adaption of a doujin

This is a written adaption of Yanagida Fumita's 'ゴツゴウ相姦.'
You can read it here, http://exhentai.org/g/656543/44c6e1fd7e/
I make no claim of originality for this work.
I only wanted to put what feelings the story gave me into words.


"You're leaving again?"
She stopped, halfway across the threshold. I could see her whole body tense, as if caught in a crime.
"Yes... I won't be back until later tonight."
Without another word, she slipped through the doorway and disappeared into the early morning. The door swung back, catching its latch, the noise bouncing around in my head as the room descended into silence.
I don't blame her. Anyone would want to shoulder this burden onto someone else.
There's maybe an hour left. I take the time to brush my teeth, wash my hair in the bathroom sink. I feel dread bubbling up in my stomach as the morning slowly trudges by... Why am I so anxious? It's only my sister.
My thoughts are jarred by a loud banging, muffled by the walls of our apartment, as if on queue. She's up awfully early this morning.
The door creaks open slowly, just enough for me to catch a glimpse of her. I wasn't quite ready to stick my neck out.
She sat on her legs upon the floor, in a pile of frizzled bed hair and a nightgown that was much too large for her. She was holding her alarm clock in one hand and trying to jam a ballpoint pen into its digital screen with the other, slamming it into the plastic as hard as she could. I sighed and decided to intervene.
"Hey, hey! Stop that!" I snatched the clock from her midstep. It wasn't plugged in, at least. She turned her head directly upward to look at me, her eyes peaking through messy, matted blonde hair.
There was a sort of listlessness in her grey eyes. She was awake, but her emotionless expression was one of someone who was stuck in a dream. No cognition. Was I even there, to her?
"Breaking something again, huh? Why the clock?" I tried to wake her from her subdued catatonia, and bent my knees, lowering my face to hers.
"It.. It was talking to me." She ran her fingers over the pen, and gave the clock a menancing look. "Clocks aren't supposed to talk."
"Talking to you?" I lowered my eyes at her, a familiar feeling of impatience coming over me. She was always coming up with crazy reasons to throw a goddamn fit and make a mess of the place.
"I woke up and the clock was talking. Saying threatening things. It told me not to wear very much today-- slut-shaming me." Her small and meek voice matched her tiny, malnourished frame.
"That was just the early morning weather report. The alarm on this thing turns the radio on." I set the clock back on the drawer near her bed. It had a hole in its face, now, but it should still work. "You know that's how it works, don't be an idiot."
She huffed at me and folded her arms, trying to look dignified as a mess of hair and cloth on her filthy floor.
"You're the idiot."

She's not really my sister. I don't have any obligation to watch after her.
I could just leave all day like my mother does, but then this girl could end up hurting herself trying to stab clocks or who knows what.
It wasn't always like this. I spent much of my childhood alone, the single child of a single mother. My father died when I was very young, too young to get to know him. My mother tried again with another man, either out of loneliness or unable to handle the sole burden of raising a bright eyed little bastard.
This man had a daughter of his own, a cute little thing named Halley. She was always a rebellious spirit. Never wanted to listen to listen to anyone.
She would skip school to be with who she called her friends. An older guy and his buddies, bunch of delinquents who I'd regularly see smoking pot in plain sight in public places, like the park near the high school. She found them and their objection of authority attractive, I guess. Her twisted kid idea of mature.
She would regularly stumble into the house late at night. She'd be so high she couldn't open her door by herself, slumping up against the wall in the hallway and sleeping right there. Time and time again I'd have to get up and carry her to her bed. If she woke up, she'd call me "bitch boy," "white knight beta," "disgusting pedophile."
One day she gathered some clothes into one of her dad's suitcases and said she couldn't stand living here anymore-- that she wouldn't be coming back. I didn't try to stop her. What would be the point? She would just sneak out when I wasn't looking later. The father threw a fit, said he would call the police and have all those degenerates she spent her time with put away.
He didn't go through with it. Instead, when she disappeared out the door, he just waited like he always did. For three days, without hearing a word from her or seeing a hair on her head. He looked tired. Fed up with everything. Then he, too, walked out the door-- and never came back.

It was about two full weeks later that the door slowly creaked open, her tiny, weak arms struggling to push it past the doormat. She managed to take two steps inside before collapsing onto the floor. Her arms and legs were covered in bruises. Her clothes ripped, obvious signs of struggle. Her eyes were red as if she had been crying, but all the tears had dried. I picked her up, lighter and more frail than she had ever been, and carried her to her room like always. She didn't belittle me. She barely recognized me, hardly understood where she was. As I tucked her into her bed, I watched her eyes stare off into the ceiling, as if it were some kind of window to another place, far away from here. Somewhere she wished she could go to escape.
Since then, she's changed. Reverted to a kind of childlike state of simple mindedness. She can't-- or rather, won't-- do much on her own, so I find myself cooking her meals and telling her to eat, helping her bathe. If I leave her alone, she becomes paranoid. She thinks everyone and everything has some personal vendetta with her, sometimes even inanimate objects.

"What're you reading?"
She barges into my room, wearing only an oversized sweater. She's sucking on the tip of her thumb as she approaches me-- she must have cut herself when she was attacking the clock earlier.
"I thought you were in bed." I respond impatiently. This is the only time I have to myself, late at night after I've put her to bed. Looking at her, I see dark circles under reddened eyes. She hasn't been sleeping well lately, and I feel a twinge of unreasonable guilt as if it's my fault.
"It's boring in there," she says through a yawn, "and too quiet. Am I going deaf? Why isn't there any noise?" She was just babbling nonsense again.
"No." I remained nonchalant as she clambered onto my bed, crawling all over me and falling inbetween my legs. I was used to her invading my personal space like this and things would be harder if I resisted, so I just let her do it and looked back to my book.
"Hey! Hey!" She piped up, grabbing the book by the top of its spine. "I wanna read too."
"Uh, okay. You still know how to do that, right?" I reached over to one of the books sitting on the dresser next to my bed.
"I'm not retarded." She said, sounding annoyed. I raised an eyebrow at her.
"Alright, how about this--" The first book at the top of the stack bore the label SICP. No, that's a little too complex for Halley...
"No! I wanna read the book you're reading!" Her high pitched voice demanded of me, gripping the book. I just let her take it.
"Er, alright." But giving her the book only caused her face to scrunch up impatiently.
"No, no!" She slapped my arm with the book. "I want you to read it to me. Read it to me!"
I really wasn't in the mood for that. I just took from her and set it on the dresser.
"I don't think I feel like reading anymore."
She sat there in my lap for a moment, and her eyes seem to glaze over both with boredom and fascination-- of me, I suppose. I could never read her face anymore.
"Mom hasn't come home tonight, has she?"
Her eyes fixate on mine, sparkling with a sudden wicked intention. Ah, yes. This is what it always comes to, now. This is why she walks around wearing next to nothing and bothers me in the middle of the night.

Maybe a month ago, something was bothering her. I still don't know what. She comes into my room, bawling her eyes out. She tries to tell me what happened, but she can't form the words inbetween her sobs-- it just sounds like incoherent babbling. She looks at me so desperately, loneliness and despair written across her features. I couldn't leave her like that, even if she was rotten to me before. Even if she called me a 'dickless, faggot virgin' more times than I cared to remember.
I held her, and petted her, and let her know everything was alright, and that I was there for her. And there, with her in my arms, in our quiet, vacant apartment, something stirred in me that I couldn't reason. What I felt shouldn't be-- but there was no fighting it.
I pitied her. I was disgusted with her. And I loved her.
Before I knew what I was doing, she was beneath me, writhing and panting. Sweat covered our bodies, and I had kissed away all of her tears. As I look at her, like a wounded deer under my paw, I had never been so angry with myself. I had done something reprehensible. And yet, she smiled. For the first time since she had come back home, she was smiling.
Since then, she has never left me alone. Tonight would be no different.

I think for her, it was an escape. Though she has never told me, it is clear how she was abused by her 'friends.' They drugged her, took advantage of her and beat her. Maybe then-- as she is doing now-- she used sex as escapism to distance her mind from what was happening around her.
She squirms under my hands, her breathing ragged. She's so very small. She's only a couple years younger than me, and yet still, her head only just comes up to my chest, and her body is so thin. I can never convince her to eat more than a little.
The sweater she's wearing is a little old, but the fabric is soft and thin enough for me to catch glimpses of the texture of her skin with my fingers. She sits in my lap, leaning up against me, biting her finger as I touch her.
Is this right? Is this wrong? Flashes of gratification, pangs of self-disgust and guilt. My mind is awash with conflicting feelings.
"You shouldn't stay up late. You need your rest." I whisper in her ear, tracing my fingers over her breast. She replies with a sharp inhalation, but nothing more. I run my hands southward, toward the parts below the sweater. Her body quivvers beneath me. Her skin burns hot.
"Do you remember how you used to treat me?" I take my hands off of her for a moment.
"I don't know what you're talking about..." She mumbles, wiggling and trying to sink further into my grasp.
I know she remembers. I know she was traumatized, but it didn't erase the person she was before. Every time we do it... Every time she comes to me and gives me those big pretty eyes of hers and coerces me, I try to get her to admit how cruel she was to me. Maybe this time, if I really tease her...
Without warning, I reach and touch the hottest part of her, causing her to jolt in her seat. I hold her still and I run my fingers up and down her, listening to her body as I manipulate her.
"P.. Please..." She cries, desperation in her voice, her hands upon mine, trying to force me to do more to her.
"Apologize for what you did to me." I convey no emotion in my voice and quicken my pace. She whines.
"I don't know what you're talking about. I'd never be mean to you... I'm a good girl." She pants and sighs inbetween words.
"You idiot. Good girls don't do this kind of thing with their brothers." I sink a digit into her as I speak, to cement it in her mind. A surprised cry escapes her lips.
"I..." She whimpers. I reach toward her center. I knew her weak points, and that knowledge was disturbing if I thought too deeply on it. Her hands grip the sheets, her body tense. "I don't... know..."
I was starting to get frustrated. I withdrew from her and stood up. She fell backward onto the bed, where I'd been sitting, looking forlorn.
"Apologize," I said, undoing the button on my pants. Her eyes opened wide, her lips parted and I saw words formulate behind her eyes, but there was no response. My patience has run thin; I simply revealed myself to her, my body not objecting to the situation the same way my mind was. She reached her hand out to me, and I took a step back away from her.
"Okay!" She blurted out, her face red. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"
What? That was easy. I slacked my shoulders in resignation-- she was always like this when I whipped it out. I paused a moment, staring at her. No, this wasn't good enough.
"Say it like you mean it."
"I'm sorry!" She repeated, no hesitation at all. There was a pleading look in her eyes. I sighed.
"Put some feeling into it."
"I'm sooorrryyy!" She cried. I caught myself mid-snigger, realizing I was now being the cruel one.
"Alright, come here," I calmly called to her, sitting back down on the bed. She practically leapt on top of me, her arms sliding over my shoulders and her hands hooking behind my neck. My hands fell onto her small hips, and I felt her squirm on top of me as she positioned herself. We touched-- and she let out a short but sharp gasp. I used my hand to right myself, placed myself at her entrance, and her hips lowered as I sunk into her. There was a dizzy look on her face, one of excitement, but also contentedness and calm.
"J-just stay still... Be gentle, okay?" Her flushed face smiled bashfully at me, her gaze locked on mine. I knew the drill-- I couldn't move inside her very much, she was much too sensitive. If I did, it would just end up hurting her. This meant, of course, that she didn't really want to have sex. She simply wanted to be connected to me.
Her eyes closed, her slightly puckered lips pressing against mine gently. I could object, I could resist. I could push her off of me. I could tell her this is wrong. But I didn't. Feeling her body relax against mine, feeling the heat or her skin and the thump of her heartbeat-- I couldn't say no to her.

How much time had passed?
A dizzying haze shrouded the room. I felt intoxicated by her body, her heat. I licked her, kissed her, held her close. Her small movements, each little noise that escaped her escaped her mouth sent a wave of pleasure that made me feel drunk and ever more hungry.
Hours could have gone by for all I knew. Time ceased to have meaning. The room barely existed to me, she filled each of my senses and it was never enough. I wanted more.
"Halley," I whispered in her ear. I moved so slightly out of her, her grip tightening around me as I did.
"N.. no, don't.." A pitiful little whine. I pressed my lips to hers, silencing her, and pressed our bodies together again. She gasped and sucked the air from my mouth. Her nails dug into my back.
"I'm scared! Don't... don't..." Her voice, stilted, unsteady, pleaded with me, but I couldn't contain myself. I moved as gently as I could, holding her tight against me.
"It's okay," I soothed, kissing her forehead. "I'm here."
I felt her tense all around me as I began to work her-- the heat of our bodies had stirred me into a fever pitch. I struggled to control myself, and I heard her voice catch in her throat. Each time I moved against her, she sounded like she was suffocating-- as if I was stealing the very breath from her body. I glanced to her face; her teeth were clenched, her features covered in panic. I kissed her again to calm her, but she could not respond to me, only cling for dear life.
She screamed, and her body convulsed violently. A strange mix of guilt and satisfaction filled me, and I felt the blood flow from claw marks scraped from my back. She collapsed against me, completely limp.

The morning sun peaked through the window, casting the only illumination in my room. I used it to read my book as she lay her head in my lap, her body covered only by my blanket.
I pet her soft hair and listened to her breathe steadily as she slept.
As normal as things felt in this moment, I knew in just a few hours things would be back to the way she was before. I knew, even then, however, that none of it was real. I knew she was just scared. Scared of having no place to turn. Scared of having no one to depend on.
In the silent and small hours of the morning, while she slept, I felt safe enough-- unobstructed by the facade of our brother-sister relationship-- to tell her what was on my mind.
"Hey, Halley." I whispered, quietly, to her. "You don't have to put on an act, for me." Her breathing stopped for a moment.
"If there's any chance you're doing this because you think I'll ditch you if you're not.. helpless..." I ran my hand through my hair. Even now, it was hard to tell her the truth.
"I'm not going to abandon you. Not after everything that's happened."
"So you don't have to pretend. I'm not going anywhere."
I saw her eyes open slightly. She lay there for a minute, motionlessly.
"Did you say something?" Her small voice squeaked through a veil of sleepiness. Her hair was a mess and one of her eyes wasn't ready to open, yet.
"... No. Nothing at all."