"Don't think about it, just don't think about it, or you're going to start crying again," she said aloud, finding comfort in the sound of a human voice, even her own, in the house. She had spent most of the afternoon weeping as she lay stretched out on the bed, reliving her shame and guilt over and over again, but not even that great flood of tears could soften the horrible memory of what she had done, had allowed to happen to her young body in the throes of her own desire.Later that afternoon, she had dozed off, exhausted by her racking grief and by the intensely emotional and physical ordeal itself. When she had wakened, she had felt relieved at first, certain that it had all been nothing but a bad dream. She a risen from the bed, in which she had been cowering like a criminal for hours, and felt the tender soreness of her harshly-used breasts. Even the soft nylon nightgown that she had put on sent sharp pangs of pain running through the firm white mounds as the material rubbed. Those jean shorts molded to her ass. They were so tight, and I didn't see any panty line. I flushed, my dick hardening Why couldn't Melody dress like that some of the time. Zoey's hips swayed as she rooted around the fridge. She bent over more, and I could see a prominent cameltoe, the jean shorts hugging her pussy. Damn. “Ugh, Mom hasn't gone grocery shopping yet. No OJ.”I wrenched my gaze away before she caught me staring, my dick so damned hard, and grabbed the still-open jar of Nutella. I screwed on the lid. Hard. “She said she would tomorrow.”“Right,” my sister said with sarcasm, settling on a pitcher of grape juice. She poured a glass and leaned against the counter watching me clean up Lee's mess.“You want to help?” I asked as I sealed the loaf of bread with the plastic thingie and put it into the cupboard.“Not really, squirt.”I grit my teeth. Everything was going to shit. She wouldn't sit there and watch me clean if Dad was alive. And he never would have put up with Lee making.
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