baby sisters don’t get to go on dates. don’t you know that by now? that’s not what they’re for. baby sisters get to make plans and spend two hours getting ready, only to be slammed against the bathroom door and have their prettiest dresses all but ripped off of their bodies. baby sisters get rough hands sliding up their legs and shredding their tights, leaving them in loose, tattered ribbons on their thighs.
“silly little girl, you know you don’t have to dress up for me. you know i’ll take you in your ratty sweats or your polar bear pjs, you know you don’t have to go to all this trouble.”
it’s a taunt. cause that’s another thing that baby sisters are for, isn’t that right? baby sisters are for taunting and teasing and mocking, for letting clever, playful fingers pull at their panties and slip between their legs, stroking sweetly in exactly the way that baby sisters like best.
“this was all for me, wasn’t it? something sweet and special for me to look at, right? you wouldn’t have done this for anyone else. no, not my baby sister.”
and you know what else baby sisters don’t get to do? baby sisters don’t get to say no. baby sisters don’t get to be mean and catty and caustic, don’t get to talk back, don’t get to shout and snap. baby sisters get to nod, with flushed cheeks and wet eyes, even while they pretend they’re not crying, even while they pretend that they’re not caught.
baby sisters get grabbed by the hips and hauled awkwardly over to the counter and bent over the sink. baby sisters get fucked like little dollies, all rag doll limbs and such shiny glistening eyes. baby sisters get their tangled yarn hair gripped and pulled until they make eye contact in the mirror, their glossy red lips bitten and torn.
“tell me, baby. tell me that it was all for me. tell me and maybe i’ll let you like it.”
baby sisters obey, they whisper the words into the mirror, trying to ignore the shame and the heat and the way their bodies are violated, the way they tingle and ache and want, so fucking badly. they get caught biting down on a whine, so they get fingers in their mouths, petting over their little pink tongues, making it impossible to stay silent.
baby sisters get loud eventually, with their gasps and sighs and whimpers, the way they moan when the pleasure gets to be too much, overwhelming and sharp, but not quite enough to break.
“come on, my sweet, silly girl, show me what happens when you try to lie to me. show me why i keep you here like this. show me why i keep that tight little cunt all to myself, baby, go on.”
baby sisters come like that, from the words, from the humiliation, from the way it feels to be caught lying, bent over the bathroom counter and fucked in their prettiest little going out dresses. they get filled like that too, with hot, panting voices moaning in their ears about how fucking sweet they feel like this while they pant and cry.
“aw, sweetheart, it’s not that bad, is it? here, tell you what. i’ll take you. i’ll take you to go meet him right now, i’ll tell him it’s my fault that you’re late.”
and baby sisters really should know better than to look up with hope in their eyes. they should definitely know better than to try to clean themselves up and right their rumpled panties and remove their shredded tights.
“no, no, honey. you stay just like that. with your mascara tears and your ripped up clothes and my cologne all over you, while you’re dripping down your thighs for me. you stay like that, and i’ll take you to him right now, sound good?”
baby sisters don’t answer that question. they storm from the bathroom into their own rooms, clicking their useless locks that have been picked and broken a thousand times before. they strip off their nice clothes, bundle themselves up in those ratty sweats from before, and send apologetic text messages about how something came up and maybe next time.
you know why?
cause baby sisters don’t get to go on dates.
