"Like a Sister" Except when she isn't

[taoschild]

I read a story here about someone's sister who grew stronger than her big brother. That motivated me to write my own (about the sister's friend Andie who grows stronger than her "big brother" -- Kevin). Lot's of humor and a real story here rather than just sex scene after sex scene. I hope you guys like it. Here is a little section from Chapter 5 that I'll expand here if people like it.  Here is the link to pre-order on Amazon - it's due out March 24th: You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login

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"Mother of sweet Jesus. Take me to Avery's for some fish," she chuckles.

I groan. "Avery's? That place still serves ranch as a beverage. That can't be on your healthy food buffet."

We always hit Chinneville a few times every summer. It's forty-five minutes along a winding lakeshore road to a tourist trap with sticky sidewalks, swarms of kids in flip-flops, and the smell of waffle cones and sunscreen baked into the air.

"Also," I add, "it's like forty-five minutes away."

"Exactly," she says, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. The late sun catches the copper in her hair, and the flex of muscles in her arm. I hate that I notice.

"Perfect distance for a mini road trip. You love those."

"Like a hole in my head," I say, the words flat and practiced, the tone of a man who hasn't felt anything close to alive in three years. "I also enjoy cold pasta leftovers, a good book when I can actually focus, writing maybe twice a decade if the stars align, and silence. Real silence. That's the whole dream now."

She crosses her arms. The motion should be nothing. Nothing more than a casual punctuation mark in conversation.

Instead, it lands like a sledgehammer wrapped in silk.

Her thin, sun-faded T-shirt rides up half an inch, and suddenly I'm staring at a carved eight-pack that looks laser-etched under golden skin. There hard, brick-like, and separated by deep gutters that catch shadow even in the late-afternoon light. Each abdominal ridge is thick enough to hook a fingertip under. The obliques slash down in brutal diagonals toward hipbones that could probably dent sheet metal.

My throat closes. My eyes jerk away like they've been slapped.

Trees. Very interesting bark texture today.

Sky. Classic blue. Ten out of ten.

Clouds doing... cloud things. Bravo.

But biology is a traitor. My gaze drags itself back the way iron filings crawl toward a magnet.

"Okay, Mr. occasional Author," she says. Her voice drops into that low, velvet-teasing register that used to end every argument before it began. "How about we make this interesting?"

I narrow my eyes, already tasting the trap. "Define interesting."

"Rematch." She lets the word hang—slow, thick, deliberate.

I blink. "Rematch?"

Her grin splits wide, predatory, all canines and certainty. "From back when we were little. Wrestling.. You, me, five seconds. Winner choses dinner. And everything that comes after."

My stomach doesn't flip. It's more of a molten-drop straight to the center of the earth. It's the kind of hunger that lives in the hindbrain and makes my pulse hammer in places I've tried to ignore for years.
Because the fantasy arrives fully formed and uninvited that is totally inappropriate for a friend who is more like a sister:

Her hands clamping around my wrists like industrial shackles. My back hitting the sand. Jesus Christ, those arms corded and swelling as she pins me without apparent effort. Biceps peaking into hard, softball-sized mounds, the split between long and short head razor-sharp even through fabric. Veins like blue rivers snaking over the surface, thickening every time she squeezes just a fraction harder. Lats spreading like wings under the shirt, pulling the cotton so taut I can count the individual muscle fibers through it.

And her thighs. Christ. The thought of those legs scissoring around my ribs, squeezing just enough to make breathing a privilege she decides whether I keep—

I swallow. Hard.

Back when we were young, I made the rules. If Nancy or Andie wanted to override my summer veto, they had five seconds to escape me on the pier. I was fast. Lean. Basketball + hurdles = quick spins, hip throws, easy pins. King of the dock. Teenage arrogance in board shorts and zero body fat.

That was then.

Now she's standing three feet away wearing a T-shirt that is visibly losing its fight against her upper body. The sleeves are stretched into thin rings around peaks of deltoid that look carved from warm granite. When she reached for the grocery bags earlier, she simply gathered four of them and carried them up the steps like they were envelopes. I watched, helpless, as thick, ropey veins tracked across the backs of her forearms and disappeared under the sleeve. She set the bags down without a single extra breath.

I've spent the last ten minutes trying not to stare at the way her lats flare when she shrugs, at the deep horseshoe carve of her triceps when she pushes her hair back, at the sheer, relaxed density of her thighs pressing against the denim of her shorts.

I want to feel it. I want to feel what it's like when all that strength stops playing nice.

I also want my vertebrae to remain in their current configuration.

"Come on," she says, nodding toward the open patch of sand between the cabin and the lake. "Don't be a coward. What happened to five-second Kev?"

She knows. Of course, she damn well knows.

The way she's looking at me right now, with her head tilted, one eyebrow arched, biceps casually flexing as she crosses her arms under her chest, is pure cruelty. I can already feel the trap closing. Her shirt rides higher; another inch of shredded midsection flashes like a warning shot. Her forearms twist just enough to make the veins jump again.

And worse, I think I want to let her.  I can already feel the heat of her body weight pressing me down, the slow, inevitable tightening of muscles I have no hope of resisting, the moment she decides five seconds is far too generous and simply keeps going until I tap, gasp, or beg.

I want to tap.

I want to beg.

"He grew up," I say. "Got smarter and wiser."

She laughs low and dark before taking a slow step closer

Yep, pure, calculated cruelty.

"Smarter?" The word drips amusement. "Or just scared of finding out how easily I can fold you in half now?"

Her right arm relaxes, then almost lazily curls upward into a single-arm flex. The biceps doesn't peak. It erupts, splitting into two distinct heads. The separation is so deep I could lose a fingertip in it. The vein that runs along the outer edge throbs once, visibly, as though it knows I'm watching.

She holds the flex. Doesn't shake it for show. Doesn't need to. It simply exists. My mouth goes dry.

"Five seconds," she murmurs, voice gone husky. "If you can last that long without tapping, you win. If you can't..."

She lets the sentence die.

My cock gives an involuntary twitch at the casual brutality of the sentence. We both already know how this ends. And God help me, I'm already walking toward the sand.

[taoschild]

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[taoschild]

Like a Sister: Except When She's Not is out today on Amazon. You are not allowed to view links. Register or Login Apple books and Smashwords will follow later this evening

A grin spreads across her face. "Shoes off," she orders, already stepping out of her own sandals. "Let's see if you can still last five seconds against these arms."

I kick my shoes away. My heart is hammering in my throat.

"Rules same as always?" I ask, trying to sound calm.

"Same as always."

"Deal."

We circle each other in the sand like it's the Nostalgia Olympics. She moves low, coiled, and balanced. There is none of that loose,gangly teenage energy I used to tease out of her. This is a grown woman who has spent years turning her body into a weapon. Her delts roll under smooth skin like tectonic plates; her quads flex visibly even through the loose fabric of her shorts. Her grin says she knows exactly what the sight of her is doing to my ego, and to everything south of it. "Still think you can take me?" she asks, almost sweetly.

"I know I can," I lie with the kind of confidence only delusion and can buy.

She snorts, shifting her weight onto her back foot. The movement makes her entire core ripple with her obliques carving sharp lines. Meanwhile, I'm standing here realizing my best shape was probably junior-college basketball Kevin, not... whatever soft, office-chair version I've become.

I push the thought away. Search for an opening.

"Whenever you're ready, baby," she purrs. "Clock starts when we touch."

Touch. The word hits me like a live wire. Instantly my brain flips the switch and floods me with dirty little highlight reels: My palms sliding over warm, sweat-slick skin stretched drum-tight across zero-give muscle. Her biceps snapping into hard, veined peaks the second I try to yank her down. The shocking, erotic nothingness when I expect softness and find only dense, living steel instead. The low, filthy hum she'll make in her throat when she feels my cock-throbbing when I realize that I'm not moving her until she fucking allows it.

And that cruel, perfect contrast of her soft breasts and curving hips pressed against a body built like a goddamn weapon. All of it flashes through my head in half a second.

I shake the thought and lunge first because pride is a hell of a drug, and muscle memory is apparently immortal. I aim low, wrapping my arms around her waist the way I used to when she was all coltish limbs and zero core strength. Back then she'd giggle and topple like a Jenga tower built by a drunk toddler. Easy win. King of the pier, etc.

Except now she doesn't budge

At all.

It's like hitting a statue made of warm, laughing steel. A statue of iron built by someone with a muscle fetish. My forearms sink maybe half an inch into the dense, unyielding wall of her obliques before they meet immovable resistance. And she just... stands there smiling. One eyebrow arched in that "oh, honey" way that makes my knees want to give up on life. And because the universe has a sick sense of humor and because I'm apparently cursed, my right hand slips... horribly, traitorously, —and, okay, fine, gloriously, because let's face it, I'm a boy—and I grab her breast.

Time does that cinematic slow-motion thing.

Her pecs twitch under the contact. Yes, pecs, because the woman has built herself a goddamn shelf and the thin cotton of her tee does nothing to hide how full, firm, and unfairly perfect the handful feels. The muscle beneath is so hard it feels almost ceramic, yet the overlying breast is still soft enough to yield just a fraction before pushing back with arrogant, feminine authority.

My brain short-circuits into a loop of oh god oh god don't squeeze don't squeeze DO squeeze wait no abort abort.

Time stops again for me.

Not for her.

Instead she pivots as gracefully as a dancer who also happens to be a black belt in gravity defiance, snags my left wrist in a grip that feels like warm iron manacles, hooks her thick, sculpted leg behind mine, and suddenly the world flips one hundred and eighty degrees.

I'm suddenly weightless.

Then whump.

I'm flat on my back in the sand, staring up at the fading sky like it personally betrayed me. Sand in my hair. Sand in my shirt. Sand in places that have never previously hosted sand and are now very aware of how vulnerable they feel.

[GrowingBull89]

Already bought it and read it, great work again!

[taoschild]

Thank you, GrowingBull. It's a long book -- you must be a speed reader. If you have a chance can you please give it a quick review.

[GrowingBull89]

It was just an enjoyable read, I think I've bought 5 of yours now 🤣

[taoschild]

Thanks, Growingbull - if you get a chance to review it quickly where you bought the book, I'd be in your debt.

[phil123]

I hope for more

[taoschild]

Andie drops down on top of me like a conqueror claiming her throne, thick, powerful thighs spreading wide to straddle my hips with casual, devastating authority. The moment her weight settles, the dense muscle of her quads and hamstrings clamp around me like warm steel cables, pinning my pelvis helplessly to the mat. My cock surges instantly, thick and traitorously hard, straining painfully against the thin fabric of my shorts as if it's trying to salute the woman who just destroyed me.

Pinned.

Utterly. Completely at the mercy of her body.

My lungs stall. My brain stalls. My heart considers fleeing into the woods and starting a new life. All I can focus on is the overwhelming, intoxicating presence of her strength.

Her hair tumbles forward like a dark curtain, sealing us in our own private bubble of heat. Up close she smells like everything sinful: salt water, coconut oil, clean sweat, and that stupid vanilla-almond shampoo she's used since high school that now hits me like an aphrodisiac.

Her biceps bulge right in my line of sight as if proud of their conquest. Her forearms are corded ropes of muscle, veins tracing delicate blue rivers over the tan skin. And her chest... It hovers just inches above mine, full and heavy, rising and falling with slow, amused breaths that ghost warm across my lips. But it's not the soft swell of her breasts that's destroying me. It's the thick, armor-like pectoral muscle underneath, dense and powerful, twitching faintly under the thin layer of feminine softness as she breathes.

My hand is still on her breast, fingers splayed wide from that earlier slip, palm cupping the firm, heated weight. I can feel the solid slab of muscle beneath the yielding flesh, hot and alive, flexing subtly against my touch like it's mocking my weakness. Every time she inhales, that powerful chest swells, pushing my fingers apart, reminding me exactly how strong she is. How much raw power is contained in this gorgeous, athletic body currently dominating me.

And worse, some deeply traitorous part of me considers squeezing. I register the thought in a panicked half-second before self-preservation slams in. My eyes blow wide. I rip my hand away like I've been burned, the motion so abrupt it nearly bucks her off me.

My eyes go wide. I yank my hand back like I just discovered a rattlesnake, nearly launching her off me in the process.
She just laughs and tightens her grip on my shoulders, keeping me exactly where she wants me. One eyebrow lifts in amused curiosity rather than offense.

"I win," she purrs, voice husky with satisfaction. "You're taking me to dinner."

It takes me several long, humiliating seconds for my brain to reboot and remember how to form words. My face is burning. My dick is so hard it hurts, and I'm praying she can't feel the way it's pulsing desperately against her.


"It was more than five seconds," I manage, relief flooding through me at some excuse, weak though it is.

"Was not!" She exclaims, cheeks warming, that spark in her eyes daring me.

"Was too."

"Was not."

"Was too."

We volley back and forth, voices fraying into laughter, until she cuts me off with that same slow, predatory half-grin she used to flash right before she'd snatch Nancy's towel and sprint away. Only now, that towel is me.

"And that wasn't the deal anyway, Mister," she says, leaning closer until her lips are inches from mine, her powerful chest brushing deliberately against my own with every breath. "You're an author. Words matter. The deal was you had to pin me in five seconds." She lets the silence stretch, heavy and charged, her thighs flexing around my hips in a slow, deliberate squeeze that drags a choked sound from my throat.

"Clearly," she whispers, eyes flicking down to where my cock is blatantly tenting my shorts, "that did not happen."

"You didn't say that," I whine, even though at this point I've already accepted my fate. I'm just arguing to get a rise out of her. Got to take any victory I can, even if it's a small one.

She tilts her head and grins. "You don't really want to argue with the woman who just folded you like warm laundry, do you?"

[taoschild]

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The sun dips lower, turning the whole beach into a haze of amber and heat, but nothing feels warmer, or more dangerous, than the woman still pinning me down like I weigh nothing.

Her thighs flex again, slower this time. God, it's so deliberate. I feel the thick inner muscles rolling in a wave that drags right along the underside of my cock through my shorts. The sensation is obscene. Wet heat from her skin, the faint salt-and-sweat scent of her, the strength that just proved she could break me if she wanted to. My hips twitch upward without permission, seeking more, and the movement only presses me harder against her.

Her eyes stay locked on mine, that teasing half-smile deepening as she feels every involuntary pulse. She doesn't pull away. If anything, she leans in a fraction closer, forearms still braced, her breasts hovering just above my chest so I can feel the heat radiating off her. The thin sports bra she's wearing does almost nothing to hide how her nipples have tightened. I'm not sure whether from the cooling air or from the power trip, and I don't care. I just know I'm drowning in it.

"You're shaking," she whispers, voice low and intimate, like we're sharing a secret the ocean isn't allowed to hear. One hand lifts, and her fingertips brush a stray lock of hair off my forehead with shocking gentleness. The contrast wrecks me. Her tender touch right after she manhandled me into the sand.

"All that big talk earlier... and now look at you. Breathing heavy because your 'little sister' just pinned you and made you tap."

The word sister lands like a spark on gasoline. Shame floods hot through my veins, mixing with the arousal until I can't tell which is stronger. She's not my sister. She's never been. But we've joked about it for years—Nancy's best friend, the one who always had my back, the one I was never, ever supposed to see like this. Strong. Dominant. Stunning. The kind of woman who could wreck me in every possible way and make me thank her for it.

"I—" My voice cracks. I swallow hard. "We shouldn't—"

"Shh." She cuts me off with another slow, rolling squeeze of her thighs, this one tighter, more possessive. The heavy muscle of her quads compresses around my hips, trapping my erection even more firmly against her core. I can feel the damp heat of her through both layers of fabric now, and the realization that she's getting off on this too nearly makes me come on the spot. "I think we should."

Her free hand slides down my chest, nails grazing lightly over my skin until her palm rests just above the waistband of my shorts. Not touching. Not yet. Just hovering there like a promise.

It's like she knows precisely how much this is undoing me.

"Go, to Avery's," she says through a chuckle that confirms my theory.

I should roll away. I should crack a joke, throw out some biting sarcasm, do literally anything to shatter this charged silence and claw back a shred of dignity. But for one long, suspended heartbeat, I can't move. For the first time since Nancy died, I feel something raw and alive instead of numb. It's something hot, humiliating, and dangerously addictive. Her eyes flick down between us, lingering openly on the obvious, aching bulge tenting my shorts, then back up to my burning face. The corner of her mouth curves higher.

"Okay..." I rasp, voice rough and far too small. "Avery's it is."

She laughs softly in a light, teasing sound that hits like a memory I didn't know I needed. Her arms don't move, but I feel the subtle increase in pressure through her palms, a wordless reminder: next time I won't be this gentle.

"Good boy," she murmurs, voice husky. Her thighs give another slow, teasing squeeze that is stronger this time, deliberately dragging the thickest part of her quad across my straining length. The friction pulls a choked groan from my throat before I can swallow it.

She doesn't laugh at the sound. She savors it. Her pupils darken as she watches my face, drinking in every flicker of desperate arousal I'm failing miserably to hide.

"But don't think you're off the hook," she continues, voice warm with victory. "Rematch rules apply. And I'm keeping score."