Chapter 95 : When Rules Lose Their Authority
New York, Queens – Wendy's POV
The click of my bedroom door shutting behind me felt like the closing of a vault. Silence. Heavy, absolute silence, after the roaring storm in my head at the table. I didn't turn on the light. The late afternoon sun was dying, painting my walls in deep oranges and long, stretching shadows that felt like the bars of a cage.
I sank onto the edge of my bed, the comforter cool under my palms. For a while, I just sat there, letting the noise of the world fade. And in that quiet, the old rules came back first. They always do. They're like a recording, a program that runs automatically when everything else stops.
You can't want your brother.
The thought wasn't even mine, not really. It was a ghost of a thousand sermons, a hundred movies, every sideways glance at a taboo. It's wrong. It's disgusting. It's unnatural. The words had no feeling behind them, just a flat, factual tone, like reciting a law I'd memorized but never understood. Society says no. Family says no. Everything you've ever been taught screams it's a sin. My fingers tightened in the bedding. The fabric was rough against my skin.
He's your brother.
But that's just biology, isn't it? A shared history, a shared parent. It doesn't define the shape of the feeling in my chest, that constant, ache that's been there for years. The obsession that makes me notice the way his shirt stretches across his shoulders, the low rumble of his laugh, the specific scent of him that's just Alex. That's not sisterly. That never was.
I got up, pacing the narrow path between my bed and the desk. The shadows lengthened.
The fear rose next, cold and sharp. The fear of being left behind. He's built a whole universe. Gwen, MJ, May, Darcy. Names. Women with roles, with places. They have his time, his touch, his… children. Two of them are carrying his children. The thought was a physical punch, a vacuum in my lungs. He's moving forward, building a dynasty, and I'm here. Stuck. The little sister in pigtails, forever on the sidelines, making jokes to hide the fact that my heart is shattering. He's abandoning me. Not intentionally, maybe, but effectively. He's chosen them. All of them.
I stopped at the window, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The sky was deepening to twilight.
So that's the choice, isn't it? The automatic morality says stay here, in the "right" and the "normal," and watch his life happen without me. Let the love curdle into a lifetime of bitter, jealous yearning. Or…
Or what?
My own mind, my real voice, finally cut through the static. It sounded small, but clear. Or question why that morality gets to decide my happiness.
I turned from the window, the room now cast in deep blue gloom. I didn't need light to see this.
Alex's entire life is already outside that morality. A harem? Multiple pregnant partners? By every standard we were raised with, that's immoral. Deviant. Wrong. I heard the words in the echo of that old recording. But he said it himself—they're happy. They're consenting. There's love there, and family, and… celebration. Did that morality stop him? Did it destroy his happiness? No. It didn't even touch him. He just… stepped around it. Built his own rules.
So why does that same crumbling fence get to pen me in?
The question hung in the darkening air. It felt dangerous, like prying open a locked box.
If the situation is already "abnormal," then what's one more abnormality? If the structure already defies convention, then adding another unconventional piece… it doesn't change the fundamental nature of the thing. The house is already painted purple; adding a red door doesn't make it more of an eyesore to the neighbors. It's already an eyesore. To them.
The "them" became important suddenly. The faceless "society." Their disapproval was the source of the recording. But their disapproval was already aimed at Alex, at his women, at his unborn children. They were already living in the line of fire. And they were… fine. More than fine. They were chosen.
A slow, shaky breath left me. The tightness in my chest wasn't gone, but it had changed. The icy fear of abandonment began to thaw, heated by a new, terrifying spark. Possibility.
The moral conflict didn't just lose authority; it evaporated, like mist in a sudden sun. It was never my belief. It was a hand-me-down coat that never fit. I shrugged it off, and the air felt different. Colder, maybe. More real.
Is this wrong? The question was meaningless now. A dead language.
The new question, the only question that mattered, rose up in its place, vivid and bright and terrifying: If this is possible, how could it work?
Not should it. How.
I wasn't thinking about actions. Not yet. I was thinking about… positioning. Geography of the heart. Where would I fit? I'm not a stranger like Darcy might have been. I'm not a mature figure like May. I'm not the queen like Gwen. I'm… me. His. I always have been. That's my entry point. That's my claim.
The obsession wasn't a sickness to be cured. It was a fact. A foundational truth. I love him. I am in love with him. That's the bedrock. Everything else gets built on top of that.
Inclusion. That was the word that settled in my mind, warm and heavy. Not conquest. Not stealing. Inclusion. Finding my space within the ecosystem he's created. Would Gwen allow it? She's the queen; her approval would be everything. The thought of facing her, of laying this bare, made my stomach flip. But it was a concrete thought. A step. A problem to solve, not a cosmic prohibition.
And Mom. Rosalie. Her reaction at the table… it wasn't just shock. There was a flicker there, in her gray eyes. Something like recognition. Understanding, even. She was measuring May's situation against her own life. I saw it. If she could entertain that thought, even for a second… then maybe the biggest wall, the wall of maternal sanction, wasn't as solid as I'd always believed.
I sat back down on the bed, the springs creaking softly in the near-dark. My heart wasn't racing with panic anymore. It beat a steady, determined rhythm.
The fantasy, the deepest, most hidden one, uncoiled in the new space. Not of sex, not yet—that was too vast, too bright to look at directly. But of… belonging. Of sitting with them, Gwen and MJ and May and Darcy, as one of them. Of having a rightful place in his world, not as a visitor from the outside, but as part of the architecture. And the ultimate, secret shape of that belonging—a swell under my own hands, a life growing that was his and mine. A proof that couldn't be argued with.
I wasn't debating morality. I was drafting a blueprint.
The last of the daylight bled away, leaving my room in full darkness. I didn't move to turn on a lamp. The dark felt comfortable now. Honest. The old Wendy, the one who hid behind jokes and played the oblivious little sister, was gone. She'd dissolved in the space between afternoon and evening. What was left was something harder. Clearer. A girl who knew exactly what she wanted, and for the first time, could see a path, however faint, to actually getting it.
The psychological threshold wasn't just crossed; I'd burned the bridge behind me.
Downstairs, I heard the faint clatter of dishes. Dinner. The mundane world was proceeding. But I wasn't part of that world anymore, not really. My mind was elsewhere, mapping a new territory, my place in a forbidden kingdom that was suddenly, wonderfully, possible.
The evening crept forward, slow and measured, each minute stretching longer than it felt. The lights of the city outside dimmed as households quieted, one by one, leaving the apartment bathed in a soft, almost sacred stillness. I stayed in my room, pacing, thinking, letting the possibilities ferment and grow in the quiet. The thrill of the idea didn't fade—it solidified. By the time the moon had climbed high, my plan had sharpened, no longer a whisper of fantasy but a pulse in my veins. The hesitation had ebbed. The choice was clear. Tonight, I would act.
The house was a tomb of quiet. The kind of deep, midnight silence that presses on your eardrums. My own breathing felt too loud, the rustle of my sheets as I slid out of bed like a gunshot. I stood in the center of my dark room, the decision no longer a thought but a current in my blood.
This is it. The only way. He needs to know I'm serious.
My reasoning from earlier wasn't a debate anymore; it was scripture. Morality was a ghost that couldn't haunt a house already built on different ground. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was wrapped in a layer of frantic, giddy resolve. I would offer him my virginity. Not as a gift, but as a brand. A seal. It would be the only first time I'd ever have, and I wanted it to be with him. It would make me undeniable.
I didn't bother with a robe. My thin sleep shorts and tank top felt like the last costume of the girl I was pretending not to be. I left them in a pile on my floor. The cool air kissed my skin, raising goosebumps. I was glad for the dark, for the way it hid the tremble in my hands as I reached for my doorknob.
The hallway was a canyon of shadow. Mom's room is right there. The thought was a spike of adrenaline. But it also solidified the necessity of silence, of stealth. This was a secret pact, just for us. I padded on bare feet, the wood floor smooth and cool, each step a countdown. My heart was a frantic drum against my ribs, so loud I was sure it would echo.
His door was closed. I pressed my palm against it, feeling the solid wood. He's in there. Half-asleep. Unprepared. I turned the knob. It gave without a sound.
The room was darker than mine, the curtains drawn tight. The shape of him in the bed was a long, low mound under the covers. I could hear the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. Or was he awake? Waiting? My own breathing faltered, coming in shallow sips.
Just move.
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me with the softest click. The darkness was absolute for a moment, then my eyes adjusted to the faint outline of the window. I didn't hesitate. My fingers found the hem of my tank top and I pulled it up and over my head, the soft shhh of cotton the only sound. The shorts followed, whispering down my legs. I stepped out of them, naked now, the air a new, intimate touch all over my body. I felt exposed, my skin tingling with a mixture of terror and wild excitement. My small breasts felt tight, my nipples pebbled and sensitive.
I walked to the side of his bed. My knees felt weak. I could see the line of his shoulder, the curve of his head on the pillow.
I slid under the covers.
The heat of his body was a shock, a delicious furnace against my chilled skin. I molded myself to his side, my arm sliding over his waist. The feel of him—solid, warm, real—scattered my thoughts into pure sensation.
He stirred. A deep, sleep-roughened inhale. His body tensed for a second, then relaxed, the tension melting into something else. Recognition. Acceptance.
"Wendy." His voice was a low rasp in the dark, no trace of sleep left in it.
"Yeah." My own voice was a whisper.
His hand came up, not in surprise, but in a slow, deliberate exploration. His palm was warm and broad as it settled on my hip, his thumb stroking the dip of my waist. He's not pushing me away. The realization was a wave of heat that had nothing to do with the blankets. The old Alex, the one bound by invisible lines, would have stiffened, would have asked what I was doing. This Alex… his touch was sure. Possessive, even.
His hand slid up my side, tracing the subtle curve of my ribs, then higher, skimming the outer swell of my breast. My breath caught, stuttered in my throat. He cupped me, his thumb brushing over my nipple, and a sharp, sweet jolt went straight to my core. Mmmph. I bit my lip to stifle the sound.
"Quiet," he murmured, his lips near my ear. His breath was warm. "Rosalie's sleeping."
The command, the reason for it, sent another thrill through me. A secret within a secret. I nodded against his shoulder, my cheek rubbing the cotton of his shirt.
He shifted then, turning onto his side to face me. In the near-black, I could just make out the intense blue of his eyes, watching me. His other hand came up to cradle my face. His thumb traced my lower lip.
"You're sure?" he asked. The question wasn't a barrier. It was a formality, a last checkpoint. His tone held a calm assurance that told me he already knew the answer.
"I've never been more sure of anything," I whispered, the truth of it vibrating in my chest.
He kissed me then. It wasn't a tentative peck. It was deep and consuming from the first moment, his lips firm and skilled against mine. I melted into it, my mouth opening under his, my hands coming up to clutch at his shoulders. The taste of him, the faint mint of toothpaste and something uniquely Alex, flooded my senses. I lost myself in it, in the slow, wet slide of his tongue against mine, in the way he took control of the rhythm, slow and deep, then shifting to something more urgent. My body arched against his, my small breasts pressing into the hard plane of his chest.
He broke the kiss, his breathing a soft, warm gust against my wet lips. His hands moved down, one sliding between us to palm my breast again, his fingers toying with my nipple until it was a tight, aching peak. The other hand journeyed lower, over the flat of my stomach, through the sparse curls below.
I tensed, instinctively pressing my thighs together. A flush of embarrassment heated my skin. He didn't force them. His hand just rested there, a warm, heavy weight.
"Shhh," he soothed, his mouth back at my ear. "Let me in."
The dominance in his voice, soft but absolute, made me weak. I let my legs fall open, a shudder running through me as the cool air touched my most intimate skin. His fingers found me, parting my folds with a gentle, knowing touch. I was already wet, embarrassingly so, and the slick sound of his fingers moving through my arousal seemed deafening in the quiet room. Squish.
"So ready for me," he whispered, and the pride in his voice was a drug.
He shifted lower in the bed, his kisses trailing down my neck, over my collarbone. He took my nipple into his mouth, sucking lightly, then with more pressure, his tongue swirling. Pleasure, sharp and bright, arrowed through me. My back bowed off the mattress, a silent gasp tearing from my throat. He moved to my other breast, giving it the same devoted attention, his hand still working between my legs, fingers circling but not yet entering.
Then he moved lower, his broad shoulders pushing my thighs further apart. The first touch of his tongue was a lightning strike.
Oh god.
He wasn't just licking; he was devouring. Slow, flat strokes that made my hips jerk. Then pointed, focused flicks on my clit that had my hands flying to his hair, tangling in the thick strands. He sucked lightly, and my vision whited out for a second. A high, thin sound tried to escape my throat and I clamped my teeth down on my own fist. The sensation was overwhelming, a building pressure coiling tighter and tighter in my belly. He slid a finger inside me, then another, stretching me gently, crooking them in a way that brushed a spot deep inside that made me see stars. Nnnngh! The stretch burned a little, a faint sting of newness, but it was swallowed by the sheer pleasure of his mouth.
"Alex… I'm gonna…" I choked out the warning into my fist.
He didn't stop. He doubled down, his tongue working faster, his fingers pumping in a steady rhythm. The orgasm hit me like a train, a silent, screaming wave that ripped through my body. My thighs trembled violently, clamping around his head. My core clenched around his fingers in rapid, fluttering pulses. I rode it out, helpless, biting into my own flesh to stay quiet, until I collapsed back onto the mattress, boneless and gasping.
He moved up my body, his own breathing heavier now. I felt him against my thigh, the hard, thick length of him. Huge. The word flashed in my mind, a mix of fear and fierce desire. He kissed me again, deep and slow, and I could taste myself on his lips. It was shockingly intimate.
He positioned himself between my legs, the blunt head of his cock nudging at my entrance. He took my hands, lacing our fingers together, pinning them beside my head. Intertwined hands. The gesture felt more binding than any vow.
"This might hurt," he said, his voice strained with control. "Just for a second. Breathe."
I nodded, my eyes wide in the dark, holding his gaze. I felt the pressure, immense and insistent. He pushed forward slowly, and there was a sharp, stabbing pinch, a brief tearing sensation deep inside. The hymen. I gasped, my fingers tightening around his. He stopped, completely still, letting me adjust to the unbelievable fullness. It wasn't just tight; it was a profound, stretching ache, like he was reshaping me from the inside out.
"Okay?" he breathed.
I nodded again, unable to speak. The initial sharp pain was already fading, replaced by a heavy, throbbing fullness that was already tipping back toward pleasure. He began to move, slow, shallow thrusts at first, each one stretching me a little more. The slide was wet, a soft, slick shhlrp with each motion. The friction was incredible, lighting up nerves I didn't know I had. He built the pace gradually, his thrusts deepening, each one hitting that deep, sweet spot his fingers had found.
I was climbing again, a second, deeper orgasm gathering. I wrapped my legs around his waist, pulling him in deeper, meeting his thrusts as best I could. The sounds were obscene—the wet slap of skin, our ragged breaths, the muffled sounds I couldn't contain. Uhn. Ah. Nnff.
"Close," he gritted out, his rhythm becoming frantic, powerful.
"Inside," I begged, the words a raw scrape. "I want it. I want your… cum inside me."
He drove into me one last time, burying himself to the hilt, and held. A low groan vibrated in his chest. I felt the first hot, powerful surge deep inside me, a pulsing flood that seemed to go on and on. Spurt. Gush. It filled me, a shocking, intimate heat that triggered my own climax. This one was different, deeper, a rolling series of contractions that milked him, drawing out his release. Squelch. The feeling of him emptying into me, of being claimed so completely, was more profound than any physical sensation. It was the seal. The proof.
He collapsed on top of me, his weight a comfort. We stayed locked together, him still buried inside me, his release continuing in slow, aftershock pulses. Post-orgasm creampie continuation. The intimacy of it, the sheer physical connection, was overwhelming. I could feel the wet heat between my legs, a tender, throbbing ache that was already a part of me.
He nuzzled into my neck, his breath hot on my skin. "Wendy," he whispered, and my name sounded like a whole new word.
He stayed inside me.
The warmth of him, the gentle throb of his softening cock still nestled deep, felt more intimate than the frantic coupling that came before. Our breathing slowed, syncing in the dark. My body was a map of new sensations—the tender ache between my legs, the sticky heat of his release beginning to leak out, the pleasant weight of him pinning me to the mattress. His fingers were still laced with mine, a grounding point.
I never wanted to move.
But he did. He shifted, pulling out with a soft, wet sound that made my cheeks heat. Splorch. The loss of him was immediate, a hollow feeling followed by a fresh trickle of warmth down my thigh. He rolled onto his back beside me, one arm thrown over his eyes. The silence stretched, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was… processing.
My mind was a blank static of satisfaction, but beneath it, the embers were already stirring. The reality of what I'd done, what I'd asked for, what he'd given me, was settling into my bones. His cum is inside me. The thought wasn't clinical. It was a possessive, giddy thrill. A claim staked.
His hand found mine again on the sheets, squeezing. "Alright?" His voice was rough, used.
"Mmm." It was all I could manage. More than alright. I turned my head on the pillow to look at him. In the faint light, I could see the sheen of sweat on his temple, the strong line of his jaw. Mine.
He turned his head, too, those blue eyes finding mine. He studied my face for a long moment. "You're not done," he said. It wasn't a question.
A fresh jolt went through me, low and hot. My exhausted muscles clenched. "I… I could be."
A faint smile touched his lips. "No, you couldn't." He moved then, with a purpose that belied his recent release. He sat up, the sheets pooling around his waist. "Turn over."
My heart gave a hard, single thump. "Wha—?"
"On your stomach. Now." The command was quiet, absolute.
I scrambled to obey, my body thrumming with a new, eager tension. I pushed myself up onto my knees, then lowered my torso to the mattress, turning my head to the side. The cool cotton was a shock against my feverish skin. I felt exposed, my ass in the air, the sticky evidence of my virginity and his seed slick on my inner thighs.
I heard him move behind me, felt the bed dip as he knelt. His hands settled on my hips, his thumbs digging into the small of my back. He leaned over me, his chest pressing against my spine, his lips at my ear.
"You offered me your virginity," he whispered, his breath a hot brand. "A seal. You think that's enough?"
I shivered. "Isn't it?"
One hand slid from my hip, around my thigh, his fingers sliding through the wetness there before pressing against my swollen entrance. I gasped. "This is just the beginning, Wendy." He pushed a finger back inside me, and I was shocked at how easily it slid in, how my body welcomed it despite the ache. "You didn't just give me your first time. You opened the door. And I know what's on the other side."
He withdrew his finger and I felt the blunt, solid press of him again, much sooner than I'd thought possible. He was hard. Fully, impressively hard again. The thick head nudged, not at my entrance, but lower, pressing against the tight, forbidden pucker of my ass.
My eyes flew wide. "Alex—"
"Shhh. Not there. Not tonight." He adjusted, the broad crown finding my soaked, tender opening once more. "But here." He pushed forward, sinking into me in one slow, inexorable slide. God. It was different this time—deeper, somehow, with me positioned like this. The angle made him feel even bigger, stretching me in a new, breathtaking way. He bottomed out, his pelvis flush against my upturned ass, and let out a long, controlled breath.
"You want to be part of my world," he murmured, his voice a low vibration against my back. He began to move, not with the careful pace of before, but with a deep, steady rhythm that spoke of endurance. Each thrust pushed me forward on the mattress, a thump of his hips against my flesh. Thud. Thud. "You want a place. You want to belong."
"Yes," I breathed into the sheets, the word muffled.
He leaned closer, his mouth brushing my ear, his rhythm unbroken. His breath was hot, his words a dark whisper that sent a shiver through me. "You don't just want me," he murmured, each thrust deliberate, possessive. "You want something more—something eternal. A family, tied by more than blood."
The metaphor hung in the air between us, heavy with implication. It wasn't just about him. It was about belonging, about roots digging deeper than I'd ever imagined. My body arched into his, every movement a silent acknowledgment of the truth he'd unveiled. I didn't just crave him—I craved the life we could build, the legacy we might shape together. The thought was a flame, flickering to life in the deepest part of me.
A sob caught in my throat. It was too true, too exposed. He'd seen right through every layer, every joke, every defense.
"You want my children growing in your belly. You want to swell with them. To give me that." His pace quickened, becoming more forceful. The bedsprings gave a faint, rhythmic creak. I was being fucked in a way that felt foundational, primal. This was a breeding fuck. The position—my hips raised, him driving down into me—was meant for it.
"Even if it doesn't take tonight," he growled, his control fraying at the edges, "I am going to fill you. I am going to pump my cum so deep inside you it'll feel like a promise. Every time. Because that's the goal. Do you understand?"
"Yes! Yes, Alex!" I was crying, the tears hot on the sheets. It was everything I wanted, spoken aloud in the dark, made real by the pounding, claiming rhythm of his body.
"Then take it," he commanded, and his hands clamped on my hips, holding me immobile as he pistoned into me. The sounds were filthy, wet, animal. Squelch. Slap. Shhlrp. My body was on fire, the overstimulation tipping into a new kind of blinding pleasure. I was being remade for this purpose. My hands fisted in the sheets, my back arching, offering myself up completely.
His rhythm broke, became frantic, uneven. He slammed home and buried himself, his body going rigid over mine. A guttural groan was stifled against my shoulder.
And then it came. The first hot, voluminous pulse was a shockwave. Splurt. A second followed, a thick, heavy gush that made me feel impossibly full. Gush. A third, a fourth, a seemingly endless flood that had my own climax tearing through me silently, my body milking him in frantic, fluttering contractions. Splort. Glurk. He kept coming, the heat of it spreading, a profound internal claim. I could feel it, a deep, liquid weight, a sealing warmth.
He collapsed over me, his weight pressing me into the mattress, his release still pulsing in slow, diminishing spurts inside me. We were both slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, synchronized gasps.
His lips brushed my ear, his voice a shattered whisper. "That's your place. Carrying my seed. Always."
He didn't pull out. He stayed sheathed within me, a physical plug keeping his promise inside. The warmth was everywhere. The realization drenched me more thoroughly than his cum. This wasn't the end of a secret tryst.
It was the first night of the rest of my life.
My mind raced, trying to reconcile the woman I had been just hours ago with the one I was becoming. Alex's breath on my neck was steady, his body moving over mine with a purpose that felt like destiny. Each thrust was a claim staked, each groan a vow whispered against my skin.
I had always dreamed of this—of him. But the reality was more than I could have imagined.
His rhythm was relentless, my body opening to him in ways that felt primal, inevitable. The bed creaked beneath us, the sound a metronome marking the new tempo of my life. I wasn't just his lover anymore. I was his vessel, his future.
And yet, I couldn't help but think of the girl I had been—the one who fantasized about this but never dared to hope.
His pace quickened, driving into me with a force that left me breathless. I could feel him everywhere, his presence a constant pressure, a reminder that there was no going back. My hands twisted in the sheets, holding on as if they could anchor me to this new reality.
But they couldn't. Not really.
When he finally stilled, his release a hot flood inside me, I lay there in the dark, feeling the weight of what had just happened—what would keep happening. His seed wasn't just filling me—it was rewriting me.
I was his now, in a way that went beyond ownership. Beyond choice.
Eventually, exhaustion claimed me, pulling me under. The last thing I remembered before sleep took me was the unshakable certainty that nothing would ever be the same again.
And somehow, that was okay.