Don't Ask, Don't Tell
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Author comment: There is a reader who goes by the
name Drunken Dwarf, and who consistently has good ideas.
Luckily he passes some of them on to me. After reading Read
Dirty To Me, he wrote me a note about an idea it gave him.
It's a similar idea, but very different, if that makes sense.
Anyway, it was a good idea and it recently popped up in the projects
folder whining that it had been too long since its inception.
So, thanks to Drunken Dwarf, here's the story.
Remember when your mother's voice called your name and it had that
special tone in it that meant something serious was happening, and that
you were part of it, but you didn't know whether that was a good thing
or a bad thing yet?
That's the tone of voice my mother called my name in. It's
that tone that makes you wonder if maybe you should sneak out and
pretend you didn't hear her.
"Bobby!" she called again. There was an added note of
impatience in her voice.
I decided that bright and chipper might deflect any anger that was
headed my way.
"Yeah, Mom," I said happily. "What's up?"
"I need you to read to Heather."
I opened my mouth to complain, but she held up her hand to forestall me.
"I know!" she barked. "You've established beyond question
that participating in the care of your sister is an onerous task that
will practically kill you, but your Aunt Betty is having her baby and I
need to be there to help her for a week or two. Your father
is working on a big project that could mean a promotion for him, so
you're just going to have to step up and deal with things.
She's your sister, Bobby. She would do this for you if it
"Yeah, right," I thought darkly, but I kept my mouth shut. My
mother's tone of voice also suggested that this was not a negotiable
"It's not the end of the world, Dear," she said, already selecting
things to take with her to her sister's house. "We're reading
her Moby Dick, and if you finish that, there are any number of other
classics you can start on. It's only an hour or two a day,
and it's summer. You have plenty of time to give a little to
Heather, as is already clear, is my sister. She's a year and
a half older than I am, and if you look up pushy, snotty, prima donna
sister in the dictionary, her picture will be there as the ultimate
representative of that concept.
Well ... it would have been before the accident. When I was
fourteen and she had just gotten her license, she went out and smashed
up the family car. She was probably texting, eating a
hamburger and putting on makeup at the same time she was driving
breakneck speed somewhere she didn't really need to go.
Whatever the cause, though, the result was that she was in a coma, and
had been in that coma for over six months. Other than the
coma she was perfectly fine. When it became clear after a
couple of months in the hospital that she wasn't going to wake up,
they'd brought her home and she was in her own room. There
were tubes stuck in her to feed her and for other stuff I didn't even
want to think about, but other than looking kind of pale she looked
like she was only sleeping or something.
I felt bad about all this, but not for the reasons you're probably
thinking. That's because it had been kind of nice at
first. I mean she wasn't screaming at me any more, or telling
me ten times a day how stupid I was. There were no more
slumber parties where she and her bitchy friends would throw open the
bathroom door and run in screaming and giggling while I was in the
shower, embarrassing me. Nobody called me ‘pencil
dick’ any more.
But after a while it felt all wrong. I mean nobody was
screaming at me any more, or telling me ten times a day how stupid I
was. And there were no more slumber parties where she and all
those other wet dream babes would throw open the bathroom door and run
in screaming and giggling while I was in the shower. It might
have been embarrassing, but all those smiles could be turned into
something else when I was in bed, in the dark. I had a lot of
really good jerk off sessions because of Heather and those girls.
After they brought her home I used to go in her room and look at her
sometimes, but it was creepy, because no matter what I said, or called
her, she never moved at all. I called her some pretty bad
things too, because I knew I'd never get another chance. But
it didn't make me feel better. In fact, it made me feel so
bad that I quit going in there at all.
My parents had done all the research after the doctors delivered the
prognosis, which was basically "She might come out of it, and she might
not." They had glommed onto the idea that someone in a coma
might not be able to interact with the world, but could still be aware of
what's going on around them. So they embarked on this whole
thing where they got what would have been her assignments from school,
and read her the text books and pages of class notes that the teachers
sent home. They went over all the math problems, explaining
them to her and read her the newspaper every day and stuff like
that. My parents were the only people I knew who could
routinely answer all ten questions on Are You Smarter Than A 5th Grader?
And they read her books.
I didn't pay that much attention to them when they did all that
stuff. I knew they had read her all sorts of books, from Tom
Sawyer and Alice Through the Looking Glass, to books by Tom Clancy and
John Grisham. As for me - I like comic books, and I
had lots of time to read them because my big sister wasn't bothering me
Mom's job was on the computer, so she could do almost all of it from
anywhere she could take her laptop. As such she was the one
who spent the most time with Heather, often eight or nine hours a
day. She even bought a special chair to put in Heather's
bedroom so she'd be comfortable as she sat and read and talked for
Mom said Heather deserved to have summer vacation just like everybody
else. Mom tried to believe that Heather would be okay, and
that some day soon she'd just open her eyes, say "Where am I?
What happened?" and then go back to being completely normal.
Dad lasted about three months that way, but now I think he was just
going through the motions to keep mom's dream alive.
So, at least for a week, I was going to have to take Mom's place, and
read to Heather. Luckily it was summer, so there
were no classes going on. I had enough of my own homework
during the school year to try to take hers on too, especially since she
was a year ahead of me. And, thanks to the
politicians who care so much about kids they don't know, it wasn't
legal for me to work a real job yet. My lawn mowing business
gave me minimal spending money, and didn't take all that much time.
I walked in her room for the first time in a long time. It
was quiet ... too quiet ... and spooky somehow.
Heather was lying there, like always, her brown hair fanned out on the
pillow under her head. I thought of Sleeping Beauty for some
reason, and studied her face.
I was shocked to realize she was beautiful. I mean she'd
always been the model of growing girl, morphing into teenage
even-more-girl, if you know what I mean. I had gotten to see
her develop bumps on her chest, and other growing up stuff.
Just because I was younger than her didn't mean I was either blind or
stupid. I'll never forget one day going in the bathroom and
finding the water in the stool stained bright red, obviously by blood,
and what seemed like a lot of it. I'd yelled for Mom, because
it was pretty clear that somebody had gotten hurt
bad. She came in, looking flustered, and when she
saw what I was concerned about, she relaxed.
"Your sister is having her first menstrual period," she said
calmly. "I'll remind her not to leave the commode like that
Then she flushed the stool and left. Just like that.
Of course Heather found out I'd seen what I'd seen, and she apparently
decided that was an unforgivable trespass, because she said that if I
ever told anybody about what I'd seen she'd kill me in my
sleep. She seemed to go out of her way to loathe me even more
Huh. It just occurred to me that I did tell somebody else
about that - all of you, just now - and there isn't a thing Heather can
do about it. She's still lying there, looking like something
out of a fairy tale.
What seems crazy is that, in a way, I wish she was screaming at me for
telling that secret. Life's funny, huh?
Moby Dick was lying on the chair, ready to go.
There was a book mark near the beginning, where Mom or Dad had left off
the night before. Besides reading during the day, they always read some kind of story to her
at bedtime, and told her to have sweet dreams and all that kind of
"Hey," I said in generic greeting to the comatose girl on the
bed. I felt stupid immediately.
She just laid there, of course.
"I'm going to be reading to you for a week," I said. It was
really uncomfortable, talking to somebody who looked kind of
dead. It didn't seem like Heather somehow. And it
was really quiet.
"You need a radio in here or something," I muttered. I picked
up the book. I sat down and opened it.
I'd read the book in English class the year before, and I still
remembered it. Whoever had been reading to her last had
stopped at one of the places where Ishmael goes on and on about social
justice or human nature or some crap like that. I read a few
lines and all I could think of was that I was probably going to die of
boredom. Right after my mom left Dad called and said he had
to go on a trip, and wouldn't be back for three days. I
thought about telling him about Mom going to Aunt Betty's, but I knew
if I did, he'd cancel his trip and stay, and Mom had said what he was
doing was important, so I kept it to myself. Still,
I imagined him returning from his trip to find my dried out husk,
holding this stupid book open. Heather would still be alive
as all get out, but I'd be worm food, having expired for the lack of
the will to live.
I closed the book and looked at Heather.
"Look, the deal is that this guy Ishmael signs on to this whaling
ship. It's called the Perquat or something like that, and
Captain Ahab is the captain. And he's got a hardon for this
white whale named Moby Dick that sank his ship and bit his leg off, so
he's out to kill this whale. And so they sail all over the
ocean until they find Moby Dick and there's this big battle and they
stick a dozen harpoons in him and he sinks two or three ships and in
the end Captain Ahab puts the last harpoon in him, except the rope
wraps around his neck and Moby Dick pulls him down into Davey
Jones’ Locker and the only one who survives is Ishmael."
She just lay there.
"So I'm not going to bore you with reading this crap," I said.
I got up and went to my room and picked a comic book at
random. It was a Fantastic Four, and I took it back to her
room. Then, for the next hour, I described each panel, and
the speech bubbles, and I made sound effects noises and stuff like
that. I even acted out some of the scenes. Not that
she'd notice that, but I was having fun getting into it.
And the whole time she just laid there like a bump on a log.
When that comic book was finished I sat there looking at her.
Nothing had changed. She still lay there with her eyes closed
and her pale face was calm. It was eerie and something made
me reach out and touch her, just to make sure she wasn't cold and
dead. I was startled, because her skin felt really
warm. I brushed her cheek with the back of my fingers.
"I wish you weren't like this," I said softly. "I mean you
yell at me a lot and stuff ... but I kind of miss it. Not
that I want you to yell at me again if you wake up."
I touched her hair. Mom had this thing she could put under
Heather's head that let her wash her hair every so often.
She'd done that recently and the hair was soft. For some
reason I leaned over and took in a deep breath with my nose right in
her hair. It smelled wonderful.
"So if you woke up it would be okay," I said into her hair.
"I mean you could yell at me once in a while ... just not too much."
She lay there, and I felt stupid.
"Okay," I said, standing up. "I'm gonna go get something to
eat, but I'll come back later. Maybe I'll read you a classic
Aquaman I got at the comic shop last week. It's awesome."
I looked at her and thought of Sleeping Beauty again, which was stupid,
because she got thrown around in an accident, instead of eating a
poisoned apple, and she was in a coma instead of a magical sleep.
You know how you think about doing something, and you know it's stupid,
but you do it anyway? I leaned over to kiss her on the cheek.
Then I took another deep breath of the smell of her hair.
"Your hair smells good," I said softly.
Having demolished a quarter of a loaf of bread, and almost emptied the
peanut butter jar, I cleaned up the smears of grape jam I'd gotten on
the counter. I was rubbing in time with what was playing on
the radio, and singing the lyrics. I whipped up the paper
towel and rolled it into a tube and then sang into it like it was a
microphone as the song ended, whirling in a circle.
It occurred to me that Heather had missed a lot of top 40
hits. She'd always been singing and dancing around before the
accident. It had been very distracting, because she had a
nice body, really well developed, you know? Not that a
brother is supposed to notice, but it was impossible not to when her
boobs were shaking all over the place while she capered around in her
PJs. I remember one time she was standing in front
of the bathroom mirror, brushing her hair with the hundred strokes she
did every night. She could have done it in her bedroom,
because she had this big mirror in there, but she always did it in the
bathroom, and that meant I couldn't take a shower or pee or anything
until she was done. So I was standing there, trying to be a
pest to get her out and she was taking her sweet time. She
had her chest stuck out and I realized I could see the bumps of her
nipples pushing through the material of her PJs. Suddenly I
wasn't in such a hurry any more. Of course I got a hardon,
which horrified me. I mean she was my sister ... and a bitch
But thinking of that made me think of her humming some song while she
was brushing her hair, and how she'd missed all that music while she
I went to my room and got my Ipod. I did regular downloads
from I-tunes whenever I heard something I liked, and that way I didn't
have to listen to commercials all the time. I thought about
just putting the headphones on her, but I couldn't tell her about the
songs or who was singing them if I did that. So instead I
made up a CD of selected tunes and took it to her room and put it in
her computer. I turned on the speakers and adjusted the
Then I commenced to act like what I thought a DJ would act
like. I'd tell her what song was coming up, and who was
singing it, and if I knew any tidbits about his or her life, like you
sometimes see on the cover of The National Enquirer and like
that. I didn't actually know if any of them had hit the
charts, or what level they'd gone to, so I just made that part up,
starting at "number forty on the hit parade." Around number
thirty-five I realized I had a problem, because I could only get like
20 songs on the CD. That was stupid, because I put the things
on it I liked the most, which meant when I made another one I'd be
making the top 20 songs the ones I didn't like as much. But
she was unconscious, and would never know the difference, so what the
I danced while the music played, and did my made up DJ patter and all
that. I only felt stupid a few times, but I decided to take
the road of being glad I wasn't in her place. That made me
feel kind of bad somehow, and when the CD finished I sat down.
"I know you probably can't hear me," I said, "but maybe the music
helped. I'm sorry you're in a coma, Heather. I know
we argue and bicker all the time, but I really don't hate
you. I mean sometimes I get a little ticked off when your
friends tease me and stuff. It wouldn't be so bad if they
weren't so hot. And when they come into the bathroom ... I
don't know ... I guess it's confusing. I mean you guys call
me ‘pencil dick’ ... but you keep coming in there
and looking at me. It doesn't make sense. So I get
frustrated sometimes. I guess I don't really think you're a
bitch, even if you act like one sometimes."
She just lay there.
"So this is really stupid," I groaned. "Here I am talking to
somebody who can't hear me, about her hot friends. You're hot
too, by the way, since you can't hear me. When I came in here
this morning and looked at you I thought of Sleeping Beauty.
Cause you're really kind of a babe. I've gotten boners over
you more than once, even though you're my sister. But don't
get a big head about it. It's only because you're gorgeous,
not because of your winning personality. Okay, I'm going to
stop talking to the sleeping fairy tale girl now, because this is
getting weirder and weirder. So I'll see you later, okay?"
I stared at her for a couple of minutes, and suddenly realized that she
was lying there, on top of the covers in her PJs, which buttoned down
the front on the top. And under those PJs were a pair of
naked breasts. And inside those bottoms was a real, live ...
well sort of ... pussy. She was asleep ... right?
She'd never know the difference if I took a little peek ... right?
But I couldn't do it. And I couldn't do it precisely because
she'd never know the difference. I mean I knew it would feel
like I was a necromancer, or whatever they call those perverts who get
off on doing nasty things to dead bodies. I shuddered at the
thought of touching her like that.
Instead I turned and left the room.
Mom hadn't said I couldn't leave the house. As I thought
about it, I knew there were times she'd gone off and left Heather
alone. She'd never done that for more than a few hours, but
it had happened. Talking to her had made me all weirded out,
and thinking about peeking under her PJs had made me feel really
terrible, so I went outside and ran around the house until I was
gasping for air. I felt pretty stupid doing that too,
wondering what anybody who saw me would think about it.
I was still worked up when I went back in. I looked in on
her, just in case, and she was exactly the same. I saw her chest rise
and fall and my thoughts went back to those breasts. I
suddenly realized I was a pervert! I wanted to see them,
necromancia or not.
I wandered over to her computer and pulled up an online
dictionary. It wasn't "necromancy," though it was
close. The dictionary said that was communication with the
dead through sorcery. I didn't want to communicate with her
... just look. And she wasn't dead. At least I
"I hope you're not dead," I blurted. Suddenly I had this
vision of being in her mind ... being in a coma and being able to hear
people talk, like my mother was hoping Heather could hear.
What would something like that sound like? I mean you're
lying there, bored out of your mind because nothing is going on and
suddenly a voice yells "I hope you're not dead!" I mean that
would freak the shit out of me.
"Sorry," I said, getting up and taking a step toward her bed.
"I was just thinking about peeking at your boobs, but I feel perverted
about that and I thought it was called necromancy, but the dictionary
says that's communicating with the dead and that's why I said I hoped
you weren't dead."
I blinked. I was starting to feel like I was going to have an
attack of some kind.
"Sorry about wanting to see your boobs," I said. "I'll try
not to think about that any more, okay? And if you ever wake
up, and you remember all this, I know I'm acting weird, but it's only
because I don't know what to do. I really wish you were okay again ...
even if you yelled at me."
The phone rang, and I ran to answer it, relieved to have an excuse to
leave her room. It was my dad.
"Hey Sport. Your mom around?"
"No, she had to go help out Aunt Betty. I guess she went into
"Oh," said my dad. "So you're batching it? When did
this happen? Why didn't your mother call me?"
"I'm taking care of Heather," I said, feeling guilty. So far
all I'd done was read her a comic book, play her some music and lust
after her like a necro-whatever-it-was.
"You okay with that?" he asked, sounding concerned. I got the
feeling what he really meant was that he wasn't sure if he was okay
with that or not.
"It's no big deal," I said. "I'm just reading to her, like
you guys do."
"I'm proud of you," he said. "I'm going to be gone longer
than I thought. Things are working out even better than we
hoped, but it's going to result in longer negotiations as the contracts
are written up."
"You going to be all right? I can come back if you need me to."
"Oh, I'm fine," I said.
"You have enough money?"
I didn't understand at first, and told him about the twelve-fifty I had
in the bowl on top of my dresser.
"Didn't your mother leave you money for food?" he asked.
I told him she hadn't said anything about it, wondering how I'd get any
food anyway. Both cars were gone and I was only
fifteen. I wouldn't get my license for another four months,
which seemed like four years to me. I could ride my bike to
the store, but I couldn't carry much back.
He told me to get a pencil and paper and, when I had them, he gave me
his credit card number and another number he called a security number I
might have to have if I ordered pizza or anything. Then he
gave me dire warnings about not using it for anything but
emergencies. I wondered why he'd given it to me in the first
place if I wasn't allowed to use it for anything. And was
pizza an emergency? I mean he was the one who mentioned
"Just use it if you get in a bind," he said. "And you have my
cell number. Call me if you need anything, okay Sport?"
"Got it," I said. Then, just in case, I added, "Use only for
pizza and other emergencies."
"Right!" he said in his hearty voice. "I'm proud of you,
"I'm proud of you too, Dad," I said, thinking of all the other
pizza-like emergencies I might suddenly have. He was already
gone, though, which was probably good, seeing as how what I'd said
sounded pretty stupid. I looked at the paper with the numbers
on it that represented many more choices than I'd had only five minutes
Things were looking up!
I couldn't get Heather's breasts out of my mind. I had no
idea how to spell what I was looking for, so I just Googled "sex with
the dead." Good old Google. And good old
Wikipedia. After reading through that I felt a little
better. At least I was sure I wasn't a
necrophiliac. I didn't want to have sex with dead people at
all, much less for any of the reasons listed. I did want to
have a reunion with a loved one - Heather - but not that kind of
reunion. I felt better, but I still wanted to see her boobs.
I couldn't think of a name for that. I didn't think it was
incest, because that's like a lot more than just looking,
right? So finally I just typed "looking at your sister's
boobs" into Google to see what happened.
Well, it became clear right away that pretty much everybody says it's a
no-no and not to do it. But there were some really
interesting questions on that page that nobody ever answered.
Like "Why do I want to see my sister's boobs?" I mean that's
a legitimate question, and having ten people say "Just don't!" doesn't
help explain the desire. So I went to page two of the
responses, and followed some links, and pretty soon the tone of things
changed drastically! Instead of the "Just say no" people I
found a whole raft of sites where they not only encouraged you to look
at your sister's boobs, they suggested sucking them and fondling them
I realized I had a boner. But that was okay, because I was,
for all intents and purposes, looking at porn on the computer, even
though there were no pictures, and I always got a boner from looking at
porn on the internet, so that was normal. Even if my sister
was involved ... kind of. And it was interesting, because I
never knew people like this existed. There were whole clubs
of people who got off on incest and invited people to come to nude
camps to engage in incest where nobody could screw with you about it
and stuff like that. Except your relatives. They
could screw with you. They were supposed to screw with
you. Get it? Ha ha.
I felt a lot better about myself after reading all that. I
mean all I wanted to do was maybe take a little peek at this or that
girly part, and that was nothing compared to what these people said
they did. I was even proud of myself for only thinking maybe
three times about using dad's credit card to see the pictures you had
to pay to see on those sites. Of course I didn't.
Still, it would have been pretty cool to see what a naked sister and
brother looked like together. But I didn't, because there was
pretty much no way I could think of to make that into an emergency.
But then I had a boner to deal with which, while it wasn't an
emergency, was very demanding about being dealt with. I
looked over at Heather and went to my own room, to my own computer,
where I had my favorite story site bookmarked. I did a search
for cheerleader stories. I'd already read most of them, but
there were two new ones, so I picked one of them and started stroking
slowly. That story turned out to have been written by a third
grader who spelled it "chearleader." The other one wasn't
much better. I was looking over the titles of the ones I'd
already read when it occurred to me that there might be stories about
incest on this place too.
So I did a search for "incest."
There had been 18 titles listed in my search for
"cheerleader." When the screen came up on my incest search,
there were 25 titles listed on the first page and it said it was 25 of
1,934 listings. My jaw dropped.
After looking at a few pages I realized there was a lot of different
kinds of incest, some of which was pretty weird if you ask
me. I mean I knew some eight-year-old girls, and none of them
were even remotely like the little girls in some of those
stories. And like ewwww, who'd even want to do that with some
stupid little girl? Grandparents were out too. That
was just too weird. And while I liked my mom, thinking about
seeing her boobs just made me feel icky. So finally I refined
the search to brother/sister incest stories, and culled out a lot of
the other stuff.
When I think about it now I can't believe I even did that. I
mean I was like everybody else. I knew incest was wrong and
horrible and perverted and all that. But reading
about people who disagreed with that was really interesting or
something. I'm not stupid. I know you can't believe
everything you read on the net, but there was so much of it ... so many
sites. At least a few of them had to be legit.
I started looking through the new list and this time I looked at the
scores, figuring that higher scores might mean that at least the story
was written by a highschooler, like me, instead of somebody who
couldn't spell necrophilia. There was one by this author who
thought he (or she - how was I supposed to know?) was a lubricant of
some kind. Maybe he was thinking about creams used to beat
off with. My best friend Marty Coonce had to use something
like that to beat off with because he was circumcised. I
wasn’t, and everything on me worked nice without having to
have extra help. Anyway, I pulled up one of his stories,
because it had a pretty high score.
I realized my cock had been forgotten while I read. I solved
that problem and went back to a couple of places that had gotten my
heart pounding. I'd never had sex before with anything except
my hand. If I ever did have sex I sure hoped it could happen
like this oily guy had written it. I spurted on the second
spot I re-read. Then I read the other spots, trying to get my
cock to stiffen up again because I just wanted it to keep
going. I clicked on the author's name and it took me to a
bunch of pages of stories. His profile link was there
too. He was a guy and his pen name was about leprechauns
instead of lubricants. Who understands adults? And
he was old too! He was even older than my dad! I
couldn't believe some old guy had written what I just read.
An hour later I had a new bookmark in my list. I didn't care
if it was perverted any more. I had never gotten off so quick
and so hard before. And the old dude had some stories that
weren't about incest too, so I didn't feel like either he or I were
quite as perverted as before. I mean I didn't really want to
fuck Heather. I still wanted to see her boobs, but that was
all. I wasn't ready to have sex. I wasn't as mature
as most of the brothers Lubrican wrote about. And he said
they were all made up anyway. But it was fun to read.
I looked at my watch and about crapped. Three hours had gone
by! I ran to check on Heather, but she was exactly like I'd
left her. I knew how to change the bags on the machine she
was hooked up to, so I did that, and then checked where the needle was
in her arm, like mom had showed me how to do. It looked
fine. She looked fine. I touched her face again and
she felt warm.
"I love you," I said. Then I felt guilty because I thought of
loving her like the boys in Lubrican's stories loved their
sisters. "Not like that, of course," I added. I
realized I was blushing, and felt really stupid. "I'm going
to get something to eat. Then maybe I'll read to you some
I left her room. I ordered a pizza.
Then I went back and pulled up the Lubrican bookmark
again. It was still too soon to get hard again,
though my cock was interested. Which was probably good,
because it would have been awkward if I'd been whaling away at my stiff
peter when the girl delivered the pizza.
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