Absolute Power
Chapter 9: Conquering Tara
Emily woke in the same clothes from last night, a warm heaviness lingering in her muscles. Flashes returned: John looking down at her, eyes black with hunger. She swallowed against her sore throat.
She should feel violated, traumatized—but didn’t, not exactly. Was that truly her, or just another thing John had changed inside her head? The line between her feelings and his influence had blurred beyond recognition.
Eyes closed, she reached into the darkness behind her eyelids. A soft humming pulsed at the base of her skull that hadn’t existed yesterday—like the buzz of the old window unit in the guest bedroom, but internal. As she focused on it, the sensation suddenly sharpened into awareness: John, two rooms away across the hallway. Her breath caught. She could feel his presence, flickery like a radio station, just out of range.
She wondered if he could sense her, too. Probably. The idea should have scared her more than it did.
She probed at the connection, just a little. She gasped softly as images flickered through her mind—not her memories but fragments of John’s dream. He was still asleep, his consciousness hazy and unfocused, but the visions were vivid: her face tilted up from below, lips parted, eyes wide with something between fear and fascination. His dream-sensations washed over her too—his rush of power mingled with unexpected tenderness, the way her mouth had felt soft and wet against him. Heat flooded her cheeks. She pressed her face against the pillow, confused by the small laugh that escaped her.
She sensed his intentions. He’d try to push her again today. The thought made her stomach flutter with something that wasn’t quite fear. Then a realization struck her like a flaring match—his connection wasn’t one-way. She focused on the link between them, feeling his sleeping consciousness, and made a decision. She closed her eyes and pictured herself on her knees before him, but this time, she controlled the fantasy. In her mind, she took him into her mouth—mimicking a technique she’d heard a girlfriend describe. Through their connection, she felt his body respond: breath catching, sheets rustling as his muscles tensed, heart suddenly racing. Power surged through her as she added details for his benefit—the heft of him in her mouth, feigning innocence while her tongue worked deliberately. For the first time since this began, she wasn’t just receiving his will; she was projecting her own.
A tiny smile formed as she sensed the balance of power tilting. He thought he controlled her, but she could make him squirm with just her imagination. She might have continued the experiment, seeing how far she could push him, but a crash of pans from downstairs broke her concentration. The house was waking up around her—water pipes knocking, floorboards sighing under footsteps. Through their connection, she felt John’s consciousness recede as he slipped out of bed. He’d be downstairs before her, probably already forgetting his dreams.
She swung her legs over the bed and pulled on a hoodie she’d stolen from her dad, faded navy with MIT across the chest. The sleeves dangled past her fingertips, hem barely covering her shorts. Perfect. The smell of sausages drifted upstairs as she studied herself in the mirror. She looked the same, but something had shifted behind her eyes. “Boyfriend practice,” he’d called it. Two could play that game.
Her stomach growled, a hollow ache that felt conspicuously normal compared to everything else. She padded toward the stairs, pausing at the landing to listen to the sounds below—cabinet doors opening and closing, pancake batter sizzling, Tara’s voice drifting upward. Emily traced the banister with her fingertips. The connection with John hummed like a secret weapon. She might be his puppet in some ways, but puppets could still tangle their strings.
In the kitchen, cooking pancake batter mingled with the scent of vanilla extract. Catherine stood at the stove, hair clipped up with loose honey-blonde strands framing her face, somehow making even her faded weekend t-shirt look elegant. She wielded a spatula against black-edged pancakes, moving with that unconscious grace Emily had always wished she’d inherited. Tara perched at the island in spandex shorts, one leg tucked beneath her, explaining the nuances of a recent city council decision with bright-eyed enthusiasm. Eric nodded between bites, leaning forward slightly to catch her points about affordable housing. His eyes brightened whenever she mentioned data points, the engineer in him appreciating her thoroughness despite his reservations about government overreach.
John sat at the far end of the island, hunched over his phone and picking a syrupy breakfast remnant. He looked even worse than he had the night before—shadows under his eyes, hair mashed flat on one side.
Emily leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest, watching the familiar morning chaos unfold. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, catching John’s profile at the counter. Her stomach fluttered—half nerves, half something else. The connection between them hummed like a live wire, but she wondered uncertainly whether she was truly sensing his thoughts or just imagining what he might be feeling.
She tested the link, just to see. She imagined herself alone in her bedroom, curtains drawn, afternoon sun filtering through in dusty beams. In her mind, she slowly unbuttoned her pajama top, fingers lingering at each button. John paused mid-chew. His eyes found hers across the kitchen island, his expression unchanged except for a slight dilation of his pupils. For a split second, Emily saw her fantasy through his eyes: her fingers trailing down bare stomach, the way her breath caught when she touched herself. He shifted awkwardly and hid his erection in the waistband of his shorts. Emily smiled mischievously at him.
“Morning, Em,” Catherine called, flipping a pancake onto the growing stack with a soft thwack. “Sleep okay?”
Emily stretched, arms reaching toward the ceiling. “Like a rock,” she said, using her petite frame to her advantage as she squeezed past John for the orange juice, tracing a line across the back of his neck with her finger. He jerked at the touch, knocking the fruit bowl. “Not here,” he whispered, steadying an apple. “What not here?” she whispered back, giving him an innocent smile.
Eric set down his mug with a sigh. “Progress at the speed of government,” he intoned, giving Tara the Dad Stare. She met his gaze directly. “Dad, as opposed to the speed things are running now? Zero miles per hour.” She tapped her screen, scrolling through photos of the proposed community garden. “It’s not just about gentrification. They’re actually listening to the youth council this time.” Catherine, midway through rescuing another pancake from the griddle, caught the ion in her daughter’s voice and Eric’s subtle eye-roll. “That’s fascinating, honey,” she offered with diplomatic neutrality, turning her full attention to assembling plates.
The syrup bottle sat by John’s plate. “Can you that?” she asked, keeping her voice casual.
As he handed it over, their fingers brushed. A jolt of electricity shot through their connection, the effect of her touch on him boomeranging back to her through it. The corner of her mouth twitched upward, and for a moment, it felt like they were the only two people in the room.
She poured syrup over her pancakes, watching a drop slide down the bottle’s side. She caught it with her finger and licked it clean slowly and deliberately. John blushed, his phone slipped from his hand, and clattered against the plate resting the syrup.
Tara looked up from her own breakfast. “Smooth move, John.”
“Just tired,” he muttered, picking it up with a napkin.
Emily cut into her pancake. She took a bite. “Mom, these are really good.” She gave a long, suggestive moan of enjoyment that made Tara glare and John’s blush deepen.
Catherine smiled over her shoulder. “At least someone appreciates me.”
“It’s just syrup hiding the burnt edges,” Tara said, scrolling through her phone.
“Sometimes that’s all you need,” Emily replied, focusing on her plate.
Under the table, Emily found John’s ankle with her foot. She watched his face as she made —the slight widening of his eyes, the momentary freeze in his chewing. She traced a line up his shin, feeling his growing desperation and arousal. “Settle down,” he pushed through their connection. “Stop, or we’ll get caught,” and she retreated against her will, unable to continue the game. She stuck her tongue out at him. As his adrenaline cooled, the kitchen sounds intensified around them—bacon sizzling, coffee maker gurgling, their family’s laughter.
The last sausage on John’s plate caught her eye. Without hesitation, Emily reached across and swiped his last piece, just like she’d done since they were seven and fighting over the last Pop-Tart. He lunged for it with the same predictable outrage, grabbing her hand before she could bring the bit to her teeth. His eyes flicked from it to her twinkling eyes.
Then he grinned, sheepish and a little wild, and let go. “You’re insufferable,” he complained, but she could see his relief that she’d found another outlet for her playfulness.
Tara was the first to say it out loud. She set down her spoon with a thunk, eyed the two of them over the rim of her glass, and said, “God, you two and your inside jokes. Seriously.”
Eric drained the last of his coffee, folded his newspaper, and planted a dry kiss on Catherine’s temple before grabbing his keys. “You kids keep your mom out of trouble,” he called over his shoulder.
“We’ll try,” John said, voice steady, but his face was still a little pink from Emily’s ambushes. Catherine bustled around the kitchen, loading dishes into the sink and humming an old pop song off-key.
For a minute, the room was just the two of them at the table. Emily let the silence stretch, savoring the intensity of the connection, the way every part of her body felt tuned to the same frequency as John’s.
She stood and made a show of tidying her place, then leaned in close, her mouth brushing the shell of his ear.
“You owe me a degree in ‘boyfriend practice’,” she whispered, low and soft, then lingered just long enough to see the shiver run through him. His hand twitched on the glass, knuckles white, but he didn’t look up.
She walked away, slow and deliberate, feeling the weight of his stare on her back. She paused at the hallway mirror to check her hair, caught his reflection watching her, and flashed a wicked little smile.
John retreated to the garage a few minutes after his parents left for a Costco run, his sister’s teasing still prickling across his skin. “Back by this afternoon,” his mom had called, “we can’t keep enough of those protein bars father likes in the house when Taras is home.” His first chore awaited: changing the oil in his decrepit Civic starter car—something he’d never attempted before. Cold seeped through his sneakers from the concrete floor, its surface a museum of oil stains. Gasoline and mildewed cardboard hung in the air. He cracked the bottom of the garage door, letting in a sliver of scorching summer heat.
Ten minutes of struggle left his hands nicked and blackened. The oil filter refused to yield, sliding from his grip each time he twisted. Two different wrenches, a rubber strap, and finally his bare hands had earned him nothing but a torn cuticle and a stubborn sheen of used oil.
He let his arms hang limp. The filter remained stubbornly sealed, resisting his efforts to twist it free, while the kitchen scene replayed in his mind: Emily’s knowing gaze, that weird charge behind his eyes, her foot resting where it shouldn’t. His fingers traced the edge of the filter, searching for purchase, just as his thoughts circled the memory, probing for weaknesses. He applied pressure again, feeling the metal slide against his skin, but it still wouldn’t yield. Emily had bounced back so easily, acting like nothing had changed between them, finding her grip where he kept losing his. His palm pressed harder against the unyielding surface, leaving smudged fingerprints on the Honda’s engine block. Something had to give. He shifted his stance, adjusting his approach. The rational voice warning him about boundaries was fading like the strength in his oil-slicked fingers, both growing weaker with each attempt.
He was so lost in thought that he didn’t hear Tara until her sandals squeaked on the rubber mat by the side door. She entered, carrying bike tires under one arm and house keys jingling in her other. She wore a massive gray sweatshirt with a faded fraternity logo, sleeves hacked off at the shoulder, and jet-black leggings. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun.
“Is the pump in here?” she called, scanning the room. “My tires are low.”
John grunted, gesturing to the cluttered workbench. “Check the left side. If you see a better oil filter wrench, let me know.”
Tara scanned the Honda, then to John’s arms, then to the dark puddle forming under the engine. “You’re doing an oil change?” She sounded genuinely impressed.
He grunted again, which was all he could manage while hunching over the engine, fingers slick with sludge. “Yeah. Was overdue.”
“You know you can take it to Jiffy Lube for like, twenty bucks, right?”
Tara set her helmet down and moved toward him with the fluid economy of a runner, her footfalls nearly silent on the concrete. She leaned in close enough that he caught a hint of mint on her breath, crisp against the garage’s heavy air. “You’re using the wrong angle, and the threads are probably stripped. Here—” Without asking permission, she reached past him, her shoulder brushing his as she took the wrench from his oil-slicked fingers with the exact, precise grip she used on starting blocks.
Tara’s bicep flexed as she torqued the wrench with a quick snap of her wrist, her knuckles barely whitening with the effort that had left his own hand cramping. He watched, fascinated and a little humiliated, as the filter squeaked and spun free in one smooth motion.
“There,” she said, tossing the dripping filter into the old Folger’s can next to the jack. “You gotta break the seal with a side hit first.”
The oil now poured in a smooth waterfall from the filter housing, the black liquid catching the fluorescent light in strange, viscous gleams. “That’s what I did,” he protested, not even bothering to make it convincing.
Tara snorted. “Sure, John.” She reached for a shop rag and wiped her hands, then tossed it to him without looking. “You doing anything later?”
“Probably just reading,” he said, even though both knew he would probably end up glued to the Xbox.
Tara found the pump by the workbench and tested it, pumping a couple of times to check for leaks. “Let me know if you want to go for a ride,” she said. “I’m hitting the old golf course trail after lunch.”
John grunted, but the idea lodged in his brain. He had no interest in being humiliated over ten miles of abandoned fairway, but then again, he wouldn’t be. Not anymore. His eyes lingered on Tara’s confident movements, her body honed by years of training, while his advantage had appeared overnight. She’d always been faster, stronger, better—but now he had his own edge. He could match her stride for stride, not with muscle but with mind.
He finished draining the oil, then refilled the engine. When he looked up, Tara was crouched, using the pump to build tire pressure. Her shirt hung off one shoulder.
She finished with the pump, then stood and stretched, arms high above her head. “You want a tip for the next oil change?” she said, dropping her arms with a snap.
He nodded, unsure if he was more irritated by her condescension or turned on.
“Lubricate the gasket before you put it on, or you’ll be out here bleeding all over the block every three months.”
He nodded again, then cleared his throat. “Thanks.”
Tara smiled, real and warm. “No problem, slug.” She turned back to her wheels, leaving John to watch her for a moment. He noticed the tools scattered around them both—an idea formed.
“Hey,” he said, casually leaning against the workbench. “Want to make this interesting? Rock-paper-scissors, loser cleans up everything—both the bike stuff and all this oil change mess.”
Tara glanced at the scattered wrenches and oily rags, then at her own small pile. A quick calculation crossed her face—she’d be done in a quick second, while his mess would take at least twenty minutes.
“Sure,” she said with a half-smile. “Easy win.”
They squared up, hands poised. Tara narrowed her eyes, feeling the familiar pre-game buzz. Something in her gut said he’d choose rock—the defensive choice. As she raised her fist, something flickered across his face—a twitch at the corner of his mouth, pupils dilating slightly. He beat her to initiating the challenge: “Rock. Paper. Scissors. Shoot.”
His scissors beat her paper.
The victory ed in his eyes a millisecond before he actually moved, as if he’d already seen her defeat. A chill skittered across her.
“Bullshit,” she whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it. “How did you—”
“You’re that predictable,” he shot back, but something in his voice rang false.
Tara smiled—put on her good-sportsmanship face— while John’s victorious finger-scissors snipped her defeated paper. The touch lingered, and Tara simmered inside.
Her jaw tightened. “Two out of three,” the words tasted like surrender as she said them, but John acquiesced. His confidence unnerved her.
The second loss hit harder. Tara stared at their hands, her rock crushed beneath his paper, something fundamental shifting in her understanding of her little brother.
“Best three out of five,” she demanded, already positioning her fist, determination mingling with an unfamiliar wariness. The garage suddenly felt smaller.
John crossed his arms, his posture confident in a way she’d never seen before. He straightened to his full height, and Tara realized with a jolt that his eyes were now level with hers. When had that happened? Last summer, she’d still been looking down at him. “No way. I won fair and square.”
Tara’s eyes narrowed. “Double or nothing. You pick the prize. Hand slap game.”
“Fine,” John said, “The loser has to hold the downward dog for two minutes.”
A frown flickered across Tara’s face—suspicion about his motives—as she studied him. Her eyes dropped briefly to his hands, then back to his face. For a second, John thought she might walk away, but then her jaw set.
“Whatever. You’re on.”
Five minutes later, Tara’s palms pressed into the cold concrete beside the Honda, her hamstrings trembling as she held downward dog in perfect posture. John paced around her, counting steadily. At “fifteen,” a strange warmth began spreading through her lower back, accompanied by a sudden, intrusive awareness of how she must look to him—vulnerable, bent over, submissive. The image flooded her mind: John’s point of view, savoring his newfound power, planning how he’d break her completely. She shook her head slightly, disturbed. These weren’t her thoughts. Were they? She forced herself to focus on the burn in her muscles instead. Just fatigue, she told herself firmly.
“Twenty-eight... twenty-nine...” he counted evenly. By thirty-five, the warmth had transformed into something else, a tingling that made her breath catch. She blinked rapidly, confused by her body’s response.
“Halfway there,” John said, his voice neutral as he continued circling. The sensation intensified gradually, creeping up her spine. Tara bit her lip, determined not to show weakness.
Each time she glanced up, John was looking from her to his watch and back, seemingly imive. Meanwhile, the inexplicable feeling spread further, becoming impossible to ignore. Her fingers pressed harder into the concrete.
“Need to quit?” he offered casually, checking his watch.
“I’m f-fine,” she managed, mortified by the tremor in her voice. The tingling had become waves now, rhythmic and insistent, making her thighs quiver in a way that had nothing to do with muscle strain.
John announced, “Forty-five.” Tara’s breathing grew shallow as she glanced up through sweat-dampened strands of hair. John stood watching her, arms crossed, the corner of his mouth lifted in a slight smile. Her stomach dropped. He was seeing everything—her hips making small, involuntary movements against the air, her thighs trembling not from exertion but from something else entirely. She was putting on a show, splayed out in downward dog, and the realization sent a hot flush of mortification crawling up her neck to her already burning face.
Fifty-three...” The waves intensified, synchronized with his counting, as if he were conducting an orchestra inside her body. Tara bit down so hard she tasted metal, horrified by the realization that her hips were answering to his rhythm. “Fifty-eight, fifty-nine...” The garage tilted sideways as her will frayed beneath his gaze. She caught his reflection in the chrome bumper—watching, controlling, no longer her awkward little brother but something else entirely. Her body betrayed her with each tremor, performing for him in ways that made her stomach clench with both humiliation and a disturbing thrill. “Sixty.”
She crumpled onto the concrete with a gasp that sounded humiliatingly close to a moan. For three excruciating seconds, she lay frozen on the concrete, her body rigid with the effort of concealing the tremors rippling through her abdomen, her jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped visibly along its edge. Then muscle memory kicked in—the same iron discipline that got her through half-marathons with sprained ankles. She rolled to sitting, flicked sweat from her eyes, and fixed John with a death stare.
“Jesus,” she panted, pushing herself to sitting, her chest heaving. She glared up at him, hair stuck to her forehead with sweat. “Happy now?”
John crouched beside her, a smirk playing at his lips. “Tara Steele, do you accept defeat or want to try for two out of three?” He extended his hand, hand up in challenge. “Loser has to take off one piece of clothing each time.”
Tara froze mid-breath. Her eyes darted to his face, then to his outstretched hand. A warning flashed somewhere in her mind—this wasn’t normal, wasn’t right—but her fingers already twitched with the muscle memory of a thousand victories. She’d never walked away from a challenge in her life, especially not from her little brother. The thought of losing to him was more unbearable than whatever vague danger she sensed. She wiped her palm against her thigh and reached for his hand, her jaw setting into the same expression she wore before every race. “Bring it,” she growled.
They sat facing each other, hands out. John could feel the energy buzzing between them, even more so than in the kitchen this morning. The slap game was simple: one player laid their hands palm up, and the other hovered theirs above. When ready, the bottom player tried to slap the top’s hands before they were pulled away.
He let Tara go first. Her reactions were legendary—she once caught a fly out of the air in a gym class, to everyone’s horror—but John’s anticipation was sharper now. He felt the flutter of her thought before she moved, and jerked his hands away just before her palm slapped down.
“My turn,” he said, and Tara put her hands out, palms up.
He hovered above, savoring the proximity, the way her forearms tensed in readiness. He moved in a faint feint, and she almost flinched, then stilled.
He struck. She pulled back at the last millisecond, but his fingers grazed the backs of her hands, and that counted.
Tara glanced down at her feet, calculating. She kicked off her sandals with two precise flicks of her ankles, sending them flying in perfect arcs to land neatly by the garage door. “Another round,” she demanded, voice hoarse, now barefoot on the concrete.
He shrugged, relishing her desperation. “Are you sure you don’t look like you have much on under your pump cover?”
She hesitated for half a second, then responded to his taunt, eyes narrowed. “You’re on.”
The game was tighter this time. She was adapting, learning his rhythm, and nearly caught him twice. When it was her turn to defend, she felt a tingle at the base of her skull and watched helplessly as his hands met hers.
Tara exhaled, her jaw clenched so tight a muscle jumped along its edge. Her fingers trembled slightly as they found the hem of her sweatshirt. This was John—awkward, gangly John—yet something in his steady gaze made her feel like prey. Was he getting lucky? The thought of her little brother actually outplaying her was impossible, absurd. She’d taught him this game. She’d taught him everything. As she pulled the sweatshirt over her head, a hot flush of humiliation crawled up her neck. The sibling pecking order—her at the top, always—suddenly felt precarious. She tossed the garment at his feet with deliberate casualness, though her heart hammered against her ribs.
Her arms folded across her black sports bra. “Happy?” she asked, voice embarrassingly high-pitched. A strange doubling of vision washed over her—suddenly she was looking at herself through John’s eyes: vulnerable, flushed, her body on display. She felt his satisfaction as her own, a predatory thrill at her discomfort. For a disorienting moment, she could almost taste her own humiliation, sweet as candy on someone else’s tongue. She blinked hard, convinced she was imagining things, and glanced toward the garage door. What if Emily walked in? The thought of being caught undressing for her brother sent another inexplicable wave of pleasure through her that seemed to echo from somewhere outside herself.
“Ecstatic,” he replied, voice nonchalant.
Tara’s shoulders squared as her fingers curled into fists. “My turn,” she snapped, the words coming out sharper than intended. She hesitated, a flicker of uncertainty crossing her face before her jaw set with familiar determination. “Thumb war.” She thrust out her hand, palm up. She’d never lost the game, not once. Her throat tightened. One victory, and she could reclaim her sweatshirt, cover herself, restore the natural order where big sisters don’t lose to little brothers. Some things couldn’t—shouldn’t—change.
They locked hands, thumbs arched, and Tara began the old chant: “One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war—”
He used his power, not to force her, but to sense the micro-muscle twitch in her wrist that always preceded a move. For the first time in years, he pinned her in three seconds flat.
She stared at their clasped hands, then up at him, shock plain on her face. “Did you just—”
“Win?” he finished for her. “Yeah, I did.”
She snorted, lips pursed in a practiced show of indifference. “Fine. Leggings next?”
She didn’t wait for him to agree and stood with athletic grace that couldn’t quite mask the slight tremble in her fingers as she hooked them into the waistband. She kept her eyes locked on his while shimmying them down, hyperaware of each inch of skin being exposed. The black thong she’d chosen that morning—now a mortifying miscalculation—made her stomach clench. She stepped out deliberately, folding the leggings with the same precision she used for game-day uniforms, creating a small cushion between herself and the cold concrete as she kneeled, legs pressed firmly together, facing him squarely.
Her shoulders squared as she tossed her hair back. “Your move, Slug.”
“Breath-holding contest,” he said, eyes lingering on her exposed collarbone. “Like at the pool.”
“If I win, you do my laundry. And dishes. For the rest of the summer.” She crossed her arms over her chest, then immediately dropped them when she realized the motion pressed her breasts together.
“And if I win,” he said, leaning forward until she could feel his breath on her face, “we play Mannequin.”
Her stomach clenched. Mannequin—once just silly poses and giggling fits on rainy afternoons, her limbs arranged into ridiculous shapes while they both laughed until they couldn’t breathe. Now the thought of his hands positioning her body made her throat go dry. She forced a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “Whatever. Not like you’ll win anyway.”
They both sucked in air, cheeks puffing like chipmunks. John counted the seconds in his head, watching Tara’s face redden as oxygen depleted. At fifteen seconds, that familiar warmth bloomed between her legs again—subtle at first, like sitting too close to a space heater. She shifted slightly on the concrete, trying to ignore it.
Twenty seconds. The heat intensified, spreading upward through her belly. Her eyes widened slightly as she recognized the sensation from the downward dog position. focus. Mind over matter. You can’t lose this challenge.
Twenty-five seconds. The tingling became a pulse, synchronized with her racing heartbeat. She couldn’t help flexing her thighs, and the movement only made it worse. Her lungs burned for air, but not as much as the growing ache lower down. This isn’t right. I should be in control. I’m always in control.
Thirty seconds. Waves of sensation rolled through her, each one stronger than the last. Her vision blurred at the edges. She caught John watching her with that same calm expression—not struggling at all—and a terrible understanding dawned. He’s making me lose. Her mind rebelled against the thought even as her body betrayed her. Impossible. But then how...? A flicker of something like awe cut through her panic. What has he become? Her will broke before she ran out of air; she gave up, knowing she didn’t have a chance of winning. Without that chance, there was nothing to fight for.
“I win,” John said matter-of-factly. The two sat for a moment, breathing heavily.
She looked up at him through tangled hair, seeing him clearly for the first time. Not the gangly kid who used to beg for piggyback rides or cry when she beat him at Mario Kart. This was someone else—someone with power she didn’t understand, who could reach inside her and twist.
“How did you—” she started, then stopped. The words stuck in her throat.
John rose to his feet. “Mannequin time,” he said softly.
Tara stayed on her knees, chest heaving. The lingering heat between her legs made her shift uncomfortably. Her throat tightened around words of protest that wouldn’t come. Then it hit her—a wave of something that wasn’t hers—John’s satisfaction washing over her like warm honey. His pleasure at seeing her kneeling, half-naked. The thrill of power coursing through him as he stood above her. She could almost taste his arousal on her own tongue, feel the tightness in his jeans as if it were pressure against her own skin. Was she imagining this? The sensation was too vivid, too alien. Her cheeks burned hotter as her body responded to his excitement, her own arousal feeding on his in some perverse loop she couldn’t escape. She nodded, surrendering not just to defeat but to this new, unexplainable connection between them.
“Get on all fours,” John instructed, circling behind her.
She moved without argument, pressing her palms against the cold floor. The position stretched her spine, her body arranged for male enjoyment. If Mom walked in right now—or Emily, or anyone—what would they see? Her bent over with her ass in the air while her brother stood behind her. The thought made her stomach twist with a nauseating mix of shame and something else she refused to name. She kept her knees together at first, a final, futile stand of resistance. When he pressed on the inside of her thigh, she hesitated only briefly before yielding, allowing him to position her exactly as he wanted.
“Wider. Like you’re stretching for track.”
The comparison to something familiar made it a little easier to comply. She spread her knees shoulder-width apart, feeling the stretch in her inner thighs. Cool air hit exposed skin. Her face burned.
John’s hands settled on her hips, adjusting the angle. “Arch your back more. Really curve it.”
She did, pushing her chest down and tilting her pelvis up. The position made her feel like a dog on display at a dog show. His fingers trailed along her spine, mapping each vertebra.
“Good,” he murmured. One hand slid to her shoulder blade, pressing down. “Lower in front. Keep your ass up.”
The crude word from her little brother’s mouth sent a shock through her system. She dropped her shoulders, cheek nearly touching the concrete. The position left her completely exposed, presented. She could feel his gaze like a physical weight.
His hand moved to the small of her back, thumb brushing the edge of her thong. “Perfect. Hold it.”
The warmth from before hadn’t faded. If anything, the vulnerable position intensified it. She bit her lip hard, fighting the urge to squirm as wetness gathered between her legs. A small whimper escaped despite her efforts.
“What was that?” John asked, though she could hear the smile in his voice.
“Nothing,” and the quiver in her voice made her cringe.
His fingers ghosted along her ribs, barely touching. “You’re shaking.”
She was. Fine tremors ran through her thighs and core. The ache between her legs had become a steady throb. Every slight movement made it worse.
“How long?” she managed to ask.
John glanced at his phone. “Four more minutes.” His voice was soft but firm, as if he were timing a workout. Tara’s thighs trembled visibly now, a fine sheen of sweat breaking across her lower back. She bit her lip hard enough to leave tooth marks, knowing with crushing certainty she wouldn’t make it—not with the heat building between her legs.
His palm glided over the curve of her ass, adjusting her position with clinical precision. “Tilt more. There.” His fingers lingered, pressing into the muscle as if testing its firmness. Heat radiated from each point of , spreading through her body in waves she couldn’t control.
Another moan threatened to escape. She clamped her jaw shut, her whole body tensing with the effort.
“Relax,” John commanded, his voice carrying that strange new authority. “You’re all stiff now.”
She tried to follow the instructions, but relaxing would let the pleasure take control; she knew she wouldn’t be able to stop herself. Something invisible pressed against her thoughts, like fingers reshaping clay. A foreign presence slid through her mind, leaving trails of heat that flowed down her spine and pooled between her legs. She felt wetness soak through her panties, her abdomen muscles trembling not from exertion but from waves of unwanted pleasure that seemed orchestrated by something outside herself.
“One more challenge,” she gasped, clinging to the fraying edges of her own will as her body betrayed her. The words felt like the last coherent thought that was truly hers. “Arm wrestling. If I win, we’re done.” Her voice strengthened with this final resistance. “You never mention this again. We pretend like it never happened.”
John’s hand stilled on her lower back. “And if I win?”
She swallowed hard. The words formed in her mind—dangerous, reckless words—but she couldn’t take them back now. “Then you can... whatever you want. To me.”
The garage fell silent except for the distant hum of the neighbor’s lawnmower. She couldn’t see his face from this position. His palm rested on her back—warm, possessive.
“Deal,” he said.
Tara pushed herself up with a sharp intake of breath, refusing to show weakness despite her screaming muscles. Red marks branded her knees, but she straightened her spine, squared her shoulders. Even nearly naked, she carried herself like an Olympian—someone used to winning through impossible odds.
“Workbench,” she said, voice clipped but steady. “Better surface than milk crates.”
John watched her walk—the slight tremor in her legs betraying her, but her head held high—and felt a confusing mixture of guilt and iration. She was still fighting, still believing she could win. Something in him wanted to let her.
They positioned themselves standing across from each other. Tara’s eyes narrowed with focus, her embarrassment temporarily forgotten as competitive instinct took over.
“Winner gets everything,” he said softly, setting his elbow on the wooden surface and flexing his fingers.
Tara matched his position, her grip surprisingly strong. For a moment, seeing the determination in her eyes, John almost wavered.
They locked hands. Tara, retaking control, said, “Three, two, one, go.”
She surged forward, the muscles and tendons of her arms and bare shoulders standing rigid with the effort. For a moment, John let her have the advantage, let her believe she was about to win. He watched the muscles in her shoulder strain, the line of her jaw set in determination.
Then he reached for the switch in his mind—the place where his will intersected hers—and pushed. Hard.
Tara’s arm trembled. Her elbow dipped. She stared at him, eyes wide, realizing something was off, that her strength was bleeding out, that she couldn’t stop him.
John pressed down, slow and relentless, feeling the shock and confusion radiate from her as her arm buckled. She fought, tried to rally, but her muscles felt sluggish, weak. She felt her hand touch the workbench and looked up at John, disbelief on her face. “Two out of three,” she said, her voice small, practically begging.
“Fine,” John agreed. Her eyes widened, something like hope flickering across her face before hardening into determination.
They reset. This time, when she pushed, John let her win easily—too easily. Her hand slammed his down with such force that she knew immediately. The victory felt hollow, his smile indulgent as he flexed his fingers. The realization that her little brother was letting her have one round burned her. Her stomach knotted as they set up for the final round, wondering if she’d really go through with what she’d committed to, or if she’d find some way to back out.
Their hands locked. Tara’s muscles tensed with the same strength that had dominated countless opponents. But something was wrong. Her desperation wasn’t translating into willpower. John’s eyes held her hand in place without effort. A foreign presence brushed against her mind, and her eyes widened in horrified recognition. This wasn’t physical anymore. He was inside her thoughts, redirecting her will. She watched him effortlessly lower her hand in slow motion, her champion’s spirit crumbling beneath the weight of something she’d never trained to fight. When her knuckles touched wood, the last remnant of who she thought she was collapsed beneath his gaze.
Then he reached—not with his hands, but with his mind—and touched something inside her thoughts. A door opened between them. Tara gasped, her pupils dilating as she felt his presence invade her consciousness, an intrusion more intimate than any physical violation.
Take everything off,” he said quietly.
Her fingers moved to her sports bra without her permission. John leaned back against the workbench, elbows propped casually behind him. She watched herself undress as if from a distance, unable to stop the fluid movements of her own body. The garage’s cool air tickled her exposed skin as the bra fell away, revealing breasts that sat high and firm on her chest, pink nipples framed in tan lines. Her thong slid down muscled thighs, exposing the carefully trimmed strip of dark hair. Her eyes, once fierce with competitive fire, now darted nervously between his face and the concrete floor. She stood before him completely naked, her athletic body—strong calves, defined abs, the curve where waist met hip—displayed without defense. Her shoulders, though usually squared with confidence, softened as she arched her back slightly, her body’s betrayal of arousal at odds with the defeat in her eyes. John tilted his head, studying every inch of her with the unhurried gaze of someone who has all the time in the world.
He circled her, fingertips grazing her skin—shoulder, back, hip—each touch leaving goosebumps in its wake. His hand slid across her taut stomach, lingered at the curve of her breast, then trailed down her thigh as he continued his orbit. With each circuit, his mind pushed deeper into hers, his physical intrusion mirroring the mental one that left her gasping, overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations. His footsteps fell on the concrete floor behind her. His presence pushed against the edges of her consciousness—invisible fingers probing, testing, claiming territory. Tara’s breath caught in her throat as an alien warmth flooded her mind, like water seeping through cracks in a dam. Her eyes widened, then narrowed, the same calculating look she’d worn facing down varsity seniors when she was just a freshman. She tensed, gathering herself for one final surge—then something shifted behind her eyes. The recognition. The exact moment she’d seen countless times on opponents’ faces when they realized she was simply better. Her shoulders softened. She gave in to him, ready to ively accept whatever he did.
John took her wrist, his grip firm but not rough. “Come here.”
He led her to the Honda, its hood cool in the garage’s dim light. With firm pressure between her shoulder blades, he pushed her down until her cheek and breasts flattened against the metal. The chill against her cheek and chest sent a shiver through her, a stark contrast to the fire trailing his touch. She felt the vulnerability of her position acutely, exposed and waiting, the anticipation mounting as she listened for his next move. John guided her with his hands to arch her back, and she raised her hips in the air, completely exposed and vulnerable. She couldn’t see him over her shoulder but could only sense his presence behind her, each light touch on her skin making her twitch and squirm, the ticklish sensation mixing confusingly with the arousal spreading through her body.
His hands found her hips, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hipbones. The grip was different from his earlier tentative touches—possessive, aggressive. She felt him shift behind her, his breathing audible in the quiet garage.
The first swat caught her completely off guard. His palm connected with her right cheek with a sharp crack that echoed off the concrete walls. The sting bloomed across her skin, hot and immediate. She jerked forward, a strangled gasp escaping her lips.
“Stay still,” John commanded, his voice rough with something she’d never heard from him before. His left hand pressed harder into her hip, holding her in place.
Another swat, this time on the left side. Harder. The pain mixed with the persistent throb between her legs, creating a confusion of sensations that made her head spin. She bit down on her lip.
His hand smoothed over the heated skin, almost gentle, before delivering another sharp slap. Then another. The rhythm was unpredictable—sometimes quick succession, occasionally long pauses that left her tensing in anticipation. Her skin burned, each impact sending shockwaves through her body.
She felt him lean over her, his chest brushing her back. His fingers tangled in her ponytail, and she instinctively repositioned herself as he pulled. As his fist tightened in her hair, she arched her back deeper and pushed up to rest on her arms, hands on the hood where her chest had been, displaying herself like she was at the starting block of a race.
“Perfect,” he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. Through their mental connection, she caught flashes of how he saw her—a champion thoroughbred, muscles defined, form flawless, an athletic specimen being put through its paces. The thought was both humiliating and thrilling; she’d always been the show horse, hadn’t she? On display at every meet, every competition. Now she was competing in a different arena, and the familiar drive to excel, to be the best, surged through her despite herself.
He maintained his grip on her hair, making minor adjustments like a trainer with a prized animal. Each minor correction sent tingles across her scalp, down her spine. The vulnerability of it—being handled, positioned, appraised—made her stomach clench with a confusing mix of shame and pride.
“Look at you,” John said softly, almost wonderingly. His free hand traced the curve of her spine, fingernails dragging lightly. “All that strength, all that attitude, and here you are.”
Her jaw clenched, muscles working, but instead of the sharp comeback that had always been her weapon, a soft whimper escaped. Her eyelids fluttered as she surrendered to the fog in her mind, the same way she’d watched countless opponents yield to her on the track. Now she was the one conquered, positioned and displayed like a trophy on his shelf.
His hand left her back, and she tensed, expecting another swat. Instead, his fingers slipped between her legs, finding the wetness there, his touch maddeningly light.
“John, please,” she whispered, though she wasn’t sure what she was asking for. Her voice sounded strange to her own ears—smaller, breathless.
One finger slipped into her, finding her relaxed and open to him. The discovery made him pause, and she squeezed her eyes shut in mortification. Her body betrayed her, working for her rival instead.
“You’re soaked,” he observed, voice neutral as if commenting on the weather.
“I can’t help it,” she choked out. “Whatever you’re doing to my head—”
“This isn’t me.” His finger circled her entrance, gathering moisture. “This is all you.”
She wanted to argue, to insist that her body’s response was his fault, but then he pushed inside her, and words dissolved. Just one finger at first, sliding in easily. Her inner walls clenched around the intrusion, drawing him deeper.
He worked slowly, methodically. In and out. Adding a second finger when she relaxed enough to take it. His other hand pressed flat against her lower back, holding her in place when her hips tried to move.
The mental connection between them pulsed stronger with each stroke. She felt his curiosity, his fascination with how her body responded. He was learning her, catag every gasp and shudder. When he curved his fingers upward, finding that spot that made her moan low and uninhibited. Tara had lost control.
He slipped his fingers out, slow and deliberate, leaving her clenching reflexively around nothing. For a moment, neither of them moved. He shifted behind her, the brush of his sneakers over gritty concrete, then the soft thud of his knees on the garage floor.
She tensed, expecting his hands or maybe another swat, but then his breath warmed the inside of her thigh. The first touch of his tongue made her jerk, nearly face-planting into the Honda’s grill. He licked again—slow, experimental, like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed to do this. The sensation was so alien, so electric, she whimpered despite herself. She’d had it done to her before—awkward, grudging foreplay by college jocks. John had never done it to anyone; she could feel his hesitancy, the hyperfocus as he mapped what made her twitch, what made her grind back against his mouth. She realized, with clarity, that even without his ability, he could drive her crazy with his tongue.
He released her, she felt air where his mouth had been, and then his hands gripping her thighs, thumbs spreading her inner lips apart. The deliberate way he opened her made her face burn.
“Stay still,” he murmured, voice husky with desire. She wanted to protest, but the words dissolved as his tongue slid inside her. Through their connection, she felt his raw hunger—the way her taste flooded his senses, how much her little brother savored it. She gasped, knuckles whitening against the cold metal hood.
For a minute, the only sounds were her ragged breathing and the wet, intimate noises from between her legs. She risked a glance back and down and saw him kneeling, one hand holding her open, the other wrapped around his cock poking out from between his unzipped fly. The sight of him stroking his erection while his mouth worked against her was jarring.
He rose to his feet, still gripping himself, and the full size of him pressing against her made her breath catch. She’d seen him in the shower before—but this, him fully aroused, deliberately positioning himself behind her with intent in his eyes, was different.
“Relax,” he murmured, one hand stroking her hip while the other guided himself. “Let me in.”
The mental command washed over her, and her body obeyed despite the voice protesting in the back of her mind. She felt herself opening, accepting, as he pushed forward with agonizing slowness. The stretch was intense, her body struggling to accommodate him, but beneath the discomfort, a deeper satisfaction bloomed—the feeling of being filled, claimed, conquered.
Through their connection, she felt his thoughts flooding into hers. She saw herself through his eyes: sleek, powerful, magnificent. A champion not of track meets but of pleasure. The pride she’d felt crossing finish lines transformed into pride at how perfectly she took him, how beautifully her body responded to his commands. The satisfaction of winning became the satisfaction of pleasing him.
“That’s it,” he breathed, picking up pace. “Show me what all that training is for now.”
Her hips pushed back to meet him. Years of muscle memory kicked in—the same precision and control she brought to every physical challenge. But now the challenge was taking him deeper, moving in perfect rhythm, being the flawless performance he wanted.
The garage filled with the sounds of skin against skin, her desperate gasps, his low groans. She felt him throbbing inside her, knew he was close. The knowledge sent unexpected pride through her—she was bringing him to this point, her body performing perfectly.
“John,” she whimpered, feeling her own climax building. The pressure coiled tight in her core, ready to snap.
“Come for me,” he commanded, both aloud and through their connection. “Show me what a champion looks like when she loses control.”
Her inner walls echoed to the spurt of him with hot pulses. Warmth flooded her, the sensation of being filled. His hands clamped her hips, holding her tight as he emptied himself into her. The pleasure rewired something deep in her brain. Each jet of heat inside her was a finish-line ribbon, another proof that she was the best at this, too. Her cunt quivered around him, milking out every last drop, her own climax rippling through her in aftershocks that left her knees weak and her vision fuzzy at the edges.
For a long, dizzy moment, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, could only feel. Then John’s mind brushed against hers, gently reshaping the raw edges of what had happened. The violation softened into competition, the shame transmuted into the familiar comfort of rivalry. When he finally let go of her hips, her arms gave out. She collapsed forward onto the hood, cheek pressed against warm metal, feeling him slip out of her. His wetness dribbled down her thighs. She turned her head just enough to catch his eye, her lips curving into a smirk despite trembling limbs. “Was that all you had?” she rasped, her bravado was still alive and well.
John and Tara lay side by side on the oil-stained concrete beneath the Honda, it between them and the cracked open door. Their breathing gradually slowed, the sound echoing. John glanced over at his sister. Her eyes were fixed on the chassis, jaw tight. He recognized that look—the same one she wore after losing a race. Not anger at him, but at herself. A thin sheen of sweat made her skin gleam in the dim garage light. His own guilt surfaced briefly, then receded beneath a quiet thrill. For once, he was stronger. Tara—perfect, untouchable Tara—had lost to him.
Tara broke the silence first. “You’re such a freak,” she muttered, her voice hoarse but tinged with a hint of amusement. A loose curl had escaped her ponytail, plastered to her forehead in a wet arc.
After a moment, Tara propped herself up on an elbow, letting the sweat trickle down her neck. She didn’t bother to cover up. “You’re not even going to say it? ‘Wow, Tara, you’re amazing, I’ve never—’” She mimicked applause with a jerky hand gesture.
John swallowed, his tongue feeling raw. “I mean, you were okay, I guess.” Her laugh sliced through the haze.
“Don’t make me hit you. I know all your weak spots now, perv.”
He rolled his head to look at her. “You’d fight like a girl.”
She scoffed, but shakily. “You want a rematch, little shit?” It was half-joke, half-challenge.
John almost agreed. Almost. Instead, he watched a bead of sweat trail from her sternum to her navel, pooling in the dip above her hip. He noticed things he’d never seen before—a small scar by her belly button, details hidden under years of spandex sports gear.
Eventually, John sat up, his head spinning briefly before settling. Tara stayed still, tracking him with her eyes. She was a mess—hair escaping from her ponytail in wisps, face flushed. Almost humanized. “Is it always like that?” she asked, her voice softer than before.
John pondered, his mind still racing with the rush of sensations. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.” He flexed his hand, watching the tendons shift under his skin like they belonged to someone else. “It’s all... still new to me.”
“Have you tried this on Emily?” Tara’s voice was flat, almost clinical.
His silence was answer enough. “Yeah.”
Tara’s jaw clenched. “Tell me she’s on something. The pill, whatever.” Her voice dropped to a hiss. “Christ, John. Em? Really? She’s your little sister.” She shook her head, disgust flickering across her face before resignation set in. “I mean, I get it—you’re a guy with a new toy—but Emily?” She exhaled sharply through her nose. “Just tell me you’re being careful with her, at least.”
“I didn’t—I haven’t—”
“Jesus, John.” She sat up sharply. “You get her on something. Today. I don’t care how. I’m not becoming an aunt because you can’t think straight.”
Heat crept up his neck. The possibility hadn’t even occurred to him.
She glanced up, catching him mid-wince. “I am on the pill,” she added, her voice flat. “No babies for us.” John’s face cycled through expressions—relief, then embarrassment, then a horrified realization at what they were discussing.
Tara stood and stretched long, toes pointed, and arms overhead like a Greek statue. She narrowed her eyes, rotating each wrist, flexing each finger, catag sensations. She rolled her shoulders back, testing the mechanics of ts and tendons, a silent inventory of parts. Not for his benefit—this was her checking that John had reassembled her correctly, as though all the pieces needed to fit together in the correct order after he’d somehow taken her apart.
He grabbed a shop rag from the old Folger’s can and wiped the dribble from his cock, then tossed it to her. “Here.”
She caught it with one hand, dabbed between her legs, then balled it up and lobbed it back. It caught him on the shoulder, leaving a damp spot on his bare skin.
“Jesus, Tara,” he muttered, flicking it away.
She stretched her arms overhead, entirely at ease with her nakedness, rendered platonic in the post coital lull. “Don’t dish it if you can’t take it.” Her voice had an edge.
“You’re cleaning this up,” she added, gesturing at the scattered tools and smears on the concrete. “Dad will lose it if he sees the garage like this.”
She glanced at him, then down. “Still excited, I see.”
He followed her gaze, embarrassed to find himself half-hard again. “It’ll go away.”
“Not with you staring like that,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting.
“You’re the one who’s still naked,” he countered.
Tara shrugged. “Just a body.” She snatched her sweatshirt from where it had landed on the workbench, ignoring her sports bra that lay twisted and sweat-darkened on the floor. She yanked the sweatshirt over her head in one fluid motion, the cotton sliding directly against her bare skin. The static made wisps of her hair stand on end as she smoothed it down over her stomach. Her leggings came next, her soaked panties abandoned in a damp heap by the tire jack. The fabric caught on her still-damp thighs as she hopped slightly to pull them up.
She tugged at a loose thread on her sweatshirt hem. “Don’t think you can mind-control me every time you want something,” she cautioned absent-mindedly, her attention already shifting to the bike tires carefully stacked where she’d left them beside the floor pump, absently tucking her hair behind her ear.
A floorboard creaked outside the garage door. John and Tara froze.
“Emily,” she mouthed, quickly stuffing her underwear into her pocket.
John shrugged, calm. “She won’t tell.”
“Are you serious?” Tara’s expression shifted from panic to calculation. “You’re not even worried.”
She crouched down, gathering her discarded bra and panties from the concrete, then snatched up the cum-stained rag. She bundled everything together and shoved it under her sweatshirt, against her bare stomach. Her nose wrinkled slightly at the damp warmth seeping through to her skin. She grabbed a clean shop rag, all business now. “Turn around.” With quick, precise movements, she fixed his hair and wiped a smear from his neck, the wet bundle pressed between her arm and ribs. “Your shirt’s inside out.”
“My turn.” She stood still, chin raised as he dabbed at a grease smudge on her cheek. “I’m not sure where to start,” John itted. “We need more than a rag. Want to shower again?” he was only half kidding.
Tara’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not even worried. Why aren’t you—” She stopped mid-sentence, her gaze suddenly unfocused like she was listening to something far away. A chill visibly ran through her. “It’s like what happens to me sometimes, isn’t it? When I can feel you... pushing.” She stepped closer, voice dropping to barely a whisper. “Emily wasn’t just listening. She was in here with us, wasn’t she? Inside your head?” Her fingers trembled slightly as she tapped her own temple. “Jesus, John.”
He looked away. “It’s complicated.”
“Complicated.” She laughed without humor, running a hand through her disheveled hair. “Right.” She moved to the corner, collecting the bike tires she’d been fixing. “I can’t process this right now. I’m heading out for a ride. You should come with me—work off some of this... energy.” She shifted the hidden bundle to a more secure position. “Hard workout might clear both our heads.”
He hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”