Big Sister Gilda by Anonymous


                                            "I don't understand."

                                            >Your mom just smiles at you and takes a sip of her coffee.

                                            >"I'm saying, honey, that we're lifting your 9:30 curfew. You're at that age where you want to explore the world and figure out who you are, and your father and I don't want to get in the way of that."

                                            >You feel confused.

                                            >Where is the screeching harpy you know and love?

                                            >Why isn't she demanding that you come home at 9:30 on the dot, or that you put some proper clothes on before you leave the house?

                                            >This isn't like her at all!

                                            >Why the change?

                                            >"Oh, and why don't you bring that boyfriend of yours over for dinner sometime? Flash Gentry, was it?"

                                            >She flaps her hands dismissively.

                                            >"The one with the motorcycle."

                                            "Flash Sentry," you correct, absently, "And... I thought you hated that motorcycle."

                                            >Your mom just shrugs.

                                            >"Yes, well... he seems like a nice boy."

                                            >He's not.

                                            >And your mom HATED that motorcycle.

                                            >She hated that you put yourself in danger by riding it.

                                            >That's why you liked doing it.

                                            >That's why you liked DATING that piece of shit!

                                            >"Well? Maybe this weekend?"

                                            >You can feel your desire for that blue-haired chump dropping faster your brother when you pushed him down the stairs back when you were both kids.

                                            >Good times.

                                            "Uh... yeah, sure..." you stammer, taking a step away from your mom, "I'll... talk to him."

                                            >You won't.

                                            >You go upstairs to your room and wonder what's going on with your mom.

                                            ---

                                            "Wait, really?"

                                            >You stare down at the skimpy top that your dad just handed you, wondering if it's going to burst into flames, or if it has scorpions inside of it waiting to sting you.

                                            >It's distressed, meaning that it's got tears and holes in it made deliberately.

                                            >It's really hot.

                                            >It shows off a lot of skin.

                                            >It's also something that would have normally pissed your dad off if he caught you wearing something like this.

                                            >Which is exactly why you wanted to wear it.

                                            "You WANT me to wear this?"

                                            >Your dad grimaces, but slowly nods his head.

                                            >"Your mother and I talked," he says, sounding strained, "And we both feel we shouldn't get in the way of you during this developmental period. If you say this is who you are, then we'll support you."

                                            >You stare at the top.

                                            >The top stares back at you.

                                            >The thrill you'd feel when you defied your parents authority just isn't there anymore.

                                            >You... don't want to wear this.

                                            >There's no point.

                                            >You force a smile and wonder if your dad's having a stroke; he smiles back with both sides of his face, so you guess he isn't.

                                            "Th-thanks, dad," you mumble, "I'm going to just, uh... put this away."

                                            >Your dad just waves as you leave the room.

                                            >You wonder if you still have any non-ripped clothes you could wear.

                                            >Truth be told, you kind of miss your old digs.

                                            >These new ones piss your-

                                            >...PISSED your parents off, which was nice, but they could also be really cold.


                                            >You are Gilda, and it has been weeks since your parents started acting weird.

                                            >They were fine when you drank.

                                            >They were fine when you came home at 1 AM.

                                            >They were fine with you kissing that dumb asshole on the motorcycle - not Sentry; the OTHER dumb asshole with a motorcycle.

                                            >They were fine with you basically walking around half-nude in your distressed, torn clothing.

                                            >Your parents used to HATE that.

                                            >They used to give you so much shit, and it felt SO GOOD to tell them to fuck off and then go do what you want.

                                            >But now that they're fine with all this, it's kind of lost its appeal.

                                            >That thrill of rebellion just isn't there anymore.

                                            >In your room, you stare at yourself in the mirror.

                                            >You're wearing a t-shirt (one of Anon's old ones; you snagged one that didn't look too gay when he was doing his laundry) and a pair of pajama bottoms that haven't seen the light of day in years.

                                            >You just can't muster the energy to wear your ripped digs.

                                            >What's the point if they're not getting the reaction you want?

                                            >Why bother wearing all that shit, or going out late, or drinking at parties... when your parents support you?

                                            >Hell, you even took up smoking pot just to get a reaction out of them.

                                            >Mom just bought you some snacks and told you to stay hydrated.

                                            >What the actual fuck is going on?!

                                            >You sigh and stare at your clock.

                                            >11 PM.

                                            >You guess you'll get some water and then go to bed.

                                            >You just don't feel the energy you used to, back when you could piss your parents off.

                                            >You tip-toe downstairs and head for the kitchen.

                                            >You hear your parents chatting in the living room.

                                            >"So, any news about that Sparkle girl?"

                                            >That's mom.

                                            >>"Nothing new. The neighborhood grapevine's run dry."

                                            >And that's dad.

                                            >"Yeesh. What a bunch of bunch of bad business that is, huh?"

                                            >>"Absolutely. I couldn't believe my ears when I heard it."

                                            >You slow down and come to a stop, straining your ears to hear the juicy gossip.

                                            >This sounds good.

                                            >"And they still say that the reason she slept with her brother-"

                                            >WHAT

                                            >"-was because her parents were trying to reel her in too hard?"

                                            >No, seriously, what the fuck?

                                            >Some chick had SEX with her own brother?

                                            >That's sick.

                                            >>"That's what I've heard. And you know how old Harshwhinny feels about spreading rumours she can't personally verify. Near as we can tell, it's true."

                                            >"Ugh. It was just a reaction to authority. Hard to believe that she'd go to those lengths."

                                            >>"Well, that's why we eased up on Gilda, isn't it? I could tell her the sky was blue and she'd insist it was green - the last thing we want is for her to be driven to... that sort of extreme in response to us tightening our hold on her."

                                            >...wait a second.

                                            >What are they saying?


                                            >"You really think she'd... f-fool around with Anonymous? Her own little brother?"

                                            >You'd NEVER do that!

                                            >>"No, no. I just... God, I just don't want to take the chance. I don't want to drive her to the 'ultimate taboo' just because we don't want her to."

                                            >"I'll put up with just about anything that comes from that girl as long as it means things never go THAT far."

                                            >>"Tell me about it. By the way, I'm looking into getting Gil some tickets to that death-metal band she likes. Do you think..."

                                            >You pull away from your spot and carefully make your way back upstairs, the conversation fading away into the background.

                                            >Your heart is pounding in your ears.

                                            >So that's why they did it, huh?

                                            >That's why they stopped riding your ass so much?

                                            >Because they didn't want you to fuck your brother?

                                            "Just who the hell do they think I am?" you growl.

                                            >They're just supporting you to keep you from doing something even worse?

                                            >Son of a bitch, they played you like a damn fiddle!

                                            >You're doing exactly what they want you to do!

                                            >Fuck.

                                            >FUCK.

                                            >They can't tell you what to fucking do.

                                            >THEY CAN'T.

                                            >You know what?

                                            >Fuck them.

                                            >Fuck their authority, fuck their conspiracy, and FUCK doing what they want you to do!

                                            >You think back to what that Sparkle chick did.

                                            >The one ultimate taboo.

                                            >The thing your parents would do almost ANYTHING to keep you from doing.

                                            >The one thing they'd HATE the most.

                                            >You think about your little brother Anonymous.

                                            >"Anon" to his friends, and "Dweeb" to his sister.

                                            >A smile slowly curls your lips.

                                            >Now that you really think about it, he's not all that bad looking.

                                            >He could use some muscle tone, but that's fixable.

                                            >Hell, you still remember what you saw when you barged in on him jerking it on the computer; you could certainly work with some equipment like that.

                                            >You eye your calendar.

                                            >This weekend is mom and dad's anniversary, and they plan to go out.

                                            >They'll be gone for four days - Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday.

                                            >On top of that, it's a long weekend coming up, so you're home from school all four days.

                                            >Your smile widens and you lick your lips.

                                            >You eye the distressed clothes you threw into the corner just a few days ago; they reveal so much... almost TOO much for a young teenage boy to resist.

                                            "You better be ready, Dweeb," you mutter to yourself, "Because if mom and dad think they can tell me what to do, they're wrong. You're going to be MINE by the time they come back home."

                                            >You'll be getting your pussy stuffed by this time next week.