortly after. He asks you not to tell her. You’re not sure what to do.
When Megan comes through the door with Erin in her carrier, the smile on Liam’s face is so big that any thought you might have had about telling Megan vanishes entirely. He loves her, and she’s your family, too; you don’t want to hurt her. You try to believe what he said about doing better. You tell yourself things can be okay again.
2.
It’s a full year before it happens again. You’re twelve and reviewing vocab for tomorrow’s test at the kitchen counter when Liam barges through the garage door, fuming.
He’s carrying one of those file boxes you see on TV when someone gets fired, the ones with all your personal things from your desk, and a pit forms in your stomach. You fidget with your flash cards and try to ignore it. He drops the box on the kitchen table behind you and then stands there, looming over a pushed-in chair, breathing hard.
You look at your next flash card, ABRUPT staring right back at you in big, bold letters. Abrupt: an adjective describing something sudden or unexpected. Liam’s entrance was certainly that.
Before you can flip to the next card, you become aware of his presence behind you. A hand curves around your back, coming to rest on the side of your waist and making you shiver. “Shh, it’s okay,” he says, and you know it’s a lie, “you’re okay.”
Maybe if you ignore it, it won’t happen. The next word is PREDATORY. You’ve already got that one memorized. Predatory: an adjective describing something that preys on others. You shudder again as you feel him crowding you, pressing you against the kitchen counter. Already, he’s getting hard, and you suspect you know what that means. Predatory sounds about right.
Somehow, you find your voice. “You said you wouldn’t do it again,” you remind him, shuffling the cards anxiously in your hands. ENDURE is next, and you don’t like the sound of that. Endure: a verb meaning to tolerate or bear something without resistance. But you don’t want to do that.
You hear his sigh and his breath is hot on your neck, though you can feel the hair there is standing on end like it’s caught a chill. Like it knows it’s caught itself. “It can be good for you,” he murmurs, kissing the top of her head while his other hand snakes down past the hem of your school skirt.
“I don’t want to,” you say, sounding more terrified than defiant. He’s lifting the back now and you can feel the cool air on your upper thighs; barely a moment later and his fingers are brushing along your slit over your underwear, rubbing near your entrance. “Liam—”
“I don’t want to hear it,” he says, and he does sound defiant. A finger hooks the gusset of your underwear and tugs them to the side, exposing you to him. That same finger penetrates you roughly, the bitten nail scratching your dry walls. You whimper in pain, but he doesn’t hear it that way. “That’s it, good girl.”
OVERWHELM. You throw yourself into your studying, desperate for your inattention to work. Overwhelm: a verb meaning to overpower something entirely; to overcome with force. To destroy. You’re starting to think Liam wants to destroy you.
His hips grind into your bum, seeking relief while he stretches you cruelly on his fingers. There are two now and they’re moving fast, and you worry he’s getting upset with you about something, but you don’t know what. You just sense something’s wrong. This is all wrong.
“You’re not getting wet enough,” he complains. You’re not sure what that means, but it sounds bad. His fingers yank out of you with a painful, disgusting pop and then you hear his belt buckle, his zipper coming undone. The hand at your waist is now on your shoulder, gripping hard, like he’s fusing himself to you. Like last time, you know it’ll bruise.
He guides his penis to your entrance with his other hand, and it takes a fair bit of pushing for the head to sink in this time. His panting is almost frustrated by the time he succeeds. The feeling of being split wide over him, it’s too much—he’s too big—you’re too small and this shouldn’t be happening. You have to bite your lip to keep from crying out.
The last flash card is crumpled in your hand; you clenched it in your fist without realizing. Your nervous sweat has smudged the ink, too, but you know what it says: RELENTLESS. Liam thrusts shallowly, but his breathing still sounds mad. A big thrust then, and a yelp from you—“Shut up, bitch,” he says, but he pulls out of you.
Relentless: an adjective describing something unyielding or continuously harsh.
You think he’s changed his mind. You’re not that lucky.
Without a word to you, your brother spins you to face him and forces you onto your knees. You wince from the pain that lances through your core, but you try to be brave. At least it didn’t last as long as last time. You don’t know what this is, though.
He pulls at your lower jaw until it aches, and then his penis—there’s some blood on it, you can see now that you’re eye level with it—is cramming itself into your mouth. “No teeth, or you’ll be sorry,” he groans, his thumb guiding your lips to close around his shaft.
He begins fucking your face, one hand still keeping a firm hold of your jaw and the other working your head back and forth along his length. You’re gagging but he doesn’t care, nor does he seem to feel the fists hitting the back of his legs. He keeps going and you stop fighting him, too busy making sure you’re still breathing to focus on much else. You can almost feel your brain sloshing back and forth miserably from his manhandling; you lose track of how long he’s been doing this, start going light-headed.
Then a torrent of something floods your mouth and spills down your throat and he’s finally pulling out of you. You double over, sobbing and coughing up globs of bitter-tasting white stuff while he just watches. When you’re done, he throws the paper towels down next to you. “You’re fucking disgusting,” he says, and tells you to clean it up.
This time, he makes no promises about the future. You do your best to not think about what that means.
3.
It takes six months for him to do it again. You’re in your room reading a silly teen magazine, lying on your bed with your legs twisted in the air behind you. These magazines aren’t silly to your friends—they giggle and blush over the articles about how to flirt or give your boyfriend the blowjob of his life. Sometimes they gossip about their older sisters and the sex they think they’re having, but you only ever listen. At least you know what sex is now.
It took a while, but you finally have the words for what’s happening to you. You learned in health class, mortified and feeling like everyone in the room could see you’d been fucked while the teacher explained the mechanics of it all. At lunch after, someone whispered that she had a cousin who was raped by her dad until he got caught and went to jail. The other girls responded with a mix of disgust and horrified fascination, shaken yet curious to learn about the worst things that could befall them, or anyone. You left lunch early that day.
Liam knocks as he opens the door, Erin’s baby monitor in one hand. “Finally got her down,” he says, as if you’d just asked if she’s asleep yet. The door clicks shut with a quiet finality, the turning of the lock only sealing your fate. Your stomach’s already in knots as you right yourself, inching back until you’re sitting against the headboard, knees hugged to your chest. The magazine lies open on your bedspread, forgotten.
“Megan will be back soon,” you remind him, as if that will change things. “There were only a few things to pick up at the store.”
“We have time,” he says—like this is something you’re choosing to do together behind his wife’s back, like some incestuous love affair and not just him forcing himself on you, in you. He sets the baby monitor on your dresser, the tinny sound of a sleeping toddler filling the space between you.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say, knowing it’s useless. He gives you a look as he approaches, coming around the side of your bed like a wolf circling its prey. You’re not sure if he’s more annoyed with you or lusting for you, the thing he gets to toy with whenever he’s had a bad enough day.
You know the drill: relapse and drive your wife and child out of the house? Rape your sister. Get laid off when you’ve just taken out a second mortgage? Rape your sister. At least he’d gotten another job pretty quickly. Megan’s dad has a friend who runs a temp agency, so that was simple enough. He was hired full-time by his second assignment once the temp role was over. What isn’t simple is knowing when he’ll hurt you again.
Liam sits on the bed, close enough that he barely has to reach to set an overbearing hand on your thigh. His thumb strokes it, inching further before playing with the hem of your pajama shorts. “You should try to like it,” he says as his other hand comes around your side to tug at the waistband.
He pulls your shorts and underwear down together while tugging you toward him, encouraging you to lift your bum enough for him to get them all the way off. You have to work to keep yourself from instinctively protecting yourself, pushing him away, screaming and thrashing. You’re sure he can hear how hard your heart is beating, and you wonder if it thrills him, such clear evidence of the impact he has on you.
Your bottoms fall to the floor, forgotten, your underwear managing to land closer to the door than your shorts. Then his fingers are tracing your slit, playing with you while you shift uncomfortably. He finds and squeezes your little clit and you reflexively try to close your legs—he forces one of your knees down in a half-butterfly position. Your hip aches from how firmly he’s holding you.
“Don’t move,” he chides, one finger already inside you. A second follows quickly, scissoring you open for him. Your gaze drifts to the window, and you imagine yourself kicking him off you with your free leg, rushing over, and opening it fast enough to escape through it. You know you’d never make it that far.
At least you’re getting wetter this time. You know what sex is, but you still don’t quite understand how things like arousal work. That horrible first time, there’d been more slick to ease his way—though there was no easing anything for you—but that was because you were asleep when he was prepping you. The second time, you were too afraid of what was coming to relax. Now…
“That’s my good girl,” he says as soon as he’s drawing gross, wet sounds out of you. You wrinkle your nose, but he pays that little mind. “I told you it can feel good for you, too. Just let it happen.”
Once he’s satisfied, he pulls you down the bed, clearing the rest of what little distance there’d been between you. He tilts your hips so you’re easier for him to access. He releases you while he works his cock out, and for a fleeting moment, you again imagine yourself somehow getting away. You could lock yourself in your closet. You only had to avoid him until Megan got home, and that shouldn’t be long now—
Liam spits into his hand, fisting himself before positioning himself between your legs. The stretch is intense as he enters you, making you throw your arms out and brace yourself against his. That earns you a chuckle; he seems to like you holding onto him like that. “That’s it, let me in…”
He fucks you leisurely for the first minute, giving you time to adjust. He’s watching your face closely, hungrily—when you look up at him through your lashes, he groans and digs his fingers into the meat of your thighs. You wish you’d kept looking away, because now he’s getting rougher.
“Eyes on me,” he pants, reading your mind. He’s pounding you so hard, your eyes squeeze shut every time he buries himself fully inside you, but you make sure to open them again and again. You’re vaguely aware that you’re crying, though there’s something else, too: a heat pooling in your core and coiling in your stomach.
You don’t want to, but you moan, which only excites him more. He’s like a rabid animal devouring you, thrusting into you wildly so that you’re holding on to him for dear life. Your cunt is on fire—from the abuse, from his size, from the pleasure you’re trying so hard to deny. You clasp a hand over your mouth, desperate to quiet yourself. You hate him knowing you could possibly like any of this.
“Don’t you dare,” he growls, his hips stuttering as he feels his orgasm approaching. You think you might actually cum, too, especially when his thumb returns to your clit.
You’ll never know if you’d cum or not; suddenly, the baby monitor crackles as Megan’s voice registers. “Is that my sweet girl?” Erin fusses in response, and you realize she’d probably been doing that for a while, if that’s the first place Megan went after coming home.
Liam freezes inside you just long enough to hear Megan speak again: “You hungry, baby? Mama can make you a snack.”
It hurts when he pulls out of you, but you’re already scrambling to grab your shorts, almost falling out of bed scooping them off the ground and stuffing your feet through the holes. Liam’s stuffed his still-hard cock in his pants, panicking when he looks in the mirror and sees how obvious it is. Over the monitor, Erin’s response only makes it worse: “Play! Play, Mommy!”
“Mama has to unload the groceries, but let’s find your auntie.” In response, the sound of little hands clapping, a happy squeal.
You’re busy fixing your hair, trying to make it look like you haven’t been pinned against your bed for the past few minutes. The tears are easy enough to wipe away. Slightly less erect, Liam remembers to unlock the door just as you hear Erin’s door open. There’s a pause—long enough that you think Megan might have heard the lock clicking and stopped in surprise—and then a knock.
“Come in,” you and Liam stumble over each other, making it worse. You cringe as Megan opens the door with Erin in tow, the toddler barreling around her mom’s legs to rush toward her designated playmate.
When you lean down to scoop her up, you nearly freeze at the sight of your underwear still on the floor, tangled just past the end of your bed frame, in partial view of both adults. At the same time, it occurs to you that the room has taken on a distinct scent. It’s too small and the window isn’t open, and it reeks of sex.
You’re sure Megan’s seen—her eyes are lifting off the floor and to Liam by the time you look up—but she doesn’t say anything. At least Liam’s erection is gone. You suppose panic and dread will do that. Liam asks if Megan managed to find something he wanted (she did) and she asks if he’s had a chance to fix the sink (he hasn’t). You sit there, confused.
She must have seen your underwear, and there’s no way she hasn’t noticed the smell. Her husband was in a locked room with you and as soon as Megan came in, you’re both flustered. He’s gone white as a sheet but you can still see the flush in your cheeks in the mirror, just starting to fade now. The clues are there…it’s like she chooses not to see them. You don’t understand why she would do that—why she would let him keep hurting you. Maybe she assumes it’s your fault, or maybe she doesn’t want to believe it at all.
You play with Erin in her room, straining your ears to hear any argument brewing down the hall. But when Liam and Megan talk, their voices are light, almost cordial. At dinner, things are pleasant, if a bit stiff. Liam takes over clean-up and Megan excuses herself to bed early, tasking you with Erin’s bedtime routine.
You fall asleep curled up in her toddler bed with your niece, your hair twirled around her little fingers. You don’t really think Liam would come back during the night to finish what he started, but you don’t want to find out. At least here, with his sweet angel, he won’t dare touch you. In the morning, everything is back to normal.
4.
Three months later, he’s driving you home from soccer practice when you realize he’s slowing down, pulling into one of those unofficial dirt U-turns that form from years of cars using the side of the road to turn around. He ventures a bit farther than the actual car-made dirt path goes, rolling to a stop so the front seats are obscured by a tree.
Liam parks the car, turns it off, and unbuckles his seatbelt. You just sit there. You know it’s not worth reminding him that Megan and Erin are waiting for them—the pizza should be delivered any minute now. It’s their go-to dinner plan on days you have practice after school while Megan pulls a longer-than-average shift. She picks up Erin from daycare on her way home, Liam gets you on his, and you all have pizza together. That’s how this goes.
He’s moving your seat back and you’re looking out your window, imagining yourself running away into the woods. You wonder how far you’d get before he catches you—you’re fast, but he’s persistent. Megan’s been home more recently, cutting off his access? Easy: rape on the way home. Drive-through rape, like fast food but for forcing yourself on your victim of choice. You could almost laugh.
You pretend he’s not stepping into the passenger footwell, expertly ignore him moving your arms, clicking your seatbelt so he has better access to you. Without a word, he pulls your hips forward so he can slip off your bottoms. It’s harder for him this time, three layers. Part of your uniform is a latex layer, something like biker shorts that hold your legs together for him when he only tugs them up to your knees. He hooks your trapped legs over his left shoulder, closest to your window.
Then he’s fiddling with himself, freeing his cock and fisting himself until he’s fully hard. He humps against you at first, using his pre-cum and your growing arousal to slick the way. Your whole body twitches when he rubs your clit, and he enjoys that reaction, so he does it a lot. You begin to feel a hollow ache in your cunt. Shame flushes your cheeks, realizing your body is learning to like him fucking you. Your mind hates it, your body tells you it’s not that bad, really. It can be good for you.
When he enters you more roughly than you expect, it knocks the air out of your lungs. “Take it,” he tells you, drawing back enough to pack a real punch the second time. You cry out and he laughs, like it’s funny hurting you. “That’s my good girl.”
You’re not a good girl. You’re not his slut, either. You hate the things he calls you.
“Fuck, you’re still so tight,” he continues—you’ve learned that’s a desirable thing, based on what he’s said before and the things you’ve heard kids say at school. You’re not sure why he says it like that, as if there’d be much loosening between ages eleven and thirteen. He’s only fucked you a few times; does he really think that much of his size?
It is significant, though, always managing to stretch you more than you think should be possible. Before he keeps going, he jostles you with his arms, saying your name until you look away from the window. “No period yet, right?” You shake your head.
He groans and resumes his raping, clearly pleased he doesn’t have to worry about pulling out. Your hips are slapping together crudely, too loud to keep ignoring—you watch his cock moving in and out of you, grotesquely large against your size. At least you don’t bleed anymore. Still, you feel each thrust rearranging your guts—it’s like you can feel him in your lungs, your throat, your teeth.
He’s everywhere, or maybe you’re nowhere, and maybe that’s what he’s doing: replacing you with him, fucking it out of you and filling you up until there’s nothing left to recognize as yourself.
Liam starts lifting your shirt, something he’s never done before. You don’t know why; you don’t have much to show him. You try to pry his hand away, but he’s stronger and now your sports bra is visible. He laughs, fucking you harder as he says, “Not like you need that, do you?”
Your cheeks are burning. It’s not enough for him to rape you—he has to humiliate you, too, make you feel totally powerless against him. “I have to,” you tell him, “it’s part of my uniform.”
He laughs again but leaves it, letting your shirt drop back down. He has to focus, anyway; his thrusts are getting more unpredictable, more urgent, so you know it’s almost done. “No tits,” he breathes, “serves you right. Killed Mom, this is what you get.”
Your heart stops, but he’s not paying attention to you. He’s just talking to himself, justifying his abuse, turning it into some kind of cosmic justice. Your mom had breast cancer, diagnosed stage three when she was in her second trimester. By the time you were born, it had metastasized. She delayed treatment so you could exist—something you had no control over, no choice in—and now you know how he feels about it. Your brother blames you.
“Oh, shut up,” he says, which is what makes you realize you’re crying. You hate that you always cry. “Shut the fuck up and take it, fucking slut.” You try your best.
He fills you with a loud groan, keeping his cock buried in you while he catches his breath. It’s only after he cums that he realizes the mess that would make. He makes you sit there while he shifts his upper body around, moving things around the backseat to find something to clean you up. The whole time, his softening cock is still in you. You want to die.
Eventually, he finds an extra shirt for Erin, one that disgustingly has Daddy’s Girl written across it in glitter. He doesn’t seem to find anything fucked up about that when he hands it to you. At least he’s finally out of you.
You sandwich the shirt between your battered bits and your bottoms, tugging them back on—it feels like you’re wearing a diaper, or maybe a giant pad. You don’t know what it’s like to wear a pad yet, but your friends have complained about it.
When you get home, Liam goes in first to distract Megan while you sneak past them and get a quick shower in. By the time you’re done, the pizza is cold.
5.
Eventually, it starts to feel normal. You think he likes it that way.
You think you’ve worked out the timing, too. A month and a half passes before the bathroom door creaks open while you’re in the shower. You thought you locked it, but you’re not that surprised Liam found a way around it. You are surprised he’s doing this now, with Megan making dinner down the hall.
He slips into the shower behind you, his clothes discarded on the floor. His hands rub your shoulders and you feel yourself relax into his touch, something that should disturb you. But you know he’ll like it, and he does: “That’s my girl. I’ve missed this.” Not you, but this, his access to your body. His wording isn’t lost on you.
After half a minute of massaging your back, his hands slip around to your front, cupping your budding breasts. They’ve been really sore recently, and even his light touch makes you wince, though of course he doesn’t see. He pinches your nipples and you have to bite your lip to keep from crying out, pushing back against him in a silent bid to make him leave your chest alone.
Instead, your bum comes into contact with his hard cock, earning you a chuckle. “That eager, are you?” he asks, hands now running down her sides. “I can take care of that.”
You’re shorter than him, so he has to bend his knees to get it inside you. One hand guides his cock, the other holds your lower stomach against him, pinning you there and keeping you upright even as your body tilts forward, soles lifting. When his knees unbend, you’re struggling to stay on your tiptoes, but he’s supporting you. Really, he has complete control of your body right now; you’re just along for the ride.
Using your hips as an anchor, Liam begins fucking you open, groaning already. He leans down to bite one of your ears, causing you to flinch away in surprise. His cock jerks inside you at that, as if reveling in your shock and inexperience. “Easy, girl.”
Your toes keep slipping on the shower floor, but he doesn’t care. Before long, he’s moved one of his hands to your shoulder, pulling you onto his cock harder, deeper. You keep whining, and he keeps telling you to be quiet, and you’re trying. He grunts in your ear, “Take it, take it for me, that’s it.”
You’re so wet, even showering aside. He’s sliding into you more easily than ever. Your clit is aching for attention—you’re barely aware of moving your own hand down there to touch yourself—and Liam compliments you all the while. Taking me so well, such a good girl.
It isn’t long before your core is molten lava, and then it’s spreading throughout your whole body, warming you and stirring you and making you wish he would never stop. Your cunt is clenching down on his cock over and over, drawing out the most primal sounds you’ve ever heard your brother make. He’s getting even rougher now, your skin slapping together so loudly you’re sure anyone near the bathroom could hear the sound of your rape over the roar of the shower. That’s how thoroughly he’s using you.
It’s starting to hurt more than it feels good when he finally finishes, and it occurs to you that at least the clean-up will be simple this time. You feel raw, gaping when he pulls out of you, like a piece of you is missing. Liam’s out of the shower almost immediately, drying himself off while he catches his breath. Like an afterthought, he sticks his head back in: “Oh, how are you feeling? Megan said you’re still feeling off.”
You’ve been sick the last three days in a row. You think it’s the flu, because Erin had it last week. Liam had it then, too; it’s clearly making its way through the house. “Fine,” you say, shutting the water off. As you expect, that ends the conversation; you don’t have the shower to muffle the sound anymore. Liam murmurs a good and is gone. The last of his cum circles the drain and you watch it go.
You could’ve been out of the bathroom in thirty seconds—with four people sharing one bathroom, you can dry off fast—but you give it another two minutes in case Megan saw Liam leave. With that extra time, you’re able to dress and towel off your hair, drying it enough that you could conceivably have taken your shower fifteen minutes ago, instead of at the exact time Liam was also in the bathroom.
All your cleverness is for nothing, though, because Megan watches you leave. She’s there in the doorway at the end of the hall, steam from the stove circling in the air behind her. Your heart drops, but she doesn’t look angry or betrayed or whatever you think someone who’s pretty sure their husband is fucking his kid sister would feel. Does she really not know? Does she not care? Or does she blame you, too? Maybe she thinks the whole thing was your idea.
“Five minutes until dinner,” she calls to you, and you nod. You keep standing there uselessly when she turns away, back toward the stove. Liam comes out of their room dressed, winking at you as he passes by. It makes you feel complicit. You suppose you are.
You do the math. Half of a month and a half: three weeks. Your grace period before the next time. It’s getting shorter, the interim. You don’t know how you’ll survive it when it’s every day. At least now, you know when it’s coming.