The library used to be my favorite place. The smell of old paper, the quiet. I would read about heroes and magic. Real magic. I thought it was beautiful.

Now I know what real magic feels like. It's not in a book. It's the cold shock of the floor on my knees. It's the taste of salt and shame. It's the way my own body betrays me, getting wet when I'm supposed to be screaming.

He makes me describe it. Out loud. What I'm doing to him. What my tongue feels like on his cock. How tight my little cunt is. He says the words make it more real, more degrading. He's right. Every explicit, filthy word carves the memory deeper. I used to blush if someone mentioned 'kissing'. Now I can say 'cum' and 'fuck' and 'lick his balls' without even stuttering. The worst part isn't saying it. The worst part is the tiny, hidden part of me that's starting to... notice. The warmth. The pulse. The way my brother's breath hitches. I hate it. I hate that my pussy gets slick for him. I'm so sorry.