2. Nicholas

2

NICHOLAS

D o you know what it’s like growing up with a stepsister who looks like Isabel? When our parents got married, she was just fifteen years old and I was already twenty-five, an age where I thought I’d be more mature, but in her presence, I felt anything but. I vividly remember the discomfort that washed over me the first time we met. She was so strikingly beautiful for her age, with a grace that belied her youth. I’d come over for dinner, trying to play the role of the supportive older sibling, but as the evening wore on, I found myself retreating to the room they had prepared for me. I often stayed the night, and each time, I would hide away, feeling an overwhelming urge to avoid any accidental encounters with her, especially in her pajamas. The thought of it made my heart race. I could already see hints of her well-developed chest, and a flood of anxiety washed over me. What if she wasn’t wearing a bra? What if I caught a glimpse of those curvy girls bouncing free, without any restraint? The mere idea sent a shiver down my spine, and I didn’t know if I’d be able to handle myself if faced with such a temptation.

I had managed to restrain myself from indulging in any explicit thoughts about Isabel until she reached the legal age of eighteen. It was a grueling three years, a test of patience and self-control, but I was adamant about respecting her boundaries. That fateful night, when I finally allowed myself to succumb to the desires I had harbored for so long, I climaxed with an intensity that left me feeling both ashamed and relieved. God, she was stunning with her voluptuous figure and radiant beauty.

There were a couple of family vacations that my father had arranged, during which Isabel would emerge in a bathing suit that left little to the imagination. I remember having to hurriedly excuse myself on more than one occasion in a desperate attempt to conceal the awkward and untimely erection that had taken me by surprise. I would then retreat to the sanctuary of my hotel room, where I would watch pornography featuring big, beautiful women, trying my utmost to prevent my thoughts from drifting towards Isabel as I sought release. The struggle was real, but I was determined to maintain my resolve, even as the temptation grew ever stronger.

But when she turned eighteen, the dynamics shifted dramatically, morphing into a whole different story that I hadn’t anticipated. She was now considered fair game, having crossed the threshold into adulthood. Unfortunately, it seemed that she didn’t share the same sentiment about being free game. Despite the moral ambiguity of my actions, I found myself flirting with her, feeling a rush of exhilaration each time I did. There was a part of me that reveled in the thrill, devoid of any shame, but her reactions often told a different tale—she would push me away.

Every so often, she would allow me to draw closer, and in those fleeting moments, she would even flirt back, igniting a spark of hope within me. Yet, it felt as if there was an invisible barrier, a line etched in the sand that Isabel had carefully defined. Whenever I unintentionally crossed that line, she would pull back immediately, retreating as if she were a startled deer. I was left in a state of confusion, completely unaware of where that line lay or how to navigate it. All I knew was that, inevitably, when I did cross it, Isabel would vanish, leaving me behind in a cloud of uncertainty and longing.

So I dated around, exploring relationships with women who were a stark contrast to Isabel. I wasn’t entirely sure why I gravitated toward such different types, but I suspected it was because whenever I encountered a girl who mirrored my stepsister’s charm or wit, I couldn’t help but draw comparisons. It became painfully clear that none of them could hold a candle to her. Time and again, I found myself pushing them away, somehow managing to hurt their feelings in the process, and then I’d be left with a gnawing sense of guilt. It was simply easier to pursue girls who bore no resemblance to Isabel; with them, there was little risk of emotional entanglement. I could maintain the illusion of indifference, knowing they wouldn’t expect anything more from me.

I still can’t quite comprehend how I ended up at the same bar as Isabel tonight. It felt like a twist of fate, a sheer accident. A guy at work had casually mentioned the night’s entertainment—a wet t-shirt contest—while expressing his hopes of picking up one of the losers to offer her a thoughtful consolation prize. When my gaze finally fell upon Isabel across the dimly lit bar, about fifteen minutes before she noticed me, I found myself captivated, unable to tear my eyes away from her. The way she seemed to light up the room, radiating confidence and charm, brought back a rush of memories that I thought I had buried deep within me.

Isabel was there, effortlessly holding a conversation with her best friend Eliza amidst the lively chatter of the bar. However, Eliza's attention was divided. She kept turning around, her gaze fixed on the bartender, her body language radiating a determination to secure his notice. Eventually, her persistence paid off, leaving Isabel momentarily conversing with an inattentive companion.

Eliza was the kind of girl I often sought out in a futile attempt to distract myself from Isabel. She was slender, blonde, and I suspected she might have been a gymnast in her past, given her extraordinary flexibility. Her physical allure was undeniable and could reduce anyone to fantasizing about the possibilities she presented. Yet, there was a transient quality to her, not in terms of her physical presence, but rather her personality. It was as if she lacked the depth and substance that truly captivated me.

Isabel caught my eye after a few minutes, and I took that as an encouraging sign to walk over and say hello, as well as to stretch my flirtatious wings a bit. It had been a few weeks since I’d last seen her, and she looked as stunning as ever, with her radiant smile and that effortless charm that always drew me in. Too bad the moment was marred. Not just by Eliza, who seemed to be oblivious to the tension in the air, but also by an obnoxious idiot clutching a mug of beer, his determination palpable as he loudly proclaimed his hopes to see if Isabel would truly win the wet t-shirt contest if given the chance.

I have to admit, I was momentarily shocked into silence when I caught sight of her shirt clinging to her body like a second skin. I’d seen her curves before in far less clothing, and yet that familiarity did not lessen their allure; if anything, it heightened my fascination. The way the fabric accentuated her shape made my thoughts wander to more daring fantasies. I wanted nothing more than to peel that beer-soaked shirt off of her and lick her clean, to erase any remnants of the chaos surrounding us. But then, reality kicked back in. As the crowd began to turn, their excited cheers ringing out in support of my step-sister to win the contest, I instinctively stepped in front of her, positioning myself like a shield to guard her from their prying eyes. No one needed to see her stunning curves but me; they were a private treasure that should remain just that.

I glanced over my shoulder, intending to take off my shirt and offer it to her as a makeshift cover, but to my dismay, she had vanished into the crowd. Frustration surged through me, and in that heated moment, I did the only thing that seemed reasonable. I swung my fist, connecting squarely with the face of the man who had drenched her in beer. In that instant, I completely lost sight of my usual composure—my business attire and polished demeanor felt like a distant memory, and I certainly wasn’t invincible. I also failed to consider the raucous environment around me, a bar teeming with inebriated patrons who wouldn’t take kindly to my outburst.

His fist met my jaw in retaliation, and just like that, the situation escalated into an all-out brawl. The chaos erupted, fists flying and bodies colliding, as the adrenaline coursed through my veins. A good two minutes later, the bartender—Eliza, the very same woman I had noticed moments before—was forced to intervene. With an exasperated sigh, she stepped in to separate us, her eyes blazing with authority. As she handed me a bag full of ice for my bruising face, she leveled me with a stern warning: if I ever pulled a stunt like that again, I would find myself permanently unwelcome in her establishment.