Absolute Power
Chapter 6: Family Movie Night
Movie night had rules, and they were nonnegotiable.
First, the popcorn. Catherine would have none of the microwave stuff; she made it old-school, in the battered pot that had survived two kitchens and caused one house fire. She’d heat the oil just to the edge of smoking, dump in the kernels, and shake the whole thing over the burner until the lid rattled with the fury of exploding corn. The smell saturated the house—salt and real butter. John could smell it from the hallway, cutting through the ghosts of laundry detergent and carpet shampoo. The scent was Pavlovian, his earliest memory of family camaraderie.
The second rule: all tech off except the screen. No phones, no tablets, not even the battered laptop in the family room that sometimes doubled as a homework station. Eric enforced this with the zeal of a true believer, as if the world might end if a single notification dinged during the opening credits. He moved through the room with a workman’s efficiency, shifting furniture to maximize the line of sight to the TV. Tara, the only other person in the house capable of heaving the recliner around, helped him.
The last rule—arguably the most important—was the ritual of choosing the movie. This was, as always, a source of agony and conflict, with each family member lobbying for their own agenda.
“Can we at least do something with a plot?” Tara called from the foot of the stairs, already in her pajamas. An outsized sweatshirt hanging off one shoulder, hanging low, begging the question of what else she had on underneath.
Eric, from the couch: “We’re not watching the documentary about the endangered owls again. I swear to God.”
Catherine entered with a bowl of popcorn so big it looked like a prop. “Just vote and get it over with. I’ve got a fruit pie in the oven. Let’s not spend the whole night fighting.”
John was already sprawled on the floor, back propped against the loveseat. “Let’s just do a Marvel one. It’s the path of least resistance.”
“Your brain is the path of least resistance,” Tara shot back, but she smiled as she said it. She flopped onto the recliner with the energy of someone collapsing at a finish line, limbs akimbo, hair still wet from a shower.
He noticed, with a jolt of satisfaction, that Tara was moving languidly tonight. Her usual tense grace had a tone of softness and even vulnerability. Maybe he’d overdone it with the massage; perhaps she wasn’t meant to be so relaxed. Either way, it was a reminder that he’d gotten inside her armor, even if only for a moment.
The staircase creaked, and Emily appeared at the landing, both arms overloaded with blankets and pillows. She maneuvered down the steps in awkward half-hops, the pile rising above her head. She was in her comfort uniform—an old sorority hoodie borrowed from Tara and the borderline indecent terry cloth shorts.
“Whoa, you planning to bivouac down here?” John called.
Emily stuck her tongue out at him. “The air conditioner is overdoing it now, so I brought spares.” She tossed a pillow at his head. “You’re welcome.”
He caught it, grinning, then watched as she started distributing the bedding around the room, setting up nests for each family member with methodical care. When she reached the loveseat, she hesitated, then glanced at him sidelong.
“Do you want to share, or…?” she said, a tone that asked, “Are we too old for this?”.
He shrugged, trying to seem casual. “I don’t mind if you don’t mind.”
She smiled—tight, nervous, but genuine—and settled onto the seat, tucking her legs up before pulling a blanket over both of them. He felt the weight of her thigh against his, the plush friction of her shorts. Even though they’d been closer, even naked together when they were younger, there was something impossibly intimate about this accidental, fully clothed touch.
The rest of the family set up: Eric and Catherine claimed the couch, while Tara splayed across the recliner, stretching out like a panther on a tree branch. Catherine ed out napkins for the popcorn, then clicked off the kitchen light. The room went shadowy, only the blue glow of the TV illuminating the faces around him.
“Let’s get this over with,” Tara announced, and John knew she’d already accepted defeat. She just wanted plausible deniability for when she enjoyed the movie.
Catherine pressed play, and the screen filled with the familiar Marvel logo, drums and strings swelling with manufactured emotion. The popcorn bowls circled, hands diving in and out with rapid-fire precision.
It was almost like it had always been. Almost.
Emily edged a little closer, pulling the blanket tighter around them both. The pressure of her body was a revelation—every inch of her pressed against him sent signals up his spine, short-circuiting the parts of his brain responsible for composure. He felt the warmth of her, the subtle movement of her ribs as she breathed, the way her knee knocked into his every time she shifted position. He tried to focus on the movie, on the explosions and witty banter, but it was like trying to relax against an electric fence.
Emily yawned and let her head fall onto his shoulder. The touch was light, but it sent a jolt through him that nearly made him spill his snack. He became hyperaware of every molecule of their , of the heat radiating through the blanket, of the slight tremble in his own hands.
He was getting hard. There was no point denying it. The more he tried to think about anything else, the worse it got. He adjusted his position, hoping the blanket would conceal the bulge in his shorts, but the movement made Emily nestle closer.
John forced himself to focus on the TV, on the thud of the soundtrack and the CGI mayhem. But every time he shifted, Emily moved with him, as if their bodies were magnetized. Her hand slid down from the edge of the blanket, brushing against his thigh, and stayed there, fingers curled in a loose half-fist.
He should have stopped himself.
The last rule of movie night—besides the popcorn, the voting, and the banning of all things fun—was that you didn’t ruin it for anyone else. If you got bored, you suffered in silence. If you needed a bathroom break, you waited for a lull in the plot. If you felt yourself getting hard next to your little sister, you took it as a sign to get up, leave the room, and pretend you had a leg cramp.
But John couldn’t move. Every cell in his body screamed Stay still, don’t draw attention, don’t break the spell. The blanket was thick, an ugly brown microfleece, but underneath it, Emily’s thigh burned against his.
He risked a glance around the room. Eric and Catherine were a model of marital inertia, collapsed together on the couch, both already halfway asleep. Eric’s hand, massive and scarred, lay limp over the armrest, the remote cradled in his palm like a sleeping pet. Catherine’s face was soft, lips parted, eyes glazed over with the glassy calm of someone actively tuning out the world.
Tara sprawled across her chair, attention glued to her phone. Occasionally, she would glance up at the screen, roll her eyes, and mutter a sarcastic aside to make clear she wasn’t enjoying any cheap thrills even though he knew she did. Nobody was paying attention to the loveseat. Nobody was watching John.
He shifted in place, careful not to jostle Emily. But she was already close—closer than he’d ever dared hope—her head tucked under his jaw, her hair fanned out across his chest. Her hand rested in her own lap, but every time she inhaled, her arm pressed firmer against his side.
He wondered, for a surreal second, if she could feel his pulse through her cheek. If she could sense the raw animal panic of his heartbeat, thundering in double-time.
He needed to make sure she wouldn’t notice, wouldn’t react, wouldn’t make a scene. He thought about the sensation—the mental trick he’d used on her in the kitchen, the laundry room, the basement. The way it felt like a static charge behind his eyes, a silent click as his will bent someone else’s actions. He summoned the feeling, focused it on Emily, sent a single, precise command through the soft tissue of their proximity:
You won’t notice anything out of the ordinary.
The charge left him in a dizzy rush, and he felt her exhale, her body softening, her shoulder slumping just a bit more into his.
His hand drifted to her thigh, fingers landing gently, as if testing the surface of a live wire. The was electric. He could feel the tremor in his own hand, the faintest quiver as he flexed his grip.
Emily didn’t flinch. She didn’t even react. Her eyes stayed fixed on the TV, glassy and unfocused, but her body welcomed the touch, her knees tilting slightly to let his hand rest fully against her.
He curled his palm around her thigh, feeling the muscle tense and then relax under his grip. He traced a slow line down toward her knee, then back up again, each a little bolder, a little more deliberate. He watched her face for any sign of discomfort or surprise, but there was none—just the gentle slope of her jaw, the perfect curve of her cheek resting against his shoulder.
He let his fingers wander higher, exploring the delicate skin of her inner thigh. The shorts she wore were old, the fabric thin from years of use, and he could feel the heat of her through the cotton. He pressed a little further, letting his pinky slip under the leg opening, just a millimeter, just to see what would happen.
Emily shifted, her back arching imperceptibly. She pressed her cheek tighter against his chest, and her legs parted by a fraction of an inch. Her breathing deepened, but she didn’t make a sound.
John’s heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst. He couldn’t believe she was letting him do this. He couldn’t believe he was doing this in the middle of family night.
On the TV, a superhero was delivering a rousing speech about courage and destiny. It felt like an accusation, a parody of the real action happening under the blanket.
He let his hand creep higher, further sliding up the inside of her thigh, inch by slow inch. His fingers trembled, but he forced them steady, focused every ounce of his will on making the next move. The tips of his fingers grazed the edge of her panties—soft, probably with a cartoon print—and he felt a jolt of lust so sharp it almost made him moan.
He paused again, waiting for her to react. She didn’t.
Her breath hitched, just once, and her legs opened a little more. He slid his hand all the way up, cupping her gently, fingers tracing the outline of her through the fabric.
She was warm. And damp.
The realization hit him like a punch in the chest. He felt the wetness through the cotton, the heat radiating from her. She was aroused. His sister was wet for him. He almost pulled away in terror, but the pressure of her thighs, the subtle grind of her hips against his hand, kept him locked in place.
He felt the urge to push her further. To see how much he could get away with. He focused the power again, sent another command through the blankness of her gaze:
You want this. You need it.
He watched her body respond. Her head rolled back, exposing the pale line of her throat. Her lips parted, and she let out a soft, involuntary whimper, barely audible over the movie’s soundtrack.
He pressed his hand firmer against her, fingers curling into her siftness. She bucked against him, just a little, just enough to make the blanket shift and threaten exposure. He clamped his arm around her waist, holding her steady, then let his middle finger slip beneath the elastic of her panties.
The skin there was soft, slick with her arousal. He traced a tentative line along her slit, the tip of his finger exploring the wetness, the texture. She shuddered, her breath coming faster, her nails digging into his forearm.
He was so hard it hurt. He let his finger slide lightly along her, back and forth, learning the curve of her with each stroke. He pressed a little deeper, finding the entrance to her and circling it gently.
She made another sound, louder this time—a gasp, or a moan, or something between the two. The sound was enough to snap him back to reality.
Catherine’s head whipped around from the couch. Her eyes landed on the loveseat, squinting through the low light. “Everything okay over there?” she asked, voice thick with sleep.
John’s hand froze. Emily, in his arms, went completely limp, her head lolling against his chest, her breathing shallow and ragged.
“Yeah,” he croaked, trying to keep his voice steady. “She just fell asleep on me. Sorry.”
Catherine stared for a long moment, suspicion flickering across her face, but she seemed satisfied with the answer. “Keep it down, okay? Some of us are trying to watch.”
“Sorry,” he repeated, voice barely above a whisper.
He looked down at Emily. Her eyes were half-lidded, her face flushed and glistening with sweat. She didn’t look up at him, didn’t say a word. But she curled tighter into his body, her legs still parted, her hips still tilted toward his.
He felt her pulse against his hand, a steady, urgent beat. But for the next few minutes, he didn’t dare move.
Catherine’s eyes eventually glazed over again, and Eric let out a deep, rumbling snore that reset the room’s energy. On the screen, the superhero swung a hammer at a god, or maybe the other way around; John couldn’t make himself care. All his attention had collapsed to the six square inches beneath the blanket, where Emily’s skin burned under his touch.
He flexed his hand, waiting for the pins and needles of panic to fade, then let it rest lightly on her thigh again. She didn’t move. In fact, she seemed more relaxed than before, her breath slow and even, her weight pressing him into the side of the loveseat. For a while, he just left it there, savoring the heat and softness, his own erection throbbing against the tension of the blanket.
Eventually, curiosity overcame caution. He wanted to know how far he could go. He wanted to know what she would do, what she would let him do, if she were even truly conscious of any of it. He focused again, calling up the familiar charge behind his eyes, this time aiming for precision:
“No matter what happens, you will stay silent. You will not react in any way that will draw attention.”
He sent it, then waited for the shiver to ripple through her body, the subtle rearrangement of her posture as the suggestion took hold. He put his hand around her slender shoulders this time and then down the waistband of her shorts at a convenient angle for penetrating her. He let his fingers slip under the fabric, his palm tracing the soft, bare skin beneath. She didn’t flinch; if anything, she lifted her hip just a little, granting him easier access.
He moved slowly, mapping every contour. His index finger trailed along the crease where thigh met pelvis, the delicate place where her body was most vulnerable. He found her slit, slippery and flushed, and traced it up and down, barely grazing the surface. She tensed, a tremor running the length of her body, but she didn’t make a sound.
He pressed a little harder, parting her folds, searching for the places that would make her twitch, make her squirm. He found the nub of her clit, swollen and slick, and tickled it with the gentlest pressure, barely more than a whisper. Emily inhaled sharply, her nails digging into the fabric of his shirt, her head burrowing deeper into his chest.
On the TV, a building exploded. The room was briefly illuminated by the flash, casting their shadows on the wall, but nobody looked. Not even Tara, lost to the infinite scroll of her phone.
He stroked her, slow and steady, until he felt her hips start to move in rhythm with his hand. She rocked against him, tiny, almost invisible motions, but he felt them all. He slid a finger lower, finding her entrance, and pushed inside, just the tip at first, then deeper as her body opened to him. She was hot, the muscles spasming around his finger with each pulse of her heartbeat.
Her leg trembled first—a faint vibration against his thigh that he might have missed if he hadn’t been so acutely focused on her body. When he curled his finger inside her, finding that rough, swollen spot, he felt her inner walls clench around him. Her pulse quickened, beating against his fingertip like a trapped bird. Her face flushed crimson, spreading down her neck to the hollow of her throat. He watched, transfixed, as her lips parted, forming a perfect, silent O. Her eyes, half-lidded and unfocused, rolled back slightly.
She arched against him, her spine taut, and came. The muscles in her stomach tensed visibly beneath her shirt. Her thighs locked around his wrist with surprising strength, trapping his hand against her core as it flooded with warmth. He felt each wave pulse through her—first a violent spasm, then a fluttering contraction that seemed to pull at his finger. Her wetness seeped between his knuckles, soaking into the fabric around them. A thin line of saliva escaped the corner of her slack mouth, catching the blue light from the television as it trailed down her chin.
After her muscles quivered and jerked from the aftershocks, Emily relaxed and snuggled back against Eric. Her body released his hand, and he withdrew, slowly, careful not to make a scene. Her panties clung wetly to his fingers. Before he could think better of it, he brought his index finger to his lips and tasted. Salt and copper and something else—musky and alive, like warm rain on hot pavement. His pulse quickened at this new intimacy. He wiped the rest on the inside of the blanket, heart hammering, then looked down at her face, searching for any sign of shame, confusion, or awareness of what had just happened.
She looked up at him, eyes glassy, pupils blown wide. Her lips were parted, the line of drool at the corner of her mouth. Emily blinked slowly, once, twice, as if trying to focus. Her body felt heavy and strange, as if she’d been underwater for too long. A warm, liquid sensation pulsed through her lower belly, unfamiliar and intense. She couldn’t place it—this trembling in her thighs, her clothes sticking to her inexplicably sweaty body.
“You okay, Em?” John’s voice came from somewhere above her, gentle and concerned.
She tried to answer, but her mouth felt thick and clumsy. The room swam back into focus—the TV’s blue glow, the familiar shapes of her family stirring as credits rolled. When had the movie ended? She couldn’t the last half hour at all, just fragments of sensation that didn’t quite connect.
“Mmm?” was all she managed, pressing her face harder into John’s shoulder. He smelled like laundry detergent and something deeper with a bite, something that made her stomach flip in a way she didn’t understand.
“Movie’s over, sleepyhead,” Catherine said from the couch, stretching with a yawn. “Time for bed.”
Eric was already standing, ts popping as he reached for the remote. “That’s what happens when you stay up past ten,” he teased, but his voice held only warmth.
Emily tried to sit up, but her limbs felt disconnected, heavy with something more than sleep. The blanket slipped, and cool air hit her thighs, making her shiver. Why was she so sensitive? Every nerve felt exposed, raw.
“Here,” John said, shifting carefully. “Let me help you up.”
His arm came around her waist, and she leaned into it without thinking. Standing made her dizzy—a pleasant, a swooping sensation that started in her chest and spiraled downward. Her legs shook.
“Someone’s really out of it,” Tara observed from her chair, already folding blankets with practiced efficiency. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Just tired,” Emily mumbled, though that didn’t explain the strange ache between her legs or the way her skin felt warm and tingly. She pressed her thighs together and felt wetness there, confusing and mortifying. Had she...? No. That was impossible.
John’s hand stayed firm at her waist, steadying her. “Come on, I’ll walk you up.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. Each step felt unsteady, her body hypersensitive to every movement. The fabric of her shorts rubbed against her in ways that made her breath catch. What was wrong with her?
“Night, everyone,” John called over his shoulder as they reached the stairs.
A chorus of goodnights followed them up. Emily gripped the banister, concentrating on each step. John stayed close, his presence both comforting and somehow unsettling in a way she couldn’t define.