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“Come here.”
“Wait,” you say, “please, I didn’t… I mean—“
“Pipsqueak. Take a seat.” A pause. “I won’t ask again.”
It’s terrifying, how quickly punishment can become routine. How you live in a house with a man who considers this punishment.
You’re bare under the short skirt he’d put you in. To stop you from trying to escape, you’d thought, not that that held you back. It wasn’t until after—that he’d caught you, dragged you back to your prison, two bodies under one umbrella—that you’d understood.
There are rules to your new life here in Skyhaven. Take a seat. Walk to his bed, where he’s already lying down. Get in position: thighs on either side of his head, skirt draped gracefully over his face. You can take however long you want, but eventually, his patience will wear out. Mechanical arm wrapping around your waist, yanking you down. Locking you in place. Don’t touch the headboard. If you need something to hold on to, he says, you can grab his hair. His shoulders. Anything except reach around for his cock—this is a punishment, after all. Can’t have too much fun.
You were wrong, you think. It’s not that putting on his Colonel uniform makes him a different person. It’s when he leaves it on that’s the problem.
But how can you truly run from this man? How can you leave someone who was once your brother?
He’s mumbling something into your skin, inaudible. Covered by your skirt, but if he wasn’t, you know his eyes would be on your face. Maybe they are now, able to see through the gossamer material. Maybe that chip behind his ear lets him do that, too. You can’t hear what he’s saying, not that you’re in any position to focus, but it doesn’t matter. He tells it to you again later, once he’s fed you and washed you and dried your hair. Has you tucked into his side as he strokes reverent circles on your bare upper arm, like he can’t really believe you’re here.
“I was thinking about when we were young,” he says. “How short those skirts you used to wear were. How easy it would be to get under them.“
Uniform still on. That same crooning voice he used to use to lull you back to sleep after you had a nightmare. Now, this stranger wearing your brother’s face, with the taste of you still on his tongue, is the reason for your nightmares.
“I thought about it all the time,” he continues. “Knew exactly when, where, how I’d do it. Wanna hear?”
You don’t. You really, really don’t.
But this has never been about what you want. It’s about what you need, he always says. And he, who best knows your needs, continues to talk.
“It would be during dinner,” he says. Casual, a hint of laughter in his voice. Just recounting a story about his day. Wanna hear something funny, pipsqueak? “I’d drop something. My chopsticks, probably. Or a spoon. That part’s not important.“
You’d snapped your chopsticks, once, when you were a kid. Angry about something you don’t recall now. What you do remember is this: Caleb, gently scolding. Gran bought all this stuff with her own money, so we have to take good care of it.
How, you want to say, can that part not be important, gege?
“I’d duck under the tablecloth, then. The TV would be on. Gran’s watching the news. You’re picking at your food. And then…” He breaks off, swallows. You feel the way his throat bobs against the top of your head. “I’d get my head under that skirt of yours. Spread your legs, thread them over the chair’s armrests. Listen to the way you would swallow down all those adorable fuckin’ whimpers.“
He’s hard.
You could reach out. Your hands are free, no matter how much it might feel like the opposite. You might have never done this before, but you’re a fast learner—or, at least, you can be, when it counts. Wrap your hand around him. Both hands; he’s big, even through his pants. But then what?
It’s sick, the thought you have. That you could do it to your brother, but not this man. You know, too well, the way your brother laughs, cries. It wouldn’t be hard to figure out the way he moans, the way he’d look at you if he wanted you to speed up or slow down. To lean down and take him into your mouth. Swirl your tongue around the head of him, feel the way he’d fist his hand into your hair, guiding you along, that’s it, be good for gege—
It’s silent in his bedroom. When had he stopped talking?
“Oh,” he says finally, and there’s an unfamiliar tremor in his voice. “You like that. You’re thinking about it, aren’t you?”
You are, you are, you are. Real as a memory: his hands on your thighs, pressing so hard he’d leave bruises, your hands gripping your chopsticks, pasting a smile on your face for when Grandma inevitably looks your way. Are you all right, dear? You look flushed! I’m fine, Gran, just tired, that’s all. She’d look away, satisfied, and then you’d bite your tongue hard enough that you’d taste blood, salt overpowering the taste of your brother’s cooking, your brother still lapping at you, your hands in your brother’s hair, your orgasm at your brother’s hands, your brother crawling out from under the table, your brother returning to his chair, your brother wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Your brother looking at you. Only at you.
You realize too late: this is what your brother’s happiness looks like.