PixieGirlChaos
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Quick Author Note:
Last year, I posted my second story, Sins of My Sister, which you can find here: Sins of My Sister.
I loved the experience so much that I challenged myself to write and post a new story every two months. Well… one year later, with many stories started but not finished, here we are again in January.
I was working on a cover of College Dorm Tickling by i64 when my partner shared a story about losing a bet in college and having to run nude around campus. That little anecdote sparked something in me, and before I knew it, I had written an entire story about a girl losing bets and facing ticklish punishments.
There are so many directions this story could go, and if you enjoy it, please let me know! I do plan to write more chapters, but knowing there’s interest would be a huge motivator—and hopefully, it’ll push me to finally complete more than one story this year. Unlike my previous two stories, this one is entirely original, with no existing story as its foundation. That’s both exciting and a little nerve-wracking since I didn’t have the structure of the giants who came before me to lean on.
I hope you enjoy this story, and thank you for reading. It’s a long one, but I hope you’ll stick with it—I’m really proud of it!
Punishment Game: At My Sister’s Mercy
by PixieGirlChaos
PrologueAs I sat tied to the computer chair in step sisters bedroom you could say I had lots of regrets about todays decision. Regret for agreeing to play this game in the first place. Regret for accepting the terms of the bet—and the punishment that came with losing. And, most glaringly, regret for choosing not to wear a bra. In my defense, when I’d slipped into this flimsy tank top this morning, I’d assumed I’d be wearing a hoodie over it all day, not bound, helpless, and entirely at the mercy of my stepsister. But Jazz, ever the opportunist had stripped me of my armor, both literally and figuratively. My hoodie was gone, leaving me in a thin, white tank top that clung to me like a second skin. My old gyms shorts had also not been a great choice as I suspected they would do nothing to shield me from the relentless assault of her fingers.
And then, as if the universe was conspiring to maximize my humiliation, the tank top decided to stage its own little rebellion. The already thin straps had stretched with my movements, or perhaps with Jazz’s earlier manipulations, and the neckline had slipped precariously low, revealing the upper curve of my breasts, my cleavage suddenly exposed to the cool air and Jazz’s undoubtedly predatory gaze. I desperately wanted to tug it back into place but my hands were bound too tightly, the ropes digging into my wrists with a cruel precision that mocked any attempt at modesty. I could feel the cool air on my suddenly very exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat of humiliation—and something else, a flutter in my stomach, a tightening between my legs, something that felt dangerously close to arousal—burning in my cheeks. Jazz stood there, arms crossed, her lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk she wore so damn well. She knew exactly what she was doing, the sadistic little minx, and she was savoring every single second of it.
I’d love to tell you I was handling this with dignity—stoic, unflinching, maybe even a little heroic. But dignity had left the building the moment Jazz’s fingers brushed against my wrists, tying them with a precision that suggested she’d done this before. And not just once. The ropes were firm, unyielding, and her touch was deliberate, almost clinical, as if she were an artist and I were her canvas. My composure shattered like cheap glass, leaving me trembling and gasping, my pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with her.
She was taking her time, savoring my unraveling like a fine wine, each second stretching into an eternity of exquisite torture. I could feel her eyes on me, tracing every twitch, every shudder, every flicker of vulnerability I desperately tried to conceal but couldn’t. It was maddening, the way she seemed to know exactly how to pull me apart—layer by agonizing layer—without even trying. And the worst part? The truly sickening, shameful part? I hated how much I loved it. Hated how my body betrayed me, how my breath hitched again when she leaned in close, her warm breath ghosting against my ear, her lips brushing the shell as she whispered, low and possessive, “You’re mine now.” A shiver ran through me, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air.
Don’t look so scandalized,” she said, her grin sharpening, predatory and knowing, as she leaned in closer, the scent of vanilla and something darker—something musky and undeniably hers—filling the air between us, suffocatingly close. “You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I hissed through gritted teeth, though the tremor in my voice betrayed the lie.
She chuckled, a low, throaty rumble that vibrated against my skin, making my stomach clench in anticipation.
“Oh, but you did,” she purred, her voice laced with amusement and something far more dangerous. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
Then, with a movement so fluid and practiced it sent a fresh wave of unease through me, she straddled me. The contact was immediate, jarringly intimate. Her thighs pressed against mine, a firm, possessive weight, the heat of her body radiating through the thin fabric of my gym shorts. It was then, with the direct contact, that I realized she wasn't wearing shorts at all. Just… underwear beneath the oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame, the hem dangling almost to her knees. The warmth of her body radiated through me, a disorienting mix of comfort and threat, momentarily eclipsing the panic and stealing the breath from my lungs. She smelled of strawberries—sweet and deceptively innocent, a scent that filled the suffocatingly small space between us, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything but the feel of her weight on my lap, the heat of her skin so close to mine.
As she settled more firmly on my lap, her gaze dropped for a fleeting moment to my chest, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her smirk returned, sharper than ever. With a slow, deliberate movement, she reached down and, with the barest touch of her fingertips, tugged the fallen tank top up a fraction of an inch, just enough to minimize the most blatant exposure, but not enough to alleviate the burning humiliation. I almost asked her to pull it up more but realizing how humiliated I was worried she might pull the top down more instead.
“Comfy?” she whispered, her voice a syrupy-sweet tease laced with a dangerous undercurrent that sent a jolt of nervous energy through me. She leaned closer still, her warm breath in my ear, sending shivers racing down my spine. “You should be. I mean, I worked so hard to make sure those ropes were just right.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry and tight. “Jazz—” I managed, but my voice cracked, the sound barely a whisper, betraying my carefully constructed facade of defiance.
Her soft chuckle cut me off, “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, her fingers trailing lightly down my sides, the touch so feather-light it felt like a whisper of contact, yet sending a jolt of awareness through my entire body. I flinched involuntarily, and her grin widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Look at you—so jumpy already. Poor thing. Is this…too much for you?”"
Then her expression shifted, the playful teasing replaced by something colder, more calculating. “Now,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, serious tone that sent a shiver of genuine fear through me.
“Remember the punishment.” She took my chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting my head so I was forced to look at the clock on the wall. “If you can survive fifteen minutes of tickling,” she enunciated slowly, each word dripping with a deliberate menace, “without saying the safe word, we let you go. If you don’t…” Her smirk returned, a cruel twist of her lips. “…you have to draw a new punishment from the hat. Or,” she added, leaning in close again, her breath warm against my ear, “you can choose to be tickled for a straight thirty minutes. Your choice.”"
I suddenly true realized how helpless I truly was. She good do anything to me, the thought filled my stomach with dread, but there was something else, a warm feeling between my legs...I slammed that thought out of my head as Jazzs fingers began to move forward.
Her fingers moved with deliberate precision, skimming over my ribs, my sides, my stomach. Each touch was a calculated strike, leaving no inch of me untouched. She knew exactly how to break me, and she was doing it slowly, methodically, savoring every second of my unraveling.
“Jazz,” I gasped, my voice cracking as I arched against the restraints. “Stop—”
“Stop?” she interrupted, feigning innocence as her nails grazed the sensitive skin just above my waistband. “You don’t really want me to stop.” Her lips curved into a wicked smile as she tilted her head, her curls brushing against my cheek. “Do you?”
The truth lodged itself in my throat, refusing to come out. She wasn’t wrong. Even as I thrashed and gasped and begged for mercy, there was a part of me that didn’t want this to end. A part that craved the intensity, the intimacy, the sheer, dizzying thrill of being completely at her mercy.
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear. “14 minutes left,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise that sent a shiver racing through me. “Think you can handle it?”
Her fingers moved lower, tracing maddening circles along my hips, just shy of being too much. My head fell back, a strangled laugh escaping my lips as I fought to hold onto some semblance of control.
“Jazz, please,” I breathed, my voice trembling.
“‘Please’ already?” she taunted, her grin deepening. “You’re making this far too easy, sweetheart.”
Her fingers dipped just beneath the waistband of my shorts, teasing, threatening to push the line further. My body betrayed me, trembling under her touch as I bit my lip to stifle a moan.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re desperate,” she said softly, her voice laced with satisfaction. “I could keep you like this forever.”
And in that moment, I almost believed her.
“You holding up okay, little sis?” Jazz purred, her lips so close to my ear I could feel the warmth of her breath teasing the sensitive skin. “You know, if you just said the word, this could all stop.”
“N-never,” I choked out, my voice trembling as she delivered another sudden, ruthless jab to my sides.
Jazz’s smirk widened, her expression dripping with triumph. She leaned back slightly, her fingers wiggling in the air above me like a magician about to perform a particularly cruel trick.
“Alright, Bell,” she said sweetly, dragging out every syllable of my name in that mock-syrupy tone she loved to use. “I’ll give you ten seconds. Either you tell me the secret word, or I’m going to make you regret every cocky thing you said before we started this game.”
Her nose was inches from mine, her hazel eyes boring into me with that signature intensity of hers. Jazz didn’t bluff—she never bluffed. My heart hammered against my ribcage as the countdown began.
“Ten…” she started, her fingers hovering like claws over my ribs.
I bit my lip hard, willing myself not to break.
“Nine…”
Her fingertips twitched, threatening to strike.
“Eight…”
Why did I make this stupid bet? Why did I think I could beat her at Mario Kart? Pride was a stupid thing to cling to, but now it was the only thing keeping me from screaming the safe word.
“Seven…”
The nervous smile crept onto my face despite my best efforts to stay stoic. Jazz noticed, of course. She noticed everything.
“Six…”
“You’re evil,” I muttered weakly, my voice trembling.
Jazz’s grin widened. “Four…”
“You skipped five!” I cried, panic bubbling up in my chest.
“Oh, did I?” she said with faux innocence, leaning in closer. “I guess you’ll have to punish me later.”
“Three…”
“Jazz, please—”
“Two…”
Her hands shot forward, stopping just short of contact, and I flinched. My entire body tensed in anticipation, my breath catching in my throat.
“One…”
And then—chaos.
Her fingers struck with merciless precision, spidering across my ribs, my stomach, my sides. My body jerked against the restraints, my laughter bursting out uncontrollably. It wasn’t just the sensation; it was the build-up, the sheer intensity of it all, that made me lose control.
Jazz’s hands were everywhere, her nails dragging over the thin fabric of my tank top, her fingertips pinching and prodding the most sensitive spots she could find. Every motion was deliberate, every touch designed to break me.
“You look adorable like this,” she said, her tone casual, as if she weren’t absolutely wrecking me. “All tied up, laughing like a little kid. Makes me wonder if you didn't lose on purpose.”
“Y-you—are—the worst!” I gasped out, though my words were barely coherent through the fits of laughter.
She grinned wider, her curls brushing against my face as she leaned in close. “Flattery won’t save you, sis.”
Her hands dipped lower, grazing my hips, and I practically leapt out of my skin. My tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing bare skin that she wasted no time exploiting.
“Jazz!” I shrieked, my voice a mix of laughter and desperation.
“Say the word,” she said again, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Just one little word, and I’ll stop. Until then…” Her fingers trailed up my sides, then down again, her touch maddeningly slow. “I’m having way too much fun to let you off easy.”
I shook my head, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and something else I didn’t dare name.
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, her fingers resuming their relentless assault. “You’ve got all night to change your mind.”
And then—chaos.
Jazz’s fingers shot straight for my sides, spidering across my ribs with ruthless precision. My body jerked against the restraints, a garbled mix of gasps and laughter spilling from my lips like a dam breaking. Her hands were everywhere—pinching, scribbling, squeezing—each touch a calculated attack designed to dismantle me.
But then—oh no—she slipped her hands under my tank top.
My stomach tensed immediately, the warmth of her fingers on my bare skin sending a shockwave through me. I flinched hard, my laughter breaking into panicked squeals as her hands began their cruel work. My cheeks flushed crimson, humiliation creeping in like a tide.
“N-no, Jazz! Not—there!” I stammered, twisting as much as the silk scarves allowed.
“Ohhh, someone’s extra ticklish here,” Jazz teased, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “And under the shirt, no less? Poor Bell.”
I could barely comprehend her words through the haze of sensation. No one had ever touched me like this before—not under my shirt, not anywhere this intimate—and it made everything so much worse. The soft fabric of my tank top bunched around her wrists as her hands skated over the bare skin of my stomach, exploring every inch.
Her fingers swirled across the soft spots just above my hips, tracing maddening circles around my navel, then darted up to prod at my ribs. My body reacted violently to each touch, a mix of laughter and desperate gasps spilling uncontrollably from me.
“No—nohohoho! Jazz! Plea—hahaha—please!” I begged, my voice cracking.
But Jazz wasn’t done. Her hands moved higher, slipping further under the fabric, her fingers brushing lightly over my bare ribs before creeping toward my armpits.
“Oh, Bell,” Jazz purred, her voice low and teasing as her fingertips grazed the hollows beneath my arms. “Ticklish here, too? What a treasure trove.”
I let out a strangled squeal as she started scratching and wiggling her fingers against the sensitive skin. My laughter turned into helpless shrieks, my body jerking uselessly against the restraints.
“JAHAHAZZ! S-STOHOHOP!”
She laughed softly, her breath warm against my flushed skin. “Why would I stop? You’re adorable like this.”
And then—dear God—she went lower.
Her fingers darted back down to my stomach, swirling teasingly, before pulling them out of the shirt. I thought the worst was over until her thumbs brushed against my nipples through the thin fabric of my tank top.
“Oh, what’s this?” Jazz cooed, her grin widening. “Very sensitive here too, aren’t you?”
Before I could stammer out a protest, her thumbs pressed gently, the motion so light it was almost maddening. Then she started alternating between teasing squeezes and faint, fluttering strokes, her fingertips tracing the edges through the thin cotton.
“J-Jazz!” I gasped, my voice hitching as the sensations became too much. “P-please, st-stohop!”
For a moment, her hands stilled, her smirk turning contemplative. “Hmm… maybe one day I’ll tickle these under the shirt,” she mused, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief,
“But let’s be honest, Bell,” she continued, now adjusting her grip on my tank top to smooth it back down, “you’re probably not ready for that yet.”
The momentary reprieve didn’t last. Jazz’s hands returned to my chest, her fingers now pressing and teasing over the thin fabric. Somehow, this was almost worse—the slightly rough texture of the tank top amplifying the maddening ticklish sensations as she pinched and circled my nipples with deliberate, torturous precision.
“Still so sensitive,” Jazz crooned, leaning closer, her breath warm against my cheek. “You can’t hide anything from me, sis. I’ll find all your weak spots.”
“JAHAHAZZ! NOHOHO!” I cried, my voice breaking as she toyed with the sensitive spots. Each squeeze, each brush of her nails sent shockwaves through my body, leaving me gasping for air and squirming uselessly against my restraints.
Her laughter mingled with mine, low and predatory, as she continued her relentless assault. Just when I thought I might pass out from the overwhelming sensations, her hands retreated, leaving me trembling and panting, my cheeks flushed with heat and embarrassment.
“Say it, Bell,” Jazz whispered, her face so close that her curls brushed my cheeks. “Say the word, or this is only going to get worse.”
I tried to hold out—tried so hard—but my resolve shattered with every passing second.
“S-SAFETY!” I finally screamed, my voice cracking.
Jazz froze, her grin widening. “What was that?”
“S-SAFETY!” I gasped again, barely able to get the word out.
She gave me one last, teasing poke to my ribs before slowly pulling her hands away, her smirk practically glowing.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I slumped back in the chair, every inch of me tingling. My tank top clung to my sweat-dampened skin, a constant reminder of how exposed I felt, both physically and emotionally. My chest heaved with ragged breaths, and my nerves were still on fire from her relentless assault.
But Jazz wasn’t done.
With a theatrical flourish, she pulled the hat from behind her back.
Oh no.
The consequence hat.
My stomach dropped, humiliation pooling in my chest as her hazel eyes lit up with wicked anticipation.
“Alright, little sis,” Jazz said, her voice sing-song, “you know the rules. You lost, and now it’s time to pay up.”
“Jazz, wait—”
She cut me off with a single finger pressed to my lips. “Uh-uh. You play the game, you face the consequences. Now let’s see what fate has in store for you…”
Her hand dipped into the hat, her fingers swirling among the folded slips of paper like a predator circling its prey.
When she finally pulled one out, her grin turned positively feral as she unfolded it.
“Oh no,” I whispered, my heart sinking as her eyes flicked back to mine.
“Oh yes,” Jazz said, her tone practically purring. “You’re gonna love this one.”
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
I glanced across the table at Keith, looking shar his perfectly styled hair and confident smirk exactly the kind of thing that should make my heart race. We were at a restaurant, something fancy—the kind with dim lighting and wine glasses I definitely didn’t know how to hold properly. Keith leaned in, his hazel eyes locking onto mine, his hand sliding over the table toward me. I knew what was coming. A kiss. A perfect, romantic, movie-moment kiss.
I didn’t pull away. I leaned in too, my breath hitching as our lips neared—
And suddenly, Keith wasn’t Keith anymore.
He was Lizz.
Lizz, the cute, blonde, painfully cool girl from my U.S. History class. Lizz, who I’d definitely never thought about kissing before. Until now.
I should have jerked back. I should have recoiled in confusion. But instead, I leaned in hungrily, my body betraying me, drawn to her soft lips, to the scent of vanilla and something warm and familiar—
Her hands darted forward and dug into my sides.
I gasped, suddenly squirming, laughing, thrashing as ticklish shocks ran up my spine—
I jerked awake with a loud gasp, my body still tingling from the ghost of the sensation.
Except… oh. That wasn’t a dream. I was actually being tickled.
"Kristen!" I half-laughed, half-shrieked, trying to fend off my roommate’s wiggling fingers. "Get off me!"
Kristen, grinning like a gremlin, finally flopped down on the bed next to me. "Bell, it’s 11:30 AM." She stretched her arms above her head, looking disgustingly awake. "Come get lunch with me before you shrivel up and die of hangover starvation."
I groaned. My head throbbed, my mouth tasted like regret, and my memory of last night was more of a vague impressionist painting than an actual sequence of events. The party had been wild. Too many drinks, too many people, too many moments that blurred together. I really needed to stop drinking so much.
Kristen rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her palm. "So… what happened with you and Keith?"
That snapped me a little more awake. I blinked at her, my stomach twisting slightly.
"He seemed really mad last night," she added, her expression curious but not judgmental.
A faint, hazy memory surfaced. Keith’s tense face. His frustration. His voice, tight with irritation:
"What is your deal, Bell? Seriously. We’ve been dating for months, and it’s like you don’t even—"
I swallowed. Keith had been getting frustrated with my lack of interest in pushing things physically. Not that he’d ever been a total jerk about it, but… I just couldn’t do it. No matter how good-looking he was, no matter how much I told myself I should want it.
"Not sure," I lied, forcing a shrug.
And then, another flash of memory hit me.
Soft lips. A closet on the second floor. Hands on my waist, pressing me back against the door. A body against mine.
But not Keith’s.
My stomach dropped.
I shut the memory down fast.
It was nothing. I was just drunk. It didn’t mean anything.
Kristen was still watching me, waiting for more, and I forced out a too-casual laugh. "Anyway. Where are we eating?"
Kristen, thankfully, let it go. "Cafeteria. Come on, get up, you gremlin."
I groaned, threw my pillow at her, and dragged myself out of bed— but inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t nothing.
That maybe, last night had meant something.
And I wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.
"Oh by the way" said Kristen, your phone has been going crazy all day, everything allright? I pulled my hungover self out of bed and glanced at my phone and saw 10 missed phone calls from my dad, and then a bunch from my brother. "Ugh, I will call them after I eat". Truth was since my dad had started dating Margo I had been pretty distant from the family. My mom had passed away a few years earlier, and while I was genuinely happy my dad had found someone who made him smile again, I wasn’t exactly ready to see him with someone else. It felt like a betrayal of something, though I couldn’t have told you what. Maybe it was a betrayal of her memory, as though moving on meant her absence mattered less. Or maybe it was a betrayal of us—of the version of our family that once felt unbreakable, now fractured and reshaped into something I barely recognized.
Grief is funny like that. It’s not just sadness; I wanted him to be happy—God, I really did—but every time I saw him with that lovesick smile, it tugged at something raw and unsettled in me. It wasn’t rational, and I knew it, but rationality has never been a match for grief.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie awake and wonder what my mom would have thought about all of it. Would she have been okay with Dad finding someone else? Would she have wanted me to be okay with it? I could almost hear her voice in my head, gentle and soothing: It’s alright, sweetheart. He deserves to be happy. And so do you.
But it didn’t feel alright. Not yet.
When Dad told me about her for the first time, his voice was so light, so full of hope, that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything except, “That’s great, Dad.” I plastered on a smile that felt more like a mask, trying to hide the storm brewing inside me. Because how could I explain it? How could I say, I’m happy for you, but I’m also a little broken, and seeing you move on makes it worse, without sounding selfish?
I wanted to be better—more mature, more understanding—but the truth was, I wasn’t there yet.
My phone buzzed again, "Bell come on!" said Kristen thowing a pillow at me "Just answer them and then we will head out."
I groaned, fumbling for it on the nightstand, and squinted at the screen. Family Zoom Call - 10 AM. Big News!
Big news. I stared at the words, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what the “big news” was.
I joined the call out of obligation, my hair still a mess and a cup of coffee in hand. Dad was beaming, Margo sitting beside him with her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her smile was polished, her posture perfect, and her energy was... calm, like she had everything figured out.
“We’re getting married!” Dad announced, his voice practically bubbling with excitement.
. The rest of the family erupted into cheers and congratulations, but all I could do was sit there, staring at the screen as if it had just punched me in the gut.
“Bell? You okay, sweetheart?” Dad asked, his brow furrowing slightly when he noticed my lack of reaction.
I forced a smile, the same hollow mask I’d been perfecting since Mom died. “Yeah, that’s... wow, that’s great, Dad. Congrats.”
The words tasted bitter, but I swallowed them anyway.
The rest of the call was a blur, their voices a distant hum as I nodded and smiled at all the right moments. But inside, I was a mess. The reality of it hit me like a freight train: Margo wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t just his girlfriend anymore. She was going to be my stepmom.
When the call ended, I sat there for a long time, staring at the blank screen. A part of me wanted to scream, to throw something, to cry until there was nothing left. Another part wanted to shake myself and say, Get over it. You’re an adult now. This isn’t about you.
But the truth was, I wasn’t over it. And I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
I ended the call as Kristen came out of the bathroom. "Everything okay" she asked seeing the look on my face. I explained what had happened, the proposal, the upcoming marriage. But then I got the to very worst part of all.
Margo had asked to be one of her bridesmaid.
The first real blow came in the form of a text message: Hey, kiddo! Need your measurements for bridesmaid dresses!
Bridesmaid. The word hit me like a slap. Not a guest, not someone who could politely clap from the sidelines and then fade into the background. No, I was going to be in the wedding. Front and center. Smiling for the cameras. Playing nice.
I stared at the message for a long time, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? No thanks, I’d rather choke on a hairball than be part of your new happy family dynamic? That seemed... unhelpful.
In the end, I typed out a noncommittal, Sure, just let me know what you need, and hit send.
But that was just the start. Over the next few weeks, it became a nightmare of obligations. Group chats with Margo’s friends about bachelorette party plans. Emails about venue tours. Calls from Dad asking if I’d be willing to do a toast at the reception—just a short one, kiddo, nothing fancy.
I felt like I was being swept into a whirlpool of tulle, pastel napkins, and carefully orchestrated smiles, and the harder I tried to resist, the more tangled I became.
By the time spring break rolled around, I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer. My name was already on the bridal party list. My place was set at the table. Whether I liked it or not, I was going home.
There was still one more horror awaiting me on the way to the wedding week(yeah they had a wedding week, my literall nightmare). Dress shopping wasn’t exactly my idea of fun. Actually, it ranked somewhere between dentist appointments and cleaning out the attic. The mirrors in these places didn’t help. They had a way of making you hyperaware of every part of yourself you wished you could just… ignore. However Margo insisted that I come with her and her daughter Jazz to pick out dresses. Apparently a bridesmaid dress wasn't enough, we needed unique dresses for all the events of this wedding from the bridal shower, bachelorrete party, wedding rehearsal, etc. To add to this my mom had often taking me dress shopping so going with my new step mom wasn't something I was sure I was ready for.
However, as you may have noticed earlier in the story, I'm really bad at saying no. So, of course, I said yes—and went.
As soon as I stepped into the dress store, I was greeted—no, ambushed—by my new stepmother, Margo, and her daughter, Jazz. Margo, towering at nearly 6'1", was a force of nature. She had the kind of presence that turned heads the moment she walked into a room—statuesque, curvy in all the right places, with a thick cascade of red hair that fell past her shoulders. Her warm yet overpowering hugs always ended with my face smothered against her ample chest, leaving me gasping for air and dignity.
Jazz, on the other hand, was her opposite in nearly every way. Barely 5'2" and slender to the point of looking deceptively delicate, she had the same fiery red hair as her mother, but hers was wild, untamed, a mess of waves that framed her freckled face. She had a grin that made my skin prickle—too knowing, too mischievous, like she was constantly in on a joke I wasn’t privy to. Something about her made me uneasy, like a cat toying with a mouse just for the fun of it.
At 5’6” and about 130 pounds, I wasn’t overweight, but I wasn’t what anyone would call confident either. My large chest, the part of me that always seemed to garner attention I didn’t want, was something I constantly tried to hide. Loose shirts and baggy hoodies were my go-to armor. But here, in this boutique with Margo and Jazz, I felt completely exposed.
The shop was practically a shrine to all things girly—soft pink walls, glittery accents, and a faint floral perfume that clung to everything. Margo, though, looked like she was in her element. She flitted between racks with an energy I didn’t expect, holding up dresses and tossing them into a growing pile for Jazz and me.
“Oh, Bell, this would look gorgeous on you!” Margo exclaimed, holding up a fitted green dress that I already hated on principle.
Jazz smirked. “Yeah, Bell, imagine walking into the wedding looking like that. Heads would turn.”
“Hard pass,” I muttered, trailing behind them like a reluctant shadow.
“Sweetheart, you don’t even know how good you’ll look until you try it on,” Margo said, her voice as warm and inviting as ever.
It was hard to hate her when she talked like that. I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead, I found myself softening toward her despite my initial resistance. She had a way of making you feel like you belonged.
Jazz, on the other hand, was a tornado of chaos. She was pulling dresses off racks at random, holding them up to herself, Margo, and even me, like some kind of amateur stylist.
“Try this one,” Jazz said, shoving a slinky black dress at me.
“No way.”
“Oh, come on,” Margo interjected, laughing. “Let’s all try something on. It’ll be fun!”
When we got to the dressing rooms, Margo glanced at the small stalls and then at our growing pile of dresses. “Why don’t we all share a room? It’ll be faster.”
“What?” I squeaked, clutching my pile like a lifeline.
“Relax,” Jazz said, already pushing me toward the largest stall. “We’re all girls here. What’s the big deal?”
I froze for a second as Jazz and Margo walked in casually, setting down their own piles of dresses. Growing up, it had always been just me, my dad, and my brothers. Changing in front of someone else? It wasn’t something I’d ever done.
“Uh, you know, I can just wait until you’re done…” I started.
“Nonsense,” Margo said, waving off my protest as she slipped off her cardigan, revealing a sleek blouse and toned arms.
Jazz was already pulling off her shirt, standing there in just her bra and shorts as she sorted through her dresses. “Bell, you can’t try anything on if you don’t get undressed,” she said with a grin.
My face burned as I fumbled with the hem of my hoodie. Slowly, I peeled it off, then my jeans, until I was standing there in my plain bra and underwear, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.
Jazz, however, seemed unfazed. She stripped off her shorts and bra, standing completely naked as she held up a glittery red dress to herself. “What do you think, Mom? Too much?”
Margo turned to me with a wink. “Jazz has no sense of modesty. You’ll get used to it.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, my eyes darting anywhere but at Jazz, who was now shimmying into the dress.
Margo pulled off her blouse and skirt with practiced ease, slipping into a soft lavender gown. “Bell, sweetheart, you’ve got a great figure. You should show it off more.”
“Y-yeah,” I said, feeling more awkward by the second.
Jazz, now fully dressed, turned to me with a mischievous grin. “Speaking of showing off…”
“Jazz, don’t even think about it,” I warned, but it was too late.
Her fingers darted to my sides, tickling me mercilessly.
“Jazz! Nohohoho!” I squealed, trying to squirm away, but there was nowhere to go.
“Ticklish, huh?” Jazz teased, her fingers attacking my ribs and stomach. “You’re too easy, sis!”
“Jazz, leave her alone,” Margo said, though she was laughing too.
But then Margo joined in, her hands squeezing gently at my sides. “You’re in trouble now, Bell.”
“No! Plehehease!” I gasped, my laughter echoing in the tiny dressing room as they both tickled me.
“Team effort!” Jazz declared, her fingers diving under my arms while Margo focused on my stomach.
By the time they stopped, I was a giggling, breathless mess, leaning against the wall for support.
“You two are the worst,” I said between gasps, though I couldn’t help but laugh.
Margo smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’re just trying to make you feel comfortable, sweetheart. You’re family now.”
Jazz smirked, her wild curls bouncing as she twirled in her dress. “And family doesn’t get off easy.”
Despite myself, I smiled. Maybe this whole wedding thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Jazz was rummaging through a rack of clothes when she suddenly gasped dramatically. “Wait here. I just saw the perfect section!” She darted out of the dressing room before I could protest, leaving me alone with Margo.
I shifted awkwardly, glancing at the pile of dresses I’d already tried on. Margo, meanwhile, was busy slipping out of her blouse to try on a sequined top she’d plucked from her own pile.
“Bell, you don’t mind, do you?” she asked casually, already unclasping her bra.
“Uh…” I stammered, my cheeks heating. “No, it’s fine.”
Growing up with only my dad and brothers, I’d never really been around other women like this. Changing in front of someone else felt alien—intimate, even. Margo, on the other hand, was completely at ease.
She caught my hesitant glance and smiled warmly. “You’re not used to this, are you?”
I shook my head, looking down at my feet. “Not really. I grew up with just my dad and my brothers. I’ve never… you know… changed in front of anyone.”
“That makes sense,” she said, slipping the sequined top over her head. “It’s a little strange at first, but you’ll get used to it. Jazz and I do this all the time.”
I managed a small smile. “Jazz seems… comfortable with everything.”
Margo laughed, the sound light and genuine. “That’s Jazz. She’s fearless. A bit wild, but her heart’s always in the right place.”
I glanced at Margo, who was adjusting the top in the mirror. Despite her casual demeanor, there was a warmth about her that I couldn’t ignore.
“You really care about my dad, don’t you?” I asked suddenly, the words surprising even me.
Margo turned to face me, her expression softening. “I do, Bell. I know it’s probably hard for you to see him with someone else, but your dad is an amazing man. He’s been through so much, and he deserves to be happy.”
Her sincerity caught me off guard, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. “I just… I want him to be okay, you know?”
“He is,” Margo said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “And I hope, in time, you’ll see that I’m not trying to replace anyone. I just want to be part of his life—and yours, too.”
Before I could respond, Jazz burst back into the dressing room, her arms laden with more clothes. “Okay, ladies, I hit the jackpot! Bell, you’re gonna love—or hate—these.”
The momentary seriousness dissolved as Jazz dumped the pile onto the bench and started sorting through it. She held up a short, shimmering dress with a deep neckline and grinned devilishly. “Try this one first.”
I groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, you’re trying it,” Jazz insisted, stepping closer. “Unless you want to deal with these again!” She wiggled her fingers menacingly, and I instinctively backed away.
“Jazz, don’t you dare!” I warned, but she lunged, tickling my sides with merciless precision.
“Jazz!” I shrieked, doubling over in laughter. “Stooop! Nohoho!”
Margo laughed and joined in, her nails lightly dancing along my ribs. “Come on, Bell, don’t fight it. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
Between their combined efforts, I was a laughing, squirming mess, barely able to stay on my feet.
“Fine! I’ll wear it!” I gasped, tears of laughter streaming down my face.
Another thing I learned about my new stepmother—aside from her impeccable taste in both humor and husbands—was that she was rich. And not upper-middle-class, nice suburban house rich. No, I mean private-island-on-the-west-coast rich.
The wedding wasn’t held in some charming vineyard or rustic barn venue. Nope. It was on an island. A literal private island with sparkling blue water, impossibly white sand, and a luxury resort that probably cost more per night than my tuition for an entire semester. Everywhere I looked, there were silk-draped archways, twinkling fairy lights strung between palm trees, and floral arrangements so elaborate they probably required their own passports to get there.
The ceremony itself took place on a perfectly manicured lawn overlooking the ocean. My dad, wearing a sharp suit and looking like he’d won the lottery (which, in a way, he had), stood at the altar, practically glowing. Margo walked down the aisle in an elegant ivory gown that somehow managed to look both timeless and casually effortless. The sun dipped just low enough on the horizon to cast everything in gold. Honestly, it was the kind of wedding you’d see on the cover of a bridal magazine and think, “Yeah, okay, that’s staged.”
I tried not to let my own insecurities bubble up too much during the event. Weddings had a way of making you reflect on yourself, and standing there in a plain dress that Jazz had picked out for me, I felt self-conscious. I wasn’t the type who dressed up often—or well. At 5’6” and about 130 pounds, I wasn’t unhappy with my body, but I wasn’t exactly used to flaunting it either. My large chest, something most people assumed I’d consider an asset, had always felt more like a nuisance. I hid it under loose shirts and sweaters, avoiding anything that might draw attention.
Amidst all the champagne toasts and tearful vows, I met my new step-siblings.
First, there was Jazz—yes, that Jazz, who we’ve met before, nothing new to add. Quick-witted, sharp-tongued she had a way of teasing me that bordered on infuriating but was never mean-spirited, and as much as I hated to admit it, she was growing on me.
Then there was her older sister, Sloane. Sloane was cool. Effortlessly cool. The kind of cool that makes you sit up straighter when she walks into the room. She had dark auburn hair that she wore in a sleek, shoulder-length bob, and her hazel eyes had this piercing quality, like she could see right through you—and probably didn’t hate what she saw, but wasn’t exactly impressed either. She dressed sharp, all tailored blazers and stylish heels, and she had an MBA from somewhere fancy stamped all over her vibe. Despite her intimidating presence, she was surprisingly warm, and after a few conversations, I realized she had a dry, wicked sense of humor that rivaled Jazz’s.
And then there was Callum, the older brother. Callum was… well, he was the golden child. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped auburn hair and a face that probably belonged on a cologne billboard. He worked in finance—naturally—and had that annoyingly easy charm that made him an instant hit with both grandmothers and bartenders. He laughed a lot, had a firm handshake, and looked like the kind of guy who jogs at 5 a.m. for fun. But beneath the polished exterior, there was something genuinely kind about him. He paid attention when people spoke, remembered small details, and always made sure everyone had a drink in their hand at the reception.
Despite my earlier misgivings about my dad moving on too quickly, I found myself feeling surprisingly… comfortable with them. Jazz, Sloane, and Callum welcomed me and Adrian like we were already part of the family. They teased us, included us, and by the end of the night, I was laughing so hard at one of Callum’s terrible dance moves that I nearly choked on my champagne.
At one point during the reception, I found myself sitting at a table with Margo, watching the others dance. She leaned in, her smile warm and genuine. “You know, your dad talks about you all the time,” she said. “He’s so proud of you, Bell.”
I blinked, a little taken aback. “Really? He doesn’t… say much about stuff like that.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, he’s not the type to gush, but trust me, it’s there. He loves you and Adrian more than anything.”
For a moment, I felt my defenses lower. Margo wasn’t just some glamorous stranger anymore. She was someone who genuinely cared about my dad—and maybe even about me.
By the time the night ended, I left that wedding with a stomach full of expensive food, a slight buzz from way-too-fancy cocktails, and—for the first time since my dad’s announcement—a genuine sense of excitement about our new extended family.
“So…” Kristen drawled, flopping onto my bed as I stuffed the last of my clothes into my suitcase. “You’re really going to spend the whole summer with them?”
I sighed, shoving the suitcase zipper closed with more force than necessary. “Yeah… it’s going to be interesting, I guess.”
Kristen raised an eyebrow. “That’s one way to put it.”
I didn’t argue. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it myself.
The email had come in the middle of lunch, while I sat at a corner table in the student union, absently poking at my barely-touched salad.
Subject: Update on Internship Placement.
For a moment, excitement surged. I’d been waiting for weeks to hear the final details. My fingers fumbled as I opened it, my heart hammering with anticipation.
The first sentence hit like a sucker punch.
We regret to inform you…
I reread it twice, my brain struggling to process the words that followed.
Due to unforeseen restructuring… Your position has been eliminated… We hope you’ll consider reapplying in the future.
The fork slipped from my hand, clattering against the tray.
“No,” I whispered under my breath. “No, no, no…”
The cafeteria noise buzzed around me, a chaotic backdrop to the sharp, ringing silence in my head. My hands trembled as I clutched my phone, willing the words to change.
They didn’t.
The internship I’d fought for—the one that was supposed to be the launchpad for my future—was gone.
I barely registered the vibration of my phone until dad popped up on the screen. For a second, I considered ignoring it, but my thumb betrayed me, swiping to answer before I could think it through.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, my voice hollow.
“Hey, kiddo!” His tone was chipper, oblivious to the chaos swirling inside me. “Just wanted to check in! You all set for summer? Margo’s been planning like crazy—she’s got a whole itinerary lined up. Jazz is convinced she’ll get you into trouble within a week.”
I didn’t respond. The words barely registered.
“Becca?” His voice shifted, concern creeping in. “You okay?”
I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “The internship got canceled,” I said flatly, the words bitter on my tongue.
A pause. “What? Canceled? What happened?”
“Budget cuts. Restructuring. Whatever excuse they gave me doesn’t matter,” I muttered. “It’s just… gone.”
“Ah, kiddo…” His sympathy hit harder than I expected.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable Dad pep talk, but instead, his tone shifted. “Well… sounds like the perfect excuse to spend the summer with us.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Margo’s been planning this big family thing at her place. The beach house, Jazz, Callum, and Sloane—everyone’s going to be there. It’ll be good for you to get away from all the stress for a while.”
I hesitated. The thought of spending three whole months with my dad’s new family wasn’t exactly high on my list of appealing options.
Kristen snapped her fingers, bringing me back to the present. “Earth to Becca? You’re seriously doing this?”
I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t really have a choice. I don’t have any other plans, and—” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “It’s not like I can afford to stay here all summer.”
Kristen gave me a knowing look but didn’t press. “Margo’s the stepmom, right? What’s she like?”
I sighed. “She’s… a lot.”
Kristen smirked. “That bad?”
I thought back to the first time I met Margo—tall, towering at almost 6’1”, with a presence so commanding it was impossible to ignore. She was beautiful in that effortlessly intimidating way, full-bodied with curves that made her look like she stepped out of some old Hollywood film. Her long red hair was always perfectly styled, cascading down her back like something out of a shampoo commercial. And the hugs—God, the hugs—every single one involved getting smushed face-first into her chest like she was trying to suffocate me with affection.
Kristen choked on a laugh. “Wait—you mean she boob smothers you?”
“Every. Single. Time.”
She howled. “Oh my God. I need to meet this woman.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one getting manhandled.”
Kristen wiped at her eyes, still grinning. “And what about Jazz?”
I hesitated. Jazz.
Where Margo was larger than life, Jazz was deceptively unassuming. Barely 5’2”, thin, with the same fiery red hair, only hers was wild—untamed waves that framed her freckled face. She had a way of moving that made her seem like she was always half a step away from causing trouble.
And then there was that grin.
The one that made my stomach do weird things. The one that felt too knowing, like she was constantly in on some joke I wasn’t. It made me uneasy… in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
Kristen must have noticed my hesitation. “Huh.” She studied me for a second before saying, “You sound weird about her.”
“I do not,” I said too quickly.
Kristen’s grin was pure evil. “Ohhh, you so do.”
I groaned. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” she corrected. “And I expect full reports on whatever chaos this girl drags you into.”
I sighed, dragging my suitcase off the bed. “I’ll try not to die.”
Kristen smirked. “No promises, huh?”
I didn’t answer. Because honestly?
I wasn’t so sure myself.
"Where is this house again?" asked Kristen?
The drive to Malibu California felt like stepping into a postcard.
I’d never been to the beach before—not really. I’d seen it in movies, sure, and once on a miserable school trip where the sky had been gray, the water choppy, and the whole place smelled like dead fish. But this?
This was something else entirely.
The farther I drove, the more the landscape transformed. The city thinned, giving way to winding roads that clung to the edges of towering cliffs. To my right, the Pacific stretched endlessly, a glittering expanse of blue and gold under the afternoon sun. It was mesmerizing—waves rolling in smooth, rhythmic crashes, their white foam dissolving into golden sand. I cracked my window, and the warm, salty breeze hit me immediately, carrying the scent of the ocean and something sweet, like sun-warmed wildflowers.
God, it was beautiful.
The road curved along the coastline, weaving between massive rock formations and palm trees swaying lazily in the wind. The houses that lined the cliffs were ridiculous—ultramodern glass fortresses, sleek mansions with infinity pools that seemed to spill right into the ocean. It was the kind of wealth I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around.
And then I reached it.
The house sat at the end of a private, gated drive, hidden behind towering hedges and a pristine white stone wall. As the gates slid open, I got my first full view—and holy shit.
It wasn’t just a house. It was a statement.
Three stories of sleek, modern architecture, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the sky. The entire front was lined with balconies, each one overlooking the ocean like a private observation deck. The exterior was a mix of white stone and warm wooden accents, effortlessly elegant, like something ripped from the pages of a luxury magazine.
A long driveway led to a massive garage, and beyond that, perfectly manicured gardens stretched toward the cliffs. There were palm trees, exotic flowers, and a pathway that, from what I could see, led directly down to the private beach.
I pulled up slowly, my fingers gripping the steering wheel like I needed to hold onto something solid. This wasn’t just out of my league—this was another planet.
Before I could fully process it, my eyes caught on something even more absurd.
The pools.
Yes, plural.
The first one sat at the front of the house, an infinity pool so clear and pristine that it looked like liquid glass, reflecting the sky perfectly. The second pool—yes, second—was larger, sprawling across the back terrace with waterfalls spilling over sculpted rock formations. There was a built-in bar, submerged lounge chairs, and even a section that disappeared into a shaded grotto.
It was excessive. It was over the top.
And it was gorgeous.
I stepped out of the car slowly, my sandals crunching against the white stone driveway. A soft breeze rolled in from the ocean, carrying the sound of distant waves and the faint echo of seagulls overhead. For a moment, I just stood there, drinking it all in.
The house. The view. The ridiculous richness of it all.
I had no idea how I was supposed to fit into this world.
Margo’s hazel eyes sparkled as she leaned forward slightly, her manicured hands cradling her iced tea glass. “Now, we’re extremely excited to have you here, sweetheart,” she said warmly, her voice dripping with that polished charm she seemed to exude so effortlessly.
“But…” Her tone shifted just slightly, the pause hanging in the air like a perfectly timed note.
“But?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow as I tried to read between the lines.
“Your father and I, unfortunately, have to head out this evening.” She gave a small, apologetic smile. “Some last-minute plans. There’s a gala downtown—something for one of the charity foundations we’re involved with. You know how these things are.”
I nodded, though I didn’t entirely know. My experience with charity events was limited to school bake sales, not lavish soirées where the attendees probably donated more in one night than I’d ever make in a year.
“But don’t worry,” Margo continued, her smile widening. “You and Jazz will have the whole house to yourselves.”
I blinked, suddenly feeling my stomach twist again in that now-familiar, unplaceable way. “The whole house?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice light and airy. “It’ll be nice for you two to spend some time together. Before I could respond, she added with a soft chuckle, “Just don’t let her get you into any trouble, okay?”
I forced a laugh, though it came out awkward and strained. “Trouble? Me? Never.”
Margo’s playful smirk lingered as she stood, brushing invisible wrinkles from her dress. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder as she headed toward the door. “Jazz can be a handful sometimes, but I think you’ll manage just fine.”
I watched her leave, my mind racing. Being left alone with Jazz—this wasn’t exactly how I imagined the summer starting. And yet, as much as the thought made me nervous, there was an undeniable undercurrent of… something. Anticipation? Excitement?
Whatever it was, it left my cheeks warm and my heart beating just a little too fast.
The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the sprawling backyard as I made my way toward the pool. My sandals clicked softly against the stone pathway, and the sound of trickling water from the nearby fountains filled the air. The closer I got, the more I could hear faint splashes and the unmistakable sound of Jazz’s laughter.
The pool came into view, an impossibly large, glistening expanse of water surrounded by lounge chairs and shaded cabanas. Jazz was floating lazily on a bright pink pool float, her head resting on her arms, sunglasses perched on her nose. She looked completely at ease, the epitome of summer.
“Hey,” I called out, unsure if she’d heard me over the sound of the fountains.
Jazz lifted her sunglasses just enough to peer at me with those sharp, mischievous eyes. A slow grin spread across her face. “Well, look who decided to show up. Did Margo’s sitting room bore you already?”
I rolled my eyes, walking closer and sitting down on one of the lounge chairs near the pool’s edge. “I figured I’d come see what all the noise was about.”
“Noise? This is my quiet time,” Jazz teased, giving the float a little push to glide closer to where I was sitting. “I thought you’d be too busy unpacking or trying to blend into the wallpaper.”
“Oh, hilarious,” I shot back, leaning forward. “I didn’t realize comedians came with the estate.”
Jazz snorted, tilting her head back to soak in the sun. “You missed your chance at a career in comedy, Becca. Truly. The world mourns the loss.”
Despite myself, I laughed, shaking my head. Jazz had a way of getting under my skin, but it was hard to stay annoyed when she looked so utterly carefree.
“You’ve got to loosen up,” Jazz said, sitting up slightly on the float. “It’s summer. You’re in Malibu. Live a little. Or, I don’t know, at least dip your toes in the pool.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, though the water did look tempting under the warm sun.
Jazz rolled her eyes dramatically. “Suit yourself.” With a graceful motion, she slid off the float and into the water, surfacing with a shake of her hair that sent droplets flying.
She swam to the edge and rested her arms on the pool’s lip, looking up at me with a smirk. “You’re really just going to sit there? Not even a little splash?”
“Not everyone lives in a swimsuit all summer, Jazz,” I shot back, though my tone was more amused than annoyed.
“Who said anything about a swimsuit?” she quipped, standing up and climbing out of the pool in one fluid motion.
And that was when I froze.
Because Jazz wasn’t wearing a swimsuit. Or anything at all.
The water glistened on her skin as she reached for a towel, completely unfazed by her lack of clothing. My brain short-circuited as I tried—and failed—not to notice how effortlessly confident she seemed.
“Uh, Jazz?” I stammered, feeling my cheeks go red hot.
She glanced at me over her shoulder, a playful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she casually wrapped the towel around herself. “What? Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, at a complete loss for words. Jazz just laughed, tossing her wet hair back.
“Relax, Becca,” she said, draping the towel over her shoulders and sauntering past me. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a naked person before. Or is this the first time?”
I buried my face in my hands, my voice muffled as I muttered, “Oh my god, Jazz.”
Her laughter echoed behind me as she headed toward the cabana. “Welcome to Malibu, Becca. Better get used to it.”
I watched, half in disbelief, as Jazz gracefully climbed out of the pool. Water clung to her skin, dripping down in a slow cascade, and I couldn’t help but stare. She was completely bare, with only a towel hanging loosely over her shoulders as she reached for it casually, completely unfazed by her nudity.
Jazz’s body was an effortless masterpiece of confidence, every movement radiating a sort of free-spirited grace. Her red hair, a wild mass of frizzy curls that cascaded down her back, was still damp from the pool. It framed her face, slightly damp but still striking against her fair, freckled skin. The sun caught in the strands, making them seem almost fiery against the bright backdrop of the Malibu sky.
Her body, sculpted with the kind of natural athleticism that made everything look easy, was completely visible now. The light caught the curves of her waist, the tautness of her stomach, the smoothness of her legs, and I found myself fighting to look away, though my eyes betrayed me. She had the kind of body that was at once lean and curvy, strong but soft in all the right places. The water droplets clung to her, glistening on her smooth skin like tiny jewels.
Her confidence was practically palpable. As she turned to face me, her playful grin grew even wider, and I could feel my face go redder than I thought was possible. It wasn’t just that she was naked—it was the way she wore her body like it was nothing to be embarrassed about.
“Jazz…” I stuttered again, trying not to look at her, but my eyes couldn’t help but trace the smooth lines of her body.
She laughed, the sound light and teasing, and flung her hair back as she tossed the towel around her shoulders. “What’s the matter, Becca? Never seen a naked person before?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My heart was beating in my chest like a drum, and I felt both embarrassed and oddly drawn to the effortless way Jazz carried herself.
She winked at me, flashing a grin that seemed to say she knew exactly what she was doing. “Relax, don’t let it freak you out,” she said, her voice cool and teasing. “You’ll get used to it. Welcome to Malibu.”
My mind was spinning, the mix of my discomfort and something else I couldn’t quite name swarming around inside of me. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to run away or stay, but I was definitely caught in the whirlwind of Jazz’s carefree, uninhibited energy.
Later that evening, I found Jazz sprawled out in the game room like she was queen of her domain—or maybe just queen of everything. The room, with its plush beanbag chairs and absurdly large TV, was bathed in the soft, pulsing glow of a neon sign in the corner that read, GAME OVER. But if Jazz was any indication, she was far from over.
She lounged on a massive beanbag, her body draped across it with the kind of casual confidence that made me feel like I was intruding. The TV painted her in shifting hues of blue and pink, making her seem almost ethereal, like she belonged to another plane of existence where people were just born perfect.
She had changed since the pool, but somehow this was worse—or better, depending on how masochistic I wanted to be. An oversized hoodie hung lazily off one shoulder, teasing just enough collarbone to set my stomach fluttering with something uncomfortably close to awe. The fabric pooled around her, and I was sure it belonged to someone else—definitely not hers, unless Jazz had a secret fondness for ridiculously large hoodies.
And those shorts. God, those shorts. They were so criminally short they couldn’t have been legal in some states, leaving her legs completely bare. Long, smooth, and toned, they folded beneath her in a way that somehow managed to seem both casual and deliberate. My eyes lingered for a moment too long, betraying me despite every logical thought screaming at me to stop staring.
She didn’t notice me at first. She was engrossed in whatever game she was playing, her face scrunched in adorable focus, lips slightly parted as her thumbs flew over the controller with surgical precision. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to frame her face in soft, coppery waves. It gave her an air of effortless chaos, as if she were too cool to care about perfection but had somehow stumbled into it anyway.
I hovered in the doorway like some awkward ghost, unsure whether to interrupt or retreat. My heart was pounding, and my palms were clammy in a way that felt annoyingly cliché. This wasn’t just intimidation or even infatuation. It was something darker and deeper, a knot in my stomach that tightened the longer I stood there, as if she had me under some spell without even looking at me.
Here, in the game room, under the soft, flickering glow of the TV, she seemed... softer. The usual cocky grin and sharp-edged remarks were absent, replaced by a quiet focus. The tension she always carried, like she was braced for battle, was gone, leaving something raw and strangely vulnerable in its place.
She looked...
Cute.
No—hot.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, and my stomach churned with a nauseating mix of guilt and something else I didn’t want to name. Shame coiled tight, winding through me like a snake, hissing accusations in my ear.
She was my stepsister now, for God’s sake. My stepsister. There was a special circle of hell reserved for people who thought things like this, and I could already feel the flames licking at my heels.
But no matter how much I tried to shake it off, my eyes betrayed me, tracing the way her legs stretched out, long and smooth, disappearing into the tiny shorts she always seemed to wear. Her frizzy red hair was tied into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face in a way that felt almost too perfect to be accidental.
I hated the way my pulse quickened.
“Hey,” her voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and teasing. “You just gonna stand there like a creep, or are you planning to join me?”
I flinched, heat rushing to my face as I realized how long I’d been standing there, frozen in the doorway like some kind of idiot.
Jazz didn’t even look at me as she spoke. She didn’t have to. The smirk tugging at the corner of her lips said she already knew exactly what she was doing to me.
“Are you going to stand there all night, or do you want to play?” Her voice broke the silence, smooth and teasing, pulling me from my thoughts like a hook yanking me to the surface.
Jazz didn’t look up from the screen, but the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth said she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I—uh…” I stumbled over my words, feeling every bit the awkward mess I was trying so hard not to be. “What are you playing?”
She glanced at me then, her hazel eyes gleaming with amusement as if my awkwardness was her favorite game. “Mario Kart,” she said, holding up the extra controller. “Think you can keep up, or should I let you watch and take notes?”
The challenge in her tone sent a jolt through me, half-irritation, half-something I didn’t want to name. I stepped into the room, determined to play it cool, even as my cheeks betrayed me by flushing red.
“Hand it over,” I said, trying to muster as much confidence as I could. “But don’t cry when I beat you.”
Jazz laughed, a low, rich sound that made my skin prickle. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping with playful condescension. “We’ll see who’s crying by the end of this.”
I sat down on the beanbag next to hers, already regretting the decision. Her proximity was overwhelming, the faint scent of chlorine and vanilla clinging to her like a spell I couldn’t break.
And as the game loaded up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just walked into a battle I was destined to lose. But God, I didn’t mind losing to her.
We played a few rounds in comfortable silence, each of us trading wins. I took a couple of victories, then she evened the score. But after the last round, she set down her controller, turned to me with a knowing grin, and spoke the words that would change my life.
"Want to make this more interesting?"
Had I known where that question would lead me—how far it would take me, how much it would change me—I might have said no.
…Or maybe I would have said yes.
To this day, I still can’t decide.
But hindsight is 20/20, and in that moment, with my heart pounding just a little too fast, I swallowed hard and answered, "Maybe?"
Jazz’s smirk deepened, and she pushed herself off the beanbag with an easy grace, stretching slightly as she stood. “Wait right here,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Before I could respond, she darted out of the room, leaving me alone with the hum of the TV and a growing sense of unease. I sank back into the beanbag, my mind racing through possibilities. What was she up to now?
When Jazz returned, she was holding a small, worn hat in one hand. It was black and floppy, the fabric soft from years of use, with the kind of personality that suggested it had seen more wild nights than I ever had. With a dramatic flourish, she plopped it down on the floor between us like she was presenting a crown.
“Okay,” she said, settling back onto the beanbag and tucking her legs beneath her. “Let me explain how this works. It’s called The Punishment Game.”
I raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Sounds… ominous.”
Jazz grinned. “It’s a game my siblings and I used to play,” she said, her voice dripping with nostalgia and mischief. "We’d bet on stupid stuff—who could hold their breath the longest, who’d win a round of Mario Kart, who could keep a straight face the longest. Loser had to pull a punishment from the hat.” She nudged it toward me with her foot. “Wanna play?”
I stared at the hat, my instincts screaming that this was a bad idea. But Jazz’s gaze was locked onto mine, expectant, challenging.
And, against all better judgment, I found myself saying—
“…Maybe.”
I glanced at the hat like it might bite. “And what kind of ‘punishments’ are we talking about here?”
Jazz shrugged, the picture of casual innocence, though her eyes betrayed her enjoyment. “Oh, you know. Fun stuff. Embarrassing stuff. A few that might make you squirm a little.”
“That’s… comforting.”
She laughed, the sound low and warm, like she was reveling in my discomfort. “Don’t worry, nothing too extreme. It’s mostly about having a good time and maybe getting a little revenge on the winner for being better at the game.”
I studied her for a moment, trying to gauge how serious she was. “This sounds like an elaborate excuse for you to torture me.”
“Not torture,” she corrected, her tone light but teasing. “Just… playful consequences.”
I stared at the hat, my stomach tightening at the possibilities it held. “And you’ve played this before?”
“Many times,” she said with a grin. “It’s practically a family tradition. And now that you’re part of the family…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
My gut churned, a mix of dread and curiosity swirling together in a way that left me off-balance. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or terrified.”
“Why not both?” Jazz said with a wink. She picked up the controller and handed it to me, her fingers brushing mine just enough to make my skin prickle. “So, you in?”
The hat sat between us, silent and foreboding, daring me to take the leap. Against my better judgment, I found myself gripping the controller tighter and nodding.
“Let’s do this,” I said, though the words felt more like a gamble than a declaration.
Jazz’s grin was wolfish as she leaned back, already settling into her role as the orchestrator of my doom. “You’re going to regret that,” she said sweetly, and I couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a threat.
As I gripped the controller tighter, locking my jaw, the countdown began.
Three. Two. One.
The race was on.
For most of the track, I managed to stay ahead, my kart deftly maneuvering the neon chaos of Big Blue. Adrenaline coursed through me, every drift and shortcut bringing me closer to an impossible victory. Jazz’s kart was close—too close—but for once, I was holding my ground.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she said, her voice light and teasing, but her focus razor-sharp.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I shot back, though my voice wavered just enough to betray how much effort I was putting into this.
Jazz chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Careful, little sis," she murmured, her tone dipping into something almost predatory. "Pride comes before the fall."
I ignored her, locking in on the finish line ahead, but then—without warning—Jazz sat up straighter and tugged at her oversized hoodie.
“Can’t play like this,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Before I could process what was happening, the hoodie was gone, tossed carelessly to the side. She was left in nothing but a plain black bra, the straps snug against her freckled shoulders. Her skin glowed under the soft ambient light, and the curve of her collarbone seemed impossibly elegant.
I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the screen. Focus. Focus on the game, not on her.
“Much better,” Jazz said, rolling her shoulders with a sigh of satisfaction. “I swear, these things are practically a handicap.”
I barely registered her words, too busy fighting the heat crawling up my neck and the strange knot forming in my stomach. Was this… normal sibling behavior? I mean, I only had a brother growing up, so I had no frame of reference for this.
My fingers slipped on the controls, and Jazz noticed.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re distracted already,” she teased, leaning forward just enough that her hair, wild and frizzy from the earlier swim, framed her face like a fiery halo. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as she caught my gaze for a brief, damning second. “This doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“N-no,” I stammered, cursing the way my voice cracked. “Why would it?”
Her grin was downright feral. “Just checking.”
The rest of the race was a blur of panic and bad decisions. I couldn’t focus; every time I tried, my thoughts betrayed me, looping back to the way her bare skin caught the light, the way her voice dipped just enough to send chills down my spine.
And then came the BOOM—the dreaded blue shell.
My kart spiraled into oblivion, and before I could recover, Jazz sped past me, crossing the finish line with a flourish.
“YES!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in mock triumph. “Another victory for me. How does it feel, loser?”
I slumped back against the couch, glaring at her. “Cheap shot,” I grumbled. “You only won because of that stupid shell.”
“Excuses, excuses.” She stood, stretching languidly before darting out of the room.
“Where are you going?” I called after her, but she didn’t answer.
A moment later, she returned with a small, floppy hat. Tossing it onto the couch beside me, she dropped down with a smug look that made my stomach churn.
“Okay,” she said, sitting cross-legged and tugging her wild hair into a loose knot. “Time to introduce you to a little family tradition. We call it The Punishment Game.”
I eyed the hat warily. “That… sounds ominous.”
“Oh, it’s worse than ominous,” she replied, her grin widening. “It’s fun. The rules are simple: We play a game—any game. Loser draws a punishment from the hat and has to do whatever it says. No exceptions.”
“And these punishments…” I trailed off, dread pooling in my gut.
Jazz shrugged, her tone breezy. “Some are embarrassing. Some are annoying. A few are… memorable.”
I stared at her, my mind spinning. Was this really just a game? Or was it something more?
Her hazel eyes locked on mine, a challenge gleaming in their depths. “So, you in? Or are you too chicken to play with your big sister?”
I swallowed hard, my palms slick against the controller. “Fine,” I said, my voice wavering just enough to betray my nerves. “Let’s play.”
Jazz’s grin turned razor-sharp. “You’re going to regret that,” she purred, and the way she said it made my skin prickle with both anticipation and something darker, something I couldn’t quite name.
Jazz twirled the hat between her hands, the motion almost hypnotic as she grinned at me like a cat with a cornered mouse. “Okay, let’s see what fate has in store for you.”
Reaching into the hat, she dug around for a moment, drawing out a small notecard with an air of ceremony. She flipped it over and gave a low whistle.
“Oh, this one’s a classic,” she said, holding up the card for me to see.
I leaned in, my pulse quickening as I read the words scrawled on the front in bold, slanted handwriting: Safeword Challenge.
Before I could ask, Jazz turned the card around, showing the back where the punishment was spelled out in clear, concise terms.
Safeword Challenge:
The loser is tied up by the winner and tickled for 15 minutes. If they can endure the full time, the punishment ends. If they can’t handle it, they may yell “Safety” to stop—but doing so means they must draw a new punishment from the hat.
I stared at the card, my mind racing. The words felt like a trap, one I’d walked into willingly. My palms were suddenly clammy, and my stomach churned with a strange mixture of apprehension and… something else.
Jazz’s grin widened as she lowered the card, her hazel eyes practically glowing with mischief. “Well, well,” she drawled, setting the card down on the coffee table with a dramatic flourish. “Looks like I get to tie you up and tickle you. Unless, of course, you’re brave enough to last the full 15 minutes.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “This… this is a joke, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Jazz said, cocking an eyebrow. She leaned forward, the faint scent of her citrus shampoo brushing past me. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared. You could just forfeit and pull a new punishment. But hey, no judgment.”
The smugness in her tone set my teeth on edge. My pride flared, determined not to let her see just how much she was getting to me.
“I’m not scared,” I said, though my voice wavered just enough to make her smirk.
“Oh, good,” Jazz purred, standing and stretching like a lazy predator. “Then let’s get started.”
That brings us back to wear started, me tied to the chair with Jazz straddling. If you recall I lost the punishment, barely lasting 5 minutes. The agreement for the card I previously drawn was that I had to last 15 minutes of being tickled and if I lost I had to draw a new punishment from the hat.
My breath caught as she unfolded it, slowly, deliberately, savoring every second of my dread. Her eyes flicked over the words, and for a moment, she kept her expression neutral—long enough for me to foolishly hope that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad.
That hope died a swift and painful death when her face lit up, her expression morphing into pure, unbridled glee. It was the kind of look that could make a grown man cry.
“Oh, you’re going to love this,” she said, her voice practically singing with delight, each word a dagger aimed directly at my dignity.
I didn’t love it. Whatever it was, I already knew I was going to hate it.
Jazz cleared her throat, holding the slip up like a royal decree. “Ohhh, this one’s perfect,” she purred, drawing out the suspense.
Servant Bell:
The loser must wear a provided outfit with a bell around their neck and serve the winner drinks, snacks, and anything else they ask for… for one hour.
Every time the bell rings, the winner may tickle the loser for 30 seconds.
My stomach plummeted past rock bottom, tunneling its way straight to the earth’s molten core. I opened my mouth to protest, but all that came out was a pathetic, “Provided… outfit?” My voice cracked like a preteen attempting their first solo at a talent show.
Jazz’s laughter was musical, lilting, and utterly ruthless. Her eyes sparkled with pure, malicious glee as she hopped up from the couch, her ponytail bouncing like an infuriating exclamation mark punctuating her victory.
“Oh, you’ll see,” she called over her shoulder, practically skipping toward another room. She paused just long enough to throw a playful glance back at me, winking for good measure. “Wait right here, handsome.”
And with that, she disappeared, leaving me alone to stew in my humiliation and dread.
The oversized hat sat on the coffee table like a symbol of my impending doom, its absurdity almost mocking in the face of what was coming next. My pulse raced as I stared at it, wishing for the millionth time that I’d never agreed to play her stupid game.
But it was far too late for that now.
I wanted to run. I wanted to chew through the ropes, claw my way out of this ridiculous situation, and never look back. But by the time the thought even began to form, Jazz had returned, and my stomach dropped like a rock.
She was holding it.
A tiny, pastel-pink bikini.
I stared at it, blinking furiously as though I could will it to transform into something less horrifying—like a suit of armor or, preferably, a giant black hole that would swallow me whole. Spoiler: it didn’t.
“No way,” I said immediately, the words tumbling out with more panic than conviction. I shook my head so hard it felt like my brain might rattle loose. “Absolutely not. Forget it.”
Jazz tutted, wagging her finger at me with the exaggerated disapproval of a kindergarten teacher catching a kid mid-paste-eating session. “Tsk, tsk,” she chided, her voice oozing with smug delight. “A deal’s a deal, remember? You agreed to the rules. And unless you’d rather choose the alternate punishment.
“Another punishment,” I blurted out, clinging to the flimsiest thread of hope. “What’s the other punishment?”
Her grin widened, slow and sharp, like a wolf sizing up its cornered prey. “Oh, it’s simple, really.” She leaned in, her eyes locking onto mine, amusement dancing in their depths. “You stay right here, tied to this chair, and I tickle you… for an hour.”
An hour.
My blood ran cold, and I swore my heart stopped mid-beat. An hour of this? I couldn’t survive another sixty seconds, let alone sixty minutes, of Jazz’s relentless, merciless torment. My ribs still ached from the five minutes she’d already inflicted—her nails skimming every vulnerable spot until I’d been reduced to a quivering, pleading wreck.
Jazz leaned in even closer, so close her lips brushed my ear, her breath warm against my skin as she whispered, her tone dripping with faux sweetness. “So, what’ll it be, hmm? One hour of this”—she wiggled her fingers just inches from my ribs, and I flinched so hard the chair creaked beneath me—“or one hour as my obedient little servant… in a cute outfit?”
The strawberry scent of her perfume hung heavy in the air, sweet and cloying, seeping into my thoughts and making it nearly impossible to think clearly. My palms grew clammy against the armrests of the chair, and I hated how my body betrayed me. Even now, my sides twitched involuntarily, bracing for the touch I feared and dreaded.
“Fine,” I muttered finally, the word scraping out of my throat like sandpaper. I clenched my teeth so tightly it was a miracle they didn’t crack. “I’ll do it.”
Jazz’s entire face lit up with triumph, her grin so wide it could have powered the sun. “Good choice, sweetheart.”
With deliberate slowness, she began untying me from the chair, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she loosened the ropes. The tension in my shoulders eased incrementally, but the humiliation waiting for me loomed heavy, an oppressive weight that pressed down harder with each passing second.
Once I was free, Jazz stepped back, twirling the tiny bikini between her fingers like it was some grand prize. Then, with an infuriating little flourish, she tossed it into my lap, where it sat like a neon-pink flag of surrender.
“The bathroom’s down the hall on the left,” she said brightly, her voice almost sing-song. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe with casual ease. “And don’t take too long, or I might just have to come in there and help you. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
The wicked gleam in her eyes made it very clear that she’d love nothing more than to follow through on that threat.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. With shaky hands, I picked up the bikini, its fabric feeling absurdly soft and insubstantial in my grip. My dignity had never felt so fragile.
As I stood, my legs wobbling like a baby deer’s, Jazz smirked and gave me a teasing little wave. “Tick-tock, cutie. I’ll be waiting.”
Her laughter followed me as I stumbled down the hallway, clutching the humiliating outfit in my hands like it was a bomb about to detonate.
I closed the bathroom door behind me and locked it with a deliberate click, the sound reverberating in the cold, tiled room like the sealing of a tomb. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the door as though it might provide some kind of escape. Spoiler: it didn’t.
In my hand, I clutched the bikini like it was a cursed artifact—one specifically designed to destroy any shred of dignity I still possessed. My palms were slick with sweat, the fabric damp where my fingers gripped it too tightly, and I could feel the faint tremor in my hands as I held it up to the light.
The thing was tiny. Impossibly small. The pink fabric gleamed mockingly under the harsh fluorescent light, the strings dangling limply like they were daring me to try and make this work. It looked like it had been designed for a doll—or a particularly brave Vegas showgirl—not a grown man.
I stared at it, willing it to evaporate into thin air, to combust in a burst of merciful flames that would leave me with an excuse to storm back out and demand a do-over. No such luck.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I unfolded the bikini, the absurdity of the situation crashing over me in waves. My reflection in the bathroom mirror caught my eye, and I froze.
There I was, standing there with a bright pink bikini in my hands like some kind of tragic clown, my face flushed and my expression hovering somewhere between utter defeat and the faint hope of a last-minute miracle. My eyes flicked to the pile of ropes still faintly imprinted on my wrists, a reminder of what awaited me if I dared to back out now.
For a fleeting moment, I considered my options. Could I fake an injury? Maybe claim sudden food poisoning? No—Jazz would see through that in a heartbeat. And even if she didn’t, the punishment hat was still out there, waiting for me to gamble my dignity away even further.
Then there was the alternative—being tied back to that chair, helpless under Jazz’s relentless tickling for a solid hour. The phantom memory of her fingers skimming over my ribs and digging into my sides sent an involuntary shudder through me. My skin tingled, and I instinctively clutched my arms around myself as though I could block out the sensation.
With a defeated groan, I peeled off my shirt, letting it fall to the floor like a white flag of surrender. My jeans followed, pooling around my ankles as I stepped out of them. Now stripped down to my underwear, I hesitated, catching my reflection again in the mirror.
I looked ridiculous. Vulnerable. Humiliated. My chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, my cheeks burning with shame as the image of Jazz’s smirk floated unbidden into my mind. She was probably lounging on the couch right now, perfectly at ease, waiting to see me emerge like some pitiful parody of myself.
My heart thudded heavily in my chest as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear, pausing one last time as if I might somehow summon the courage to back out. But there was no going back. Not with Jazz waiting.
I slid them down, the cool air hitting my skin and only amplifying the raw vulnerability coursing through me. I didn’t think it was possible to feel more exposed until I picked up the bikini bottoms.
They stretched as I tugged them on, the fabric clinging uncomfortably tight to every inch of me. It didn’t just fit snugly—it revealed. Absolutely nothing was left to the imagination, and I found myself squirming, adjusting the strings in a futile attempt to make it feel less obscene. It didn’t work.
The bikini top was even worse. As I tied the strings behind my neck, the cups pressed awkwardly against my chest, creating an illusion of cleavage that was somehow more humiliating than the bottoms. My reflection in the mirror was almost unrecognizable—a ridiculous caricature of myself, bright pink and absurdly vulnerable.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry as the realization settled in. There was no way to spin this, no silver lining to be found. My dignity was well and truly gone, and the worst part? I had no choice but to walk out there and face her.
Jazz’s laughter was practically echoing in my head already, her strawberry perfume and mocking grin waiting just outside that door. I closed my eyes, took one last deep breath, and steeled myself.
This was going to be the longest hour of my life.
I walked out the room, my face redder than it's ever been in my life. Jazz was waiting for me, a holding a little collar with a bell around. This was without a doubt the most humilating moment of my life. My flight instinct has never been higher but something made me want to face this.
I walked out of the bathroom, each step feeling heavier than the last, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. My face was so hot it could’ve doubled as a space heater, and I couldn’t bring myself to look up. The urge to bolt—just turn around, barricade myself in the bathroom, and refuse to come out—was overwhelming. But somehow, I kept moving, my body betraying my screaming instincts.
Jazz was waiting for me in the center of the room, her grin so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. She was holding the final piece of my humiliation: a delicate pink collar with a tiny silver bell dangling from it. It jingled faintly as she swung it back and forth on one finger, the sound filling the air like some cruel countdown.
I froze. My stomach churned, and I felt my fingers curl into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to find some way—any way—to escape. But something rooted me to the spot, a strange and masochistic defiance that wouldn’t let me back down.
Jazz tilted her head, her ponytail swishing, and her grin widened as she took me in from head to toe. “Well, well, well,” she drawled, her tone dripping with exaggerated appreciation. “Look at you. You’re really rocking the look, you know that?”
I didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. My throat was dry, and my voice seemed to have taken a vacation along with my dignity. My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, trying—and failing—to cover the bikini top that barely clung to me.
Jazz stepped closer, the bell in her hand jingling with every step. “Aw, don’t be shy now. You were so confident earlier, remember? What happened to all that bravado?” She stopped just inches away, her strawberry perfume invading my senses, and I hated how it made my brain foggy, like she’d found a way to weaponize it.
“This is without a doubt the most humiliating moment of my life,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jazz laughed, a bright, carefree sound that only deepened my embarrassment. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s about to get so much worse. But don’t worry, you’re doing great so far.” She held up the collar, the little bell jingling like a taunt, and gestured for me to tilt my head up.
I hesitated, my flight instinct roaring back to life. Every muscle in my body was coiled, ready to bolt. But somehow, I stayed put. Something deep inside me—a mix of stubbornness and the tiniest spark of defiance—made me want to face this, to endure it no matter how humiliating it was.
“Come on,” Jazz said, her tone softer now, though no less teasing. “Let’s get this over with. You don’t want me to have to put it on myself, do you?”
The mental image of Jazz strapping the collar around my neck like I was some kind of pet sent another wave of heat rushing to my face. Reluctantly, I lifted my chin, my heart pounding like a war drum as she stepped even closer.
“That’s a good girl,” she murmured, her fingers brushing my neck as she fastened the collar. The bell jangled faintly with every tiny movement, the sound filling my ears and driving home just how ridiculous I must’ve looked. "A bell for my Bell" she clapped.
“There,” Jazz said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She clasped her hands together like an artist unveiling a masterpiece. “Perfect. Now, let’s see how well you follow orders, shall we?”
I swallowed hard, my cheeks burning hotter than ever. This was going to be a long, long hour.
"Now said Jazz, come out to the pool and serve me.
I froze, my blood turning to ice. The mental image slammed into me like a sledgehammer—me, parading outside in this ridiculous excuse for an outfit, with the bell around my neck jingling like some humiliating beacon. My throat tightened as I managed to stammer, “I… I can’t, Jazz. I can’t go outside in this. Someone might see me.”
Jazz tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with mock sympathy as she took a step closer. Her fingers reached out, giving the little bell a playful flick that sent it jingling softly. Each sound felt like a dagger to what little remained of my dignity. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes, “if you think that’s bad, let me remind you of the alternative.”
Her voice dropped into a syrupy, menacing whisper as her grin widened. “I take you right back to that chair, tie you up again, and tickle you senseless for an entire hour. And yes, you’ll keep that adorable little bikini on for the whole thing.”
I glanced down at myself, the cruel reality of her words twisting my gut like a vice. The bikini was absurdly small—neon blue, bright enough to attract attention from space, and so tight it felt like a second skin. The top strained against my chest, showing far too much cleavage for comfort. It barely managed to cover what it was supposed to, and every movement made me hyper-aware of how precariously it stayed in place.
And the bottoms—oh, the bottoms were worse. They clung so tightly to my hips that they might as well have been painted on, the material doing absolutely nothing to hide the curve of my rear. In fact, it highlighted it, exposing more skin than I’d ever willingly shown in public. The thin straps sat high on my hips, making me feel like every inch of me was on display.
“Jazz,” I tried again, my voice shaking with desperation, “please. This is… this is too much. I can’t go outside like this. Someone might see me!”
Her grin sharpened, and she leaned in close, her strawberry-scented perfume swirling around me, clouding my thoughts. “So what’s it going to be, champ?” she murmured, her breath warm against my ear. “Face the music out by the pool… or spend the next sixty minutes tied up while I tickle every inch of you in that?”
Her fingers wiggled dangerously close to my ribs, and the phantom memory of her nails sent a shiver racing down my spine. My sides still ached from the torment she’d already inflicted. I knew I couldn’t survive another round—especially not an hour of it.
“Fine,” I croaked, my voice cracking under the weight of my humiliation. “Let’s go.”
Jazz clapped her hands together in delight, her grin spreading wider as she stepped back. “Good choice,” she chirped, spinning on her heel and heading toward the sliding glass door. “You’re going to look absolutely precious out there.”
I shuffled after her, each step making the bell around my neck jingle obnoxiously. Every sound was a cruel reminder of just how ridiculous I looked. The bikini’s tightness amplified my discomfort, every movement making me hyper-aware of how exposed I was.
Jazz reached the sliding door and slid it open with a dramatic flourish, stepping aside to let me pass. “After you,” she said with a mock bow, her voice brimming with amusement.
I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor. My cheeks burned as I imagined stepping into the sunlight, the bikini’s unforgiving cut leaving nothing to the imagination. But as my gaze flickered back to the chair, still sitting ominously in the corner, I knew I didn’t have a choice.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped outside, the sun hitting my exposed skin like a spotlight. I felt like every inch of me was on display for the world to see. This was, without a doubt, the most humiliating moment of my life—and Jazz was savoring every single second.
Jazz had already made herself comfortable by the pool, reclining on a lounge chair like she was royalty. She waved lazily at me as I stepped outside, the bell around my neck jingling with each hesitant step. My cheeks burned hotter than the afternoon sun as I approached her, every muscle in my body screaming at me to run back inside.
“Ah, there you are,” Jazz said with a grin, her sunglasses sliding down her nose as she gave me a long, appraising look. “Looking good, sweetheart.” She gave a low whistle for added effect, and I felt like shrinking into the ground.
“Can we just get this over with?” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to preserve what little dignity I had left.
“Oh, no rush,” Jazz said breezily, stretching her arms behind her head. “But since you’re here, I could use a drink. Be a doll and get me some lemonade, would you?”
I glared at her, but the threat of that chair—and an hour of tickling—kept my mouth shut. Instead, I turned toward the patio table, where a pitcher of lemonade and a few glasses waited. The bottoms of the bikini shifted uncomfortably as I walked, the fabric hugging my hips and making me hyper-aware of every move.
The bell jingled with every step, a humiliating soundtrack to my ordeal.
I poured her drink as quickly as I could, my hands trembling slightly as I handed it to her. “Here,” I said through gritted teeth, avoiding eye contact.
Jazz took the glass with an exaggerated smile, sipping it slowly and making a show of savoring it. “Mmm, perfect. You’re a natural at this, you know.”
The bell around my neck jingled softly as I shifted uncomfortably, but the sound was enough to make Jazz’s grin widen. “Uh-oh,” she said with mock seriousness. “You know what that means.”
Before I could react, Jazz launched herself off the lounge chair with startling speed. I barely had time to take a step back before she tackled me to the soft grass, her weight pinning me down.
“No, no, no!” I squealed, my voice high-pitched and panicked as she straddled my waist, her fingers already wriggling threateningly.
“Rules are rules, sweetheart,” she said, her tone dripping with playful malice. Her fingers darted to my sides, kneading the sensitive spots just above my hips.
I exploded into helpless laughter, the sensation overwhelming me instantly. “J-Jazz, no! P-Please!” I managed to gasp between uncontrollable giggles.
She didn’t stop. Her fingers danced along my ribs, brushing just under the bikini top and sending jolts of unbearable ticklishness through my body. I squirmed and thrashed beneath her, but my limbs felt useless, like jelly. I was too ticklish to fight back, my body betraying me completely as waves of laughter tore from my throat.
“Aww, you’re so ticklish!” Jazz cooed, her hands skittering over my belly now, dipping dangerously close to the edge of the bikini bottoms. “It’s almost too easy.”
I couldn’t respond—not with her fingers finding every vulnerable spot and exploiting it mercilessly. Tears streamed down my face as I laughed uncontrollably, my voice growing hoarse. “S-Stop! I c-can’t—please!” I gasped, my words dissolving into more laughter.
Jazz finally relented after what felt like an eternity—though it was probably only a minute. She sat back on her heels, still perched on my waist, and gave me a smug smile. “That was fun,” she said, brushing her hands off like she’d just finished a job well done.
I lay there, gasping for air, my body still trembling from the residual ticklish sensations. The bell gave one last mocking jingle as I tried to sit up, and Jazz laughed, patting me on the head like a well-behaved pet.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she said, standing and offering me a hand. “Let’s see how long you can keep that bell from ringing again.”
As I tried to catch my breath, Jazz plopped herself back onto the lounge chair, stretching out like a satisfied cat. She sipped her lemonade leisurely, glancing at me over the rim of her glass. “You know,” she said, tapping her chin with mock thoughtfulness, “I think I’m getting hungry. Be a dear and make me a sandwich, will you?”
I gawked at her. “You’re kidding,” I said, my voice hoarse from laughing.
She arched an eyebrow, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Groaning, I forced myself to my feet, the bell around my neck jingling softly. Jazz’s smirk deepened at the sound, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, and one more thing,” she added, her voice honey-sweet. “Try not to let the bell ring too much on your way, hmm? I’d hate to have to tackle you again.”
My stomach twisted. The thought of her pinning me down and tickling me senseless—again—was enough to make me want to melt into the ground.
I moved toward the kitchen as cautiously as I could, keeping my steps slow and deliberate. Each shift of my hips threatened to set the bell jingling, and the bikini’s skimpy fabric didn’t help matters. I walked as if I were on a tightrope, every muscle tense, my arms slightly out for balance.
Behind me, I heard Jazz laugh. “Careful, sweetheart,” she called. “One wrong move, and I’ll pounce.”
Her words sent a shiver down my spine, but I clenched my jaw and kept going, focusing on the task at hand.
Once in the kitchen, I moved as quickly—and quietly—as possible. I grabbed bread, sliced turkey, and cheese from the fridge, my hands trembling slightly as I worked. Even spreading the mayo was a challenge, my nerves on edge.
As I finished assembling the sandwich, I felt a flicker of triumph. I’d made it this far without setting the bell off. Maybe, just maybe, I could survive this humiliation intact.
Carrying the plate carefully, I tiptoed back to the pool, hyper-aware of the bell’s delicate chime. Jazz watched me the entire way, her grin never faltering.
“Ah, there’s my little chef,” she said as I set the plate down on the small side table next to her. “But you’re not quite done yet.”
I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Jazz leaned back, her sunglasses glinting in the sun. “Feed it to me,” she said, her tone so casual it made my stomach drop.
“Feed you?” I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, clearly enjoying my mortification. “That’s what a good servant does, isn’t it? Now, chop chop.”
Suppressing the urge to argue, I picked up the sandwich with trembling hands. I knelt beside her chair, feeling the sun warm my already flushed skin. With excruciating slowness, I brought the sandwich to her mouth.
Jazz took a bite, her eyes never leaving mine as she chewed. “Mmm,” she said, savoring it like it was the finest gourmet meal. “Delicious. You’re quite talented, you know.”
My face burned hotter, but I said nothing, focusing instead on getting through this ordeal as quickly as possible. Each time she leaned forward for another bite, the bell around my neck shifted threateningly, teasing me with soft chimes.
“You’re so tense,” Jazz teased between bites. “Relax a little. You’re making this way more awkward than it needs to be.”
Relax? In this bikini? With this bell? Feeding her like I was some kind of personal servant? Impossible.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sandwich was gone. Jazz wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin and patted my head like I was a particularly obedient pet. “Good job, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping with faux affection. “You’re really getting the hang of this.”
I stared at the ground, my humiliation complete. And then, just as I started to stand, the bell gave a soft chime.
Jazz’s grin widened, predatory and gleeful. “Uh-oh,” she purred, sitting up. “You know what that means.”
Before I could even think to run, she lunged.
efore I could even think to react, Jazz lunged like a predator pouncing on her prey, and suddenly I was flat on my back, pinned beneath her. My wrists were trapped above my head by one of her hands, while her other wiggled menacingly in the air.
“No! Jazz, wait! Please!” I begged, my voice climbing in pitch as panic took hold. My legs kicked helplessly, the movement making the bell jingle furiously.
She chuckled, her face inches from mine. “Oh, sweetheart, you know the rules. The bell rang.”
Her fingers struck like lightning, skittering across my exposed ribs. I shrieked, the sound bursting out of me before I could stop it. Jazz’s nails were merciless, dancing over every ticklish spot with expert precision.
“Not the ribs! Not the ribs!” I howled, twisting as much as I could under her weight. But there was no escape. She knew exactly how to keep me pinned and completely vulnerable.
“Aw, poor baby,” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Does it tickle? Huh? Does it?”
“Yes!” I gasped, my voice breaking into laughter as her fingers trailed down to my hips. “Jazz, please! I can’t—ahhh!”
Her nails grazed the sensitive skin just above the waistband of the bikini bottoms, and I bucked like a fish out of water. Every nerve in my body seemed to light up at once, sending waves of unbearable sensation radiating through me.
“Such a cute laugh,” Jazz teased, her fingers now targeting the soft spot just under my arms. I screamed with laughter, my head thrashing side to side as she exploited yet another unbearably sensitive area.
“Stop! I’m begging you!” I managed to choke out between bouts of uncontrollable giggles. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and my sides ached from the relentless assault.
But Jazz showed no mercy. “You’re so ticklish,” she said, her voice practically gleeful. “It’s adorable. I think I could do this all day.”
Her fingers darted down to my thighs next, tracing along the inner edges with agonizing precision. My legs twitched violently, but her grip on my wrists kept me completely at her mercy.
“Jazz! Stop! I can’t take it!” I cried, my voice raw from laughter. My body felt like it was on fire, every inch of me hypersensitive to her touch.
She finally slowed, her fingers coming to rest on my heaving stomach. I was gasping for air, my face flushed and my body trembling from the sheer intensity of it all.
Jazz leaned down, her face close enough for me to see the wicked glint in her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” she said softly, her voice still laced with amusement. “But next time that bell rings? You’d better be ready.”
With that, she released my wrists and sat back, giving me a moment to recover. My hands immediately went to my sides, rubbing the spots where her fingers had tormented me.
Jazz stood, brushing herself off as if nothing had happened. “Now, why don’t you get me another drink?” she said, her tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather.
I glared at her through watery eyes, my breath still coming in short gasps. But deep down, I knew one thing for certain: I had to keep that bell from ringing again.
Jazz stretched luxuriously on the couch, wiggling her toes as she eyed me with a smug smile. "You know what, sweetheart? My feet are sore after all this hard work making your life miserable. Be a dear and give me a foot massage."
I froze mid-step, a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over me. "You can't be serious," I said, my voice cracking.
Her grin widened, the very picture of devious amusement. "Oh, I'm dead serious. Unless you'd like to see what else is waiting in the punishment hat?" She gestured to the dreaded hat, sitting innocently on the table, and I swallowed hard.
With a resigned sigh, I walked over to her, my steps painfully slow to avoid ringing the bell. Jazz wiggled her toes again, her playful smirk daring me to back out.
"Go on," she said, patting the cushion at her feet. "Take a seat."
I lowered myself onto the floor, my face burning with embarrassment. The bikini was already exposing far more than I wanted, and the thought of being this close to her feet, of all things, made my stomach churn.
Tentatively, I reached out and took one of her feet in my hands. Her skin was soft, warm from lounging in the sun, and her nails were painted a glossy, deep red.
"Don’t be shy," she teased, wiggling her foot in my grasp. "Get in there."
Gritting my teeth, I began to knead the arch of her foot, my thumbs pressing gently into the soft curve. Jazz let out an exaggerated sigh of contentment, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied smile.
"That’s more like it," she purred. "You’re not half bad at this, you know. Maybe I should keep you on as my personal masseuse."
I didn’t respond, focusing instead on the task at hand. My hands moved up to her heel, applying a little more pressure as I worked out imaginary tension. Jazz hummed appreciatively, her toes curling slightly in response.
"Careful with the bell," she said, her voice a warning laced with amusement. "Wouldn’t want to interrupt your excellent service, would we?"
I adjusted my position, moving slower and more deliberately as I switched to her other foot. My hands slid along the ball of her foot, up to the base of her toes, which she wiggled teasingly against my fingers.
"You’re really good at this," she said, her tone dripping with mock surprise. "It’s almost like you’ve done it before. Who knew you had such a talent?"
The comment only deepened the blush already staining my cheeks. As I continued, Jazz occasionally made little comments or exaggerated noises of pleasure, clearly enjoying my discomfort as much as the massage itself.
Jazz stretched out lazily on one of the pool loungers, flipping onto her stomach with the grace of a cat settling into a sunbeam. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, and with a casual motion, she reached behind her and unhooked her bikini top, letting it fall onto the lounger.
"Alright, sweetheart," she drawled, propping her chin on her hands and peering back at me with a mischievous smirk. "T. Rub some lotion on my back, will you? Can’t risk getting sunburned."
I froze, my heart skipping a beat and then racing to catch up. The tiny bell around my neck gave a faint jingle as I hesitated, and Jazz raised an eyebrow.
"You don’t want to keep me waiting, do you?" she teased, her tone light but laced with authority.
"No, of course not," I muttered, my voice weak and shaky. My hands fumbled as I picked up the bottle of sunscreen, the cool plastic slipping against my sweaty palms.
Steeling myself, I walked over to the lounger and knelt beside her. Jazz rested her cheek on her forearms, her bare back exposed to the sunlight, smooth and golden. Her confidence was almost overwhelming, as if she hadn’t a single care in the world.
As I poured the lotion into my hands, the cool sensation startled me, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from Jazz’s skin when I placed my palms against her back.
Her skin was soft, impossibly smooth, and my hands trembled slightly as I began to spread the lotion over her shoulders. My heart pounded louder than the jingling bell, each beat hammering home the surreal nature of this moment.
Why was I blushing? Why was my pulse racing? Why couldn’t I stop noticing the curve of her back, the slight tension in her muscles as she shifted under my touch?
She’s your stepsister, I reminded myself harshly. This is humiliating, not... anything else.
And yet, as my hands moved down to the middle of her back, smoothing the lotion over her skin in slow, deliberate circles, a confusing cocktail of emotions churned inside me.
What is wrong with me?
I focused on the task, determined to push away the intrusive thoughts. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. Was it Jazz’s teasing confidence, her ease in commanding attention and control? Was it the way her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, the playful lilt in her voice that made every word sound like a dare?
Or was it me?
The thought hit like a lightning bolt. Was I attracted to her? To girls? To her, specifically?
The existential crisis roared to life, drowning out everything else. I’d always been certain about who I was—what I wanted. But now, under the weight of Jazz’s teasing grin and the warmth of her bare back beneath my hands, that certainty crumbled.
"Something wrong?" Jazz asked, her voice breaking through my spiral. She tilted her head to look at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something else I couldn’t place.
"No," I blurted out, my voice higher than I intended. "Just... focused."
Her smile widened, and she rested her head back down. "Good. You’re doing great. Don’t forget the sides."
My hands moved mechanically, working the lotion along her sides, careful to stay professional. If Jazz noticed my inner turmoil, she didn’t let on. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that she knew exactly what she was doing—pushing boundaries, testing limits, and enjoying every second of my discomfort.
Jazz reached for her bikini top lazily but paused, glancing at me with that same infuriatingly smug grin. "Oh, one more thing," she said, her tone casual, like she was discussing the weather. "You know, I heard that little jingle from your bell earlier while you were rubbing in the lotion."
My heart stopped.
"I—what?" I stammered, my voice pitching higher.
Jazz’s grin widened, and she sat up slightly, her bare chest making me flush an even deeper shade of red. Her confidence was unwavering, her presence magnetic and overwhelming.
"You heard me," she teased, her fingers wiggling in the air ominously. "That bell jingled, which means you’re due for a little... penalty."
I instinctively stepped back, shaking my head, but Jazz was faster. Before I could react, she lunged off the lounger, tackling me onto the soft grass beside the pool.
"Jazz! No, wait—!" I yelped, but my protests were drowned out by my own laughter as her fingers found their mark.
Her nails danced along my ribs, tracing over the sensitive skin with expert precision. I squirmed beneath her, trying desperately to twist away, but her weight pinned me down, her bare skin warm against mine as she laughed along with my helpless giggles.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle," she cooed, her voice mockingly sweet as her fingers explored every vulnerable spot.
"No! Jazz, stop—please!" I begged, my voice broken by gasping laughter. My arms flailed weakly, but I couldn’t push her off; every attempt was thwarted by the unbearable sensation of her nails skimming over my sides, my stomach, even under my arms.
She shifted slightly, her hands now attacking the backs of my knees, making me thrash even harder. "You’re way too ticklish for your own good," she teased, her grin as bright as the sun overhead.
"I c-can’t—breathe!" I choked out between fits of laughter, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
Jazz finally relented, leaning back slightly but still pinning me down with her hips. She was grinning ear to ear, her chest rising and falling as she caught her own breath.
"See? That wasn’t so bad," she teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Although I have to say, the bell makes it way too easy to catch you slipping."
I glared up at her weakly, my chest heaving as I tried to recover. "You’re evil," I muttered, my voice hoarse from laughing so hard.
"Aw, don’t be like that," Jazz said, giving my side one last playful squeeze before standing up and offering me a hand. "You’ve survived this long, haven’t you?"
I reluctantly took her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. As she grabbed her bikini top from the lounger and slipped it back on, she shot me a wink.
"Next time, try harder not to jingle, okay?" she said, her tone light and teasing.
I didn’t respond, too busy trying to steady my wobbly legs and my racing heart. Jazz, meanwhile, strolled back to the lounger, humming a tune under her breath like she hadn’t just completely humiliated me.
And despite everything, a small, traitorous part of me wondered if she’d do it again.
Jazz leaned back for a moment, her breath coming in soft puffs as she gave me a few seconds to recover. The heat of the moment was starting to subside, but I couldn’t ignore how close she was, how her body was still pressed against mine, and most unsettlingly—how I kept glancing at her chest.
I felt a blush rise in my cheeks, and my mind screamed at me to stop, but my eyes betrayed me. It was impossible not to notice, with her breasts still exposed and my face so close to hers. My stomach churned with discomfort, and I tried to avert my gaze, focusing on anything else in the moment—the grass beneath me, the clouds overhead, anything that didn’t remind me of the situation I found myself in.
But I couldn’t escape the reality. She knew. Jazz knew.
Before I could even try to steady my breathing, she let out a soft, knowing laugh, a sound so light it sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over me.
"Are you really that uncomfortable, sweetheart?" she teased, her tone playful but sharp. "I mean, I know I’m irresistible, but come on... you’ve been all over me with those hands," she added with a smirk, clearly catching onto my every thought.
I froze, my cheeks burning with a mix of shame and frustration. I tried to force my gaze elsewhere, but her voice—her laugh—just drew my attention back. It was like a magnet, pulling me in.
"I-I wasn’t—" I stammered, not sure how to explain the embarrassment that was radiating off me.
Jazz smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know, it’s really cute when you try to look away," she said, leaning in just a little closer, her voice dipping low. "But don’t worry, I’ve got a feeling you're gonna be seeing a lot more of me."
The way she said it, so teasing and sure of herself, made my heart beat faster. I couldn’t look at her the same way anymore—not with that smile, not with those eyes that seemed to pierce through every layer of me.
"You’re impossible," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper as I desperately tried not to look at her, though it felt like she was drawing me in further with every word.
Jazz chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Maybe," she said, her voice light, "but it’s fun to see you squirm." She stood up, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. "Anyway," she said nonchalantly, as if we hadn’t just been wrestling on the grass, "let's get back to it. I think it’s your turn to really earn your keep, don’t you?"
The hour dragged on, a blur of humiliating tasks, each one more absurd than the last, and every movement setting off that dreaded bell, sealing my fate to more ticklish torture. Jazz had a way of keeping me on edge, constantly making me feel like I was about to snap under the weight of both the tasks and the endless teasing.
First, she had me pick up the pool toys that had been left scattered around the yard. It was a simple enough task, but the way she made me bend over to gather them made sure the bell rang every single time. I could feel the cool breeze hit my exposed rear as I bent down to scoop up a brightly colored beach ball, my heart hammering in my chest, praying that I wouldn’t be caught. But the bell chimed, and just like that, Jazz was behind me, fingers digging into my sides, sending me into a fit of giggles and desperate squirming. I couldn’t escape—her grip was too firm, and my body was too sensitive.
Next, she made me fold towels, though I wasn’t allowed to just stack them neatly. No, she wanted them perfectly folded. So, as I knelt down to fold the first towel, I tried to be as careful as possible, hoping the bell wouldn’t ring. But of course, as soon as I moved the towel the wrong way, there it was—a soft chime, signaling that my fate had been sealed again. I didn’t even have a chance to react before Jazz tackled me, pulling me into her grasp and tickling my sides and stomach until I was breathless, writhing beneath her, utterly powerless to stop her.
The worst was when she made me sweep the patio. It was hard enough keeping up with the broom and trying to make sure the floor was clean, but each time I had to move the broom in a way that triggered the bell, Jazz was right there, ready to pounce. Her fingers found their mark on my ribs, or would sneak up to my armpits, and I couldn’t do anything but laugh uncontrollably, my whole body shaking as I tried—and failed—to hold it together. Jazz would let me struggle for a few seconds before making sure I couldn’t breathe from laughing too hard. She was relentless.
At one point, she had me try to climb up a ladder to retrieve a decoration that had blown up onto the roof, something I could’ve easily done if my body wasn’t trembling from all the ticklish sensations. I carefully stepped up each rung, aware that any wrong movement would make the bell ring. And when it did, Jazz was right there, pulling me off the ladder and into her arms, tickling me mercilessly until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
By the end of the hour, I was a mess—exhausted, humiliated, and utterly at her mercy. The tasks she’d given me were designed to keep me on edge, every movement punishable by her sadistic tickling. Each time I thought I’d finally escaped, the bell rang, and Jazz was there, ready to remind me who was in charge.
As the hour dragged to its end, every muscle in my body ached, and my skin felt hypersensitive from Jazz's relentless tickling. My sides throbbed, my feet were sore from constant movement, and my arms felt like lead from the endless tasks she’d concocted. Every time I thought she was done, she found some new way to tease me—a feather duster to my neck, her fingers dancing up my ribs, or a playful jab to my belly. By the time she finally called it quits, I could barely stand straight, let alone muster the energy to argue.
“All right, sweetie, you survived,” Jazz said with a grin, tossing the bell collar into a nearby chair. “You’re free to go clean up now. You’ve earned it.”
I could barely manage a glare as I trudged toward the house, every step a reminder of how thoroughly she'd worn me out. My hair stuck to my forehead, and my skin glistened with a mix of sweat and sunscreen. The bikini was still cutting into me, leaving red marks around my hips and shoulders. The thought of a hot shower and actual clothes was the only thing keeping me moving.
As I approached the bathroom, I heard voices from the kitchen. Before I could slip past unnoticed, I turned a corner—and froze.
Standing there, mid-conversation, were my dad and stepmom.
Their conversation faltered as they both turned to look at me. For a split second, the world seemed to freeze.
My dad’s face went through several stages of emotion in rapid succession: confusion, dawning realization, and then full-on embarrassment. His brow furrowed, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His eyes flickered downward before immediately snapping back up, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
My stepmom, ever poised, took in the sight of me with a raised eyebrow and a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingering just long enough to make me want to curl up and disappear.
I was suddenly, acutely aware of every humiliating detail. The bikini clung to me like a second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My chest, barely covered, felt completely exposed, and the bottoms rode up in a way that made me want to tug them down—but I couldn’t, not without drawing even more attention.
I’d never let anyone see me this close to naked, not since I was a little kid running around in the sprinkler. And now? Now my dad, of all people, had to see me like this.
“Oh, uh…” my dad finally stammered, his voice awkward and thick with discomfort. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as though the ceiling had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
My stepmom, on the other hand, was clearly trying not to laugh. “Well, isn’t this… a look,” she said, her tone carefully neutral but her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Something special going on at the pool?”
My face burned so hot it felt like I might combust on the spot. “I… I…” My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no words came out.
“I’ll, uh, give you some privacy,” my dad muttered, shuffling awkwardly toward the living room, his eyes glued firmly to the floor.
I couldn’t take it anymore. The mortification was suffocating, pressing down on me until all I could do was bolt. With a strangled noise that might’ve been a squeak of humiliation, I fled toward the bathroom, the bell on my collar giving a mocking jingle with every panicked step.
Once inside, I slammed the door shut and locked it, leaning back against it as my chest heaved with ragged breaths. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my hair a wild mess, my cheeks scarlet, and the ridiculous bikini looking even worse under the harsh bathroom lights.
“I can’t believe this,” I groaned, pressing my hands to my burning face. The image of my dad’s mortified expression and my stepmom’s amused smirk replayed in my mind, making my stomach churn with embarrassment.
I slid down to the floor, burying my face in my knees. “This has to be the most humiliating day of my life.”
As I sat on the cold bathroom floor, still trying to will my embarrassment into nonexistence, a soft knock came at the door. My heart sank further. "Honey? It's me," my stepmom's voice called gently from the other side.
Great. Of all people.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, though my voice cracked, betraying the fact that I was anything but.
“Sweetie, I’m coming in,” she said, and before I could protest, the doorknob turned, and she slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
There she stood, effortlessly elegant as always, her perfectly arched brow lifting slightly as she took in the sight of me crumpled on the floor in a bikini that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Well,” she began, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she folded her arms, “I see Jazz wasted no time roping you into her games.”
My cheeks flared up again, hotter than before. “It’s not what it looks like,” I blurted out, even though it absolutely was what it looked like.
“Oh, honey,” she said with a chuckle, moving to sit down beside me on the floor. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Jazz has been dying to break you in.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “This is so embarrassing,” I muttered. “I can’t believe she got me to wear this—this thing. And now Dad’s seen me in it. Dad.”
She reached out and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, though the amusement in her voice remained. “Your dad will survive, trust me. He’s seen worse, even if he’d rather not admit it.”
“I’ve never let anyone see me like this!” I said, my voice tinged with desperation. “It’s humiliating.”
She tilted her head, her smirk softening into something gentler. “I get it. Really, I do. Jazz has a way of... pushing people’s boundaries. But you handled it better than most. Honestly, I’m impressed you lasted the whole hour.”
I glanced at her, frowning. “How do you know about the hour?”
She let out a low laugh. “Oh, sweetie, Jazz did the same thing to me the first summer I moved in. That girl loves her games, and she loves getting her way. If it makes you feel any better, she had me dressed as a pirate with a bell on my hat.”
I blinked, momentarily stunned by the mental image. “Wait, you did this too?”
She nodded, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Oh, yes. Jazz made sure I walked the plank, fed her snacks, and polished her shoes—all while she kept finding excuses to make the bell ring. She takes the ‘queen of the house’ thing very seriously.”
Despite myself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “So, it’s not just me?”
“Not at all,” she said, patting my knee. “And for what it’s worth, you’re not the first person to come running to the bathroom afterward. It’s part of the initiation, in her mind. But look at it this way—if she’s gone to this much trouble, it means she likes you. Jazz doesn’t waste her time on people she doesn’t care about.”
I mulled that over, the sting of humiliation easing slightly. “She has a weird way of showing it,” I muttered, though my voice lacked its earlier venom.
She chuckled again, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “That’s Jazz for you. She likes to remind people who’s in charge, but underneath all that mischief, she’s got a good heart. Give it time, and you’ll see.”
I leaned back against the door, letting out a sigh. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“You really don’t,” she said with a grin. “But for what it’s worth, you’re handling it better than I did. And hey—maybe next time, you’ll be the one making her wear the bell.”
The idea of payback brought a glimmer of hope to my mortified soul. “You really think so?”
She laughed, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “Oh, absolutely. But for now, go ahead and get changed. You’ve earned it. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll make sure your dad forgets all about this by tomorrow.”
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door and glanced back at me, her smirk returning. “But, you know… that bikini is kind of cute on you.”
I groaned, throwing a hand towel at her as she slipped out the door, laughing.
Later that evening, after the whirlwind of humiliation, exhaustion, and confusion, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replayed in my mind like some bizarre fever dream. The faint sound of waves crashing against the shore outside did little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
I was sore from head to toe—my ribs still tingling from Jazz’s relentless tickling, my legs aching from the endless errands she’d put me through, and my pride bruised beyond recognition. Yet, none of that compared to the thoughts spinning in my head every time I pictured her smirking face.
Why does she have to be so infuriating? I thought, frowning up at the ceiling. So bossy, so smug, so… My mind betrayed me, finishing the thought with so beautiful.
I groaned, flipping onto my stomach and burying my face in my pillow. That was the worst part of all this—the way my feelings didn’t make sense. Jazz was my stepsister, for crying out loud! Sure, we weren’t biologically related, but it still felt wrong to even think about her like that. And yet…
I thought about the way her strawberry perfume lingered in the air whenever she got too close. The way her laugh was equal parts teasing and musical, sending an involuntary flutter through my chest. The way she’d looked lying there on the lounge chair earlier, her bare back gleaming in the sunlight as she ordered me around like I was hers.
My face burned at the memory. I hadn’t even let myself look at her directly for more than a second after she took off her bikini top, afraid of what I might feel if I did. But even without looking, the image had burned itself into my brain. I hated it. And I hated how much I didn’t hate it.
What’s wrong with me? I thought, pulling the covers over my head as if that would shield me from my own thoughts. She’s just messing with me. That’s what Jazz does—she pushes people’s buttons because she likes being in control. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple. I hated how much I cared about what she thought of me. How, even in the middle of being humiliated in that stupid bikini, part of me had wanted her approval. And how, despite everything, I couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes sparkled when she teased me, or the soft curve of her smile when she finally let me go.
I sighed, rolling onto my back and staring up at the dark ceiling once more. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. Not my dad, not my stepmom, and definitely not Jazz. This was something I’d have to deal with on my own.
As the exhaustion of the day finally began to pull me toward sleep, one last thought crept into my mind, unbidden and unwelcome: What’s going to happen tomorrow?
And with that, I drifted off, my dreams filled with strawberry perfume, mischievous grins, and the faint, maddening sound of a bell.
Last year, I posted my second story, Sins of My Sister, which you can find here: Sins of My Sister.
I loved the experience so much that I challenged myself to write and post a new story every two months. Well… one year later, with many stories started but not finished, here we are again in January.
I was working on a cover of College Dorm Tickling by i64 when my partner shared a story about losing a bet in college and having to run nude around campus. That little anecdote sparked something in me, and before I knew it, I had written an entire story about a girl losing bets and facing ticklish punishments.
There are so many directions this story could go, and if you enjoy it, please let me know! I do plan to write more chapters, but knowing there’s interest would be a huge motivator—and hopefully, it’ll push me to finally complete more than one story this year. Unlike my previous two stories, this one is entirely original, with no existing story as its foundation. That’s both exciting and a little nerve-wracking since I didn’t have the structure of the giants who came before me to lean on.
I hope you enjoy this story, and thank you for reading. It’s a long one, but I hope you’ll stick with it—I’m really proud of it!
Punishment Game: At My Sister’s Mercy
by PixieGirlChaos
Prologue
And then, as if the universe was conspiring to maximize my humiliation, the tank top decided to stage its own little rebellion. The already thin straps had stretched with my movements, or perhaps with Jazz’s earlier manipulations, and the neckline had slipped precariously low, revealing the upper curve of my breasts, my cleavage suddenly exposed to the cool air and Jazz’s undoubtedly predatory gaze. I desperately wanted to tug it back into place but my hands were bound too tightly, the ropes digging into my wrists with a cruel precision that mocked any attempt at modesty. I could feel the cool air on my suddenly very exposed skin, a stark contrast to the heat of humiliation—and something else, a flutter in my stomach, a tightening between my legs, something that felt dangerously close to arousal—burning in my cheeks. Jazz stood there, arms crossed, her lips curled into that infuriatingly perfect smirk she wore so damn well. She knew exactly what she was doing, the sadistic little minx, and she was savoring every single second of it.
I’d love to tell you I was handling this with dignity—stoic, unflinching, maybe even a little heroic. But dignity had left the building the moment Jazz’s fingers brushed against my wrists, tying them with a precision that suggested she’d done this before. And not just once. The ropes were firm, unyielding, and her touch was deliberate, almost clinical, as if she were an artist and I were her canvas. My composure shattered like cheap glass, leaving me trembling and gasping, my pulse racing in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with her.
She was taking her time, savoring my unraveling like a fine wine, each second stretching into an eternity of exquisite torture. I could feel her eyes on me, tracing every twitch, every shudder, every flicker of vulnerability I desperately tried to conceal but couldn’t. It was maddening, the way she seemed to know exactly how to pull me apart—layer by agonizing layer—without even trying. And the worst part? The truly sickening, shameful part? I hated how much I loved it. Hated how my body betrayed me, how my breath hitched again when she leaned in close, her warm breath ghosting against my ear, her lips brushing the shell as she whispered, low and possessive, “You’re mine now.” A shiver ran through me, a shiver that had nothing to do with the cool air.
Don’t look so scandalized,” she said, her grin sharpening, predatory and knowing, as she leaned in closer, the scent of vanilla and something darker—something musky and undeniably hers—filling the air between us, suffocatingly close. “You knew what you were signing up for.”
“I didn’t sign up for this,” I hissed through gritted teeth, though the tremor in my voice betrayed the lie.
She chuckled, a low, throaty rumble that vibrated against my skin, making my stomach clench in anticipation.
“Oh, but you did,” she purred, her voice laced with amusement and something far more dangerous. “You just didn’t know it yet.”
Then, with a movement so fluid and practiced it sent a fresh wave of unease through me, she straddled me. The contact was immediate, jarringly intimate. Her thighs pressed against mine, a firm, possessive weight, the heat of her body radiating through the thin fabric of my gym shorts. It was then, with the direct contact, that I realized she wasn't wearing shorts at all. Just… underwear beneath the oversized hoodie that swallowed her frame, the hem dangling almost to her knees. The warmth of her body radiated through me, a disorienting mix of comfort and threat, momentarily eclipsing the panic and stealing the breath from my lungs. She smelled of strawberries—sweet and deceptively innocent, a scent that filled the suffocatingly small space between us, making it nearly impossible to focus on anything but the feel of her weight on my lap, the heat of her skin so close to mine.
As she settled more firmly on my lap, her gaze dropped for a fleeting moment to my chest, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes before her smirk returned, sharper than ever. With a slow, deliberate movement, she reached down and, with the barest touch of her fingertips, tugged the fallen tank top up a fraction of an inch, just enough to minimize the most blatant exposure, but not enough to alleviate the burning humiliation. I almost asked her to pull it up more but realizing how humiliated I was worried she might pull the top down more instead.
“Comfy?” she whispered, her voice a syrupy-sweet tease laced with a dangerous undercurrent that sent a jolt of nervous energy through me. She leaned closer still, her warm breath in my ear, sending shivers racing down my spine. “You should be. I mean, I worked so hard to make sure those ropes were just right.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry and tight. “Jazz—” I managed, but my voice cracked, the sound barely a whisper, betraying my carefully constructed facade of defiance.
Her soft chuckle cut me off, “Oh, sweetheart,” she murmured, her fingers trailing lightly down my sides, the touch so feather-light it felt like a whisper of contact, yet sending a jolt of awareness through my entire body. I flinched involuntarily, and her grin widened, revealing a flash of white teeth. “Look at you—so jumpy already. Poor thing. Is this…too much for you?”"
Then her expression shifted, the playful teasing replaced by something colder, more calculating. “Now,” she said, her voice dropping to a low, serious tone that sent a shiver of genuine fear through me.
“Remember the punishment.” She took my chin between her thumb and forefinger, tilting my head so I was forced to look at the clock on the wall. “If you can survive fifteen minutes of tickling,” she enunciated slowly, each word dripping with a deliberate menace, “without saying the safe word, we let you go. If you don’t…” Her smirk returned, a cruel twist of her lips. “…you have to draw a new punishment from the hat. Or,” she added, leaning in close again, her breath warm against my ear, “you can choose to be tickled for a straight thirty minutes. Your choice.”"
I suddenly true realized how helpless I truly was. She good do anything to me, the thought filled my stomach with dread, but there was something else, a warm feeling between my legs...I slammed that thought out of my head as Jazzs fingers began to move forward.
Her fingers moved with deliberate precision, skimming over my ribs, my sides, my stomach. Each touch was a calculated strike, leaving no inch of me untouched. She knew exactly how to break me, and she was doing it slowly, methodically, savoring every second of my unraveling.
“Jazz,” I gasped, my voice cracking as I arched against the restraints. “Stop—”
“Stop?” she interrupted, feigning innocence as her nails grazed the sensitive skin just above my waistband. “You don’t really want me to stop.” Her lips curved into a wicked smile as she tilted her head, her curls brushing against my cheek. “Do you?”
The truth lodged itself in my throat, refusing to come out. She wasn’t wrong. Even as I thrashed and gasped and begged for mercy, there was a part of me that didn’t want this to end. A part that craved the intensity, the intimacy, the sheer, dizzying thrill of being completely at her mercy.
She leaned in closer, her breath warm against my ear. “14 minutes left,” she whispered, her voice a dark promise that sent a shiver racing through me. “Think you can handle it?”
Her fingers moved lower, tracing maddening circles along my hips, just shy of being too much. My head fell back, a strangled laugh escaping my lips as I fought to hold onto some semblance of control.
“Jazz, please,” I breathed, my voice trembling.
“‘Please’ already?” she taunted, her grin deepening. “You’re making this far too easy, sweetheart.”
Her fingers dipped just beneath the waistband of my shorts, teasing, threatening to push the line further. My body betrayed me, trembling under her touch as I bit my lip to stifle a moan.
“You’re gorgeous when you’re desperate,” she said softly, her voice laced with satisfaction. “I could keep you like this forever.”
And in that moment, I almost believed her.
“You holding up okay, little sis?” Jazz purred, her lips so close to my ear I could feel the warmth of her breath teasing the sensitive skin. “You know, if you just said the word, this could all stop.”
“N-never,” I choked out, my voice trembling as she delivered another sudden, ruthless jab to my sides.
Jazz’s smirk widened, her expression dripping with triumph. She leaned back slightly, her fingers wiggling in the air above me like a magician about to perform a particularly cruel trick.
“Alright, Bell,” she said sweetly, dragging out every syllable of my name in that mock-syrupy tone she loved to use. “I’ll give you ten seconds. Either you tell me the secret word, or I’m going to make you regret every cocky thing you said before we started this game.”
Her nose was inches from mine, her hazel eyes boring into me with that signature intensity of hers. Jazz didn’t bluff—she never bluffed. My heart hammered against my ribcage as the countdown began.
“Ten…” she started, her fingers hovering like claws over my ribs.
I bit my lip hard, willing myself not to break.
“Nine…”
Her fingertips twitched, threatening to strike.
“Eight…”
Why did I make this stupid bet? Why did I think I could beat her at Mario Kart? Pride was a stupid thing to cling to, but now it was the only thing keeping me from screaming the safe word.
“Seven…”
The nervous smile crept onto my face despite my best efforts to stay stoic. Jazz noticed, of course. She noticed everything.
“Six…”
“You’re evil,” I muttered weakly, my voice trembling.
Jazz’s grin widened. “Four…”
“You skipped five!” I cried, panic bubbling up in my chest.
“Oh, did I?” she said with faux innocence, leaning in closer. “I guess you’ll have to punish me later.”
“Three…”
“Jazz, please—”
“Two…”
Her hands shot forward, stopping just short of contact, and I flinched. My entire body tensed in anticipation, my breath catching in my throat.
“One…”
And then—chaos.
Her fingers struck with merciless precision, spidering across my ribs, my stomach, my sides. My body jerked against the restraints, my laughter bursting out uncontrollably. It wasn’t just the sensation; it was the build-up, the sheer intensity of it all, that made me lose control.
Jazz’s hands were everywhere, her nails dragging over the thin fabric of my tank top, her fingertips pinching and prodding the most sensitive spots she could find. Every motion was deliberate, every touch designed to break me.
“You look adorable like this,” she said, her tone casual, as if she weren’t absolutely wrecking me. “All tied up, laughing like a little kid. Makes me wonder if you didn't lose on purpose.”
“Y-you—are—the worst!” I gasped out, though my words were barely coherent through the fits of laughter.
She grinned wider, her curls brushing against my face as she leaned in close. “Flattery won’t save you, sis.”
Her hands dipped lower, grazing my hips, and I practically leapt out of my skin. My tank top had ridden up slightly, exposing bare skin that she wasted no time exploiting.
“Jazz!” I shrieked, my voice a mix of laughter and desperation.
“Say the word,” she said again, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Just one little word, and I’ll stop. Until then…” Her fingers trailed up my sides, then down again, her touch maddeningly slow. “I’m having way too much fun to let you off easy.”
I shook my head, my cheeks burning with embarrassment and something else I didn’t dare name.
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, her fingers resuming their relentless assault. “You’ve got all night to change your mind.”
And then—chaos.
Jazz’s fingers shot straight for my sides, spidering across my ribs with ruthless precision. My body jerked against the restraints, a garbled mix of gasps and laughter spilling from my lips like a dam breaking. Her hands were everywhere—pinching, scribbling, squeezing—each touch a calculated attack designed to dismantle me.
But then—oh no—she slipped her hands under my tank top.
My stomach tensed immediately, the warmth of her fingers on my bare skin sending a shockwave through me. I flinched hard, my laughter breaking into panicked squeals as her hands began their cruel work. My cheeks flushed crimson, humiliation creeping in like a tide.
“N-no, Jazz! Not—there!” I stammered, twisting as much as the silk scarves allowed.
“Ohhh, someone’s extra ticklish here,” Jazz teased, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “And under the shirt, no less? Poor Bell.”
I could barely comprehend her words through the haze of sensation. No one had ever touched me like this before—not under my shirt, not anywhere this intimate—and it made everything so much worse. The soft fabric of my tank top bunched around her wrists as her hands skated over the bare skin of my stomach, exploring every inch.
Her fingers swirled across the soft spots just above my hips, tracing maddening circles around my navel, then darted up to prod at my ribs. My body reacted violently to each touch, a mix of laughter and desperate gasps spilling uncontrollably from me.
“No—nohohoho! Jazz! Plea—hahaha—please!” I begged, my voice cracking.
But Jazz wasn’t done. Her hands moved higher, slipping further under the fabric, her fingers brushing lightly over my bare ribs before creeping toward my armpits.
“Oh, Bell,” Jazz purred, her voice low and teasing as her fingertips grazed the hollows beneath my arms. “Ticklish here, too? What a treasure trove.”
I let out a strangled squeal as she started scratching and wiggling her fingers against the sensitive skin. My laughter turned into helpless shrieks, my body jerking uselessly against the restraints.
“JAHAHAZZ! S-STOHOHOP!”
She laughed softly, her breath warm against my flushed skin. “Why would I stop? You’re adorable like this.”
And then—dear God—she went lower.
Her fingers darted back down to my stomach, swirling teasingly, before pulling them out of the shirt. I thought the worst was over until her thumbs brushed against my nipples through the thin fabric of my tank top.
“Oh, what’s this?” Jazz cooed, her grin widening. “Very sensitive here too, aren’t you?”
Before I could stammer out a protest, her thumbs pressed gently, the motion so light it was almost maddening. Then she started alternating between teasing squeezes and faint, fluttering strokes, her fingertips tracing the edges through the thin cotton.
“J-Jazz!” I gasped, my voice hitching as the sensations became too much. “P-please, st-stohop!”
For a moment, her hands stilled, her smirk turning contemplative. “Hmm… maybe one day I’ll tickle these under the shirt,” she mused, her hazel eyes sparkling with mischief,
“But let’s be honest, Bell,” she continued, now adjusting her grip on my tank top to smooth it back down, “you’re probably not ready for that yet.”
The momentary reprieve didn’t last. Jazz’s hands returned to my chest, her fingers now pressing and teasing over the thin fabric. Somehow, this was almost worse—the slightly rough texture of the tank top amplifying the maddening ticklish sensations as she pinched and circled my nipples with deliberate, torturous precision.
“Still so sensitive,” Jazz crooned, leaning closer, her breath warm against my cheek. “You can’t hide anything from me, sis. I’ll find all your weak spots.”
“JAHAHAZZ! NOHOHO!” I cried, my voice breaking as she toyed with the sensitive spots. Each squeeze, each brush of her nails sent shockwaves through my body, leaving me gasping for air and squirming uselessly against my restraints.
Her laughter mingled with mine, low and predatory, as she continued her relentless assault. Just when I thought I might pass out from the overwhelming sensations, her hands retreated, leaving me trembling and panting, my cheeks flushed with heat and embarrassment.
“Say it, Bell,” Jazz whispered, her face so close that her curls brushed my cheeks. “Say the word, or this is only going to get worse.”
I tried to hold out—tried so hard—but my resolve shattered with every passing second.
“S-SAFETY!” I finally screamed, my voice cracking.
Jazz froze, her grin widening. “What was that?”
“S-SAFETY!” I gasped again, barely able to get the word out.
She gave me one last, teasing poke to my ribs before slowly pulling her hands away, her smirk practically glowing.
“See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
I slumped back in the chair, every inch of me tingling. My tank top clung to my sweat-dampened skin, a constant reminder of how exposed I felt, both physically and emotionally. My chest heaved with ragged breaths, and my nerves were still on fire from her relentless assault.
But Jazz wasn’t done.
With a theatrical flourish, she pulled the hat from behind her back.
Oh no.
The consequence hat.
My stomach dropped, humiliation pooling in my chest as her hazel eyes lit up with wicked anticipation.
“Alright, little sis,” Jazz said, her voice sing-song, “you know the rules. You lost, and now it’s time to pay up.”
“Jazz, wait—”
She cut me off with a single finger pressed to my lips. “Uh-uh. You play the game, you face the consequences. Now let’s see what fate has in store for you…”
Her hand dipped into the hat, her fingers swirling among the folded slips of paper like a predator circling its prey.
When she finally pulled one out, her grin turned positively feral as she unfolded it.
“Oh no,” I whispered, my heart sinking as her eyes flicked back to mine.
“Oh yes,” Jazz said, her tone practically purring. “You’re gonna love this one.”
This wasn’t over. Not by a long shot.
Chapter 1: It Started with a Phone
I glanced across the table at Keith, looking shar his perfectly styled hair and confident smirk exactly the kind of thing that should make my heart race. We were at a restaurant, something fancy—the kind with dim lighting and wine glasses I definitely didn’t know how to hold properly. Keith leaned in, his hazel eyes locking onto mine, his hand sliding over the table toward me. I knew what was coming. A kiss. A perfect, romantic, movie-moment kiss.
I didn’t pull away. I leaned in too, my breath hitching as our lips neared—
And suddenly, Keith wasn’t Keith anymore.
He was Lizz.
Lizz, the cute, blonde, painfully cool girl from my U.S. History class. Lizz, who I’d definitely never thought about kissing before. Until now.
I should have jerked back. I should have recoiled in confusion. But instead, I leaned in hungrily, my body betraying me, drawn to her soft lips, to the scent of vanilla and something warm and familiar—
Her hands darted forward and dug into my sides.
I gasped, suddenly squirming, laughing, thrashing as ticklish shocks ran up my spine—
I jerked awake with a loud gasp, my body still tingling from the ghost of the sensation.
Except… oh. That wasn’t a dream. I was actually being tickled.
"Kristen!" I half-laughed, half-shrieked, trying to fend off my roommate’s wiggling fingers. "Get off me!"
Kristen, grinning like a gremlin, finally flopped down on the bed next to me. "Bell, it’s 11:30 AM." She stretched her arms above her head, looking disgustingly awake. "Come get lunch with me before you shrivel up and die of hangover starvation."
I groaned. My head throbbed, my mouth tasted like regret, and my memory of last night was more of a vague impressionist painting than an actual sequence of events. The party had been wild. Too many drinks, too many people, too many moments that blurred together. I really needed to stop drinking so much.
Kristen rolled onto her side, propping her head up with her palm. "So… what happened with you and Keith?"
That snapped me a little more awake. I blinked at her, my stomach twisting slightly.
"He seemed really mad last night," she added, her expression curious but not judgmental.
A faint, hazy memory surfaced. Keith’s tense face. His frustration. His voice, tight with irritation:
"What is your deal, Bell? Seriously. We’ve been dating for months, and it’s like you don’t even—"
I swallowed. Keith had been getting frustrated with my lack of interest in pushing things physically. Not that he’d ever been a total jerk about it, but… I just couldn’t do it. No matter how good-looking he was, no matter how much I told myself I should want it.
"Not sure," I lied, forcing a shrug.
And then, another flash of memory hit me.
Soft lips. A closet on the second floor. Hands on my waist, pressing me back against the door. A body against mine.
But not Keith’s.
My stomach dropped.
I shut the memory down fast.
It was nothing. I was just drunk. It didn’t mean anything.
Kristen was still watching me, waiting for more, and I forced out a too-casual laugh. "Anyway. Where are we eating?"
Kristen, thankfully, let it go. "Cafeteria. Come on, get up, you gremlin."
I groaned, threw my pillow at her, and dragged myself out of bed— but inside, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something wasn’t nothing.
That maybe, last night had meant something.
And I wasn’t ready to deal with that yet.
"Oh by the way" said Kristen, your phone has been going crazy all day, everything allright? I pulled my hungover self out of bed and glanced at my phone and saw 10 missed phone calls from my dad, and then a bunch from my brother. "Ugh, I will call them after I eat". Truth was since my dad had started dating Margo I had been pretty distant from the family. My mom had passed away a few years earlier, and while I was genuinely happy my dad had found someone who made him smile again, I wasn’t exactly ready to see him with someone else. It felt like a betrayal of something, though I couldn’t have told you what. Maybe it was a betrayal of her memory, as though moving on meant her absence mattered less. Or maybe it was a betrayal of us—of the version of our family that once felt unbreakable, now fractured and reshaped into something I barely recognized.
Grief is funny like that. It’s not just sadness; I wanted him to be happy—God, I really did—but every time I saw him with that lovesick smile, it tugged at something raw and unsettled in me. It wasn’t rational, and I knew it, but rationality has never been a match for grief.
Sometimes, late at night, I’d lie awake and wonder what my mom would have thought about all of it. Would she have been okay with Dad finding someone else? Would she have wanted me to be okay with it? I could almost hear her voice in my head, gentle and soothing: It’s alright, sweetheart. He deserves to be happy. And so do you.
But it didn’t feel alright. Not yet.
When Dad told me about her for the first time, his voice was so light, so full of hope, that I couldn’t bring myself to say anything except, “That’s great, Dad.” I plastered on a smile that felt more like a mask, trying to hide the storm brewing inside me. Because how could I explain it? How could I say, I’m happy for you, but I’m also a little broken, and seeing you move on makes it worse, without sounding selfish?
I wanted to be better—more mature, more understanding—but the truth was, I wasn’t there yet.
My phone buzzed again, "Bell come on!" said Kristen thowing a pillow at me "Just answer them and then we will head out."
I groaned, fumbling for it on the nightstand, and squinted at the screen. Family Zoom Call - 10 AM. Big News!
Big news. I stared at the words, a sinking feeling settling in my stomach. I didn’t need to be a genius to figure out what the “big news” was.
I joined the call out of obligation, my hair still a mess and a cup of coffee in hand. Dad was beaming, Margo sitting beside him with her hand resting lightly on his arm. Her smile was polished, her posture perfect, and her energy was... calm, like she had everything figured out.
“We’re getting married!” Dad announced, his voice practically bubbling with excitement.
. The rest of the family erupted into cheers and congratulations, but all I could do was sit there, staring at the screen as if it had just punched me in the gut.
“Bell? You okay, sweetheart?” Dad asked, his brow furrowing slightly when he noticed my lack of reaction.
I forced a smile, the same hollow mask I’d been perfecting since Mom died. “Yeah, that’s... wow, that’s great, Dad. Congrats.”
The words tasted bitter, but I swallowed them anyway.
The rest of the call was a blur, their voices a distant hum as I nodded and smiled at all the right moments. But inside, I was a mess. The reality of it hit me like a freight train: Margo wasn’t going anywhere. She wasn’t just his girlfriend anymore. She was going to be my stepmom.
When the call ended, I sat there for a long time, staring at the blank screen. A part of me wanted to scream, to throw something, to cry until there was nothing left. Another part wanted to shake myself and say, Get over it. You’re an adult now. This isn’t about you.
But the truth was, I wasn’t over it. And I wasn’t sure I ever would be.
I ended the call as Kristen came out of the bathroom. "Everything okay" she asked seeing the look on my face. I explained what had happened, the proposal, the upcoming marriage. But then I got the to very worst part of all.
Margo had asked to be one of her bridesmaid.
Chapter 2: Here comes the bride
The first real blow came in the form of a text message: Hey, kiddo! Need your measurements for bridesmaid dresses!
Bridesmaid. The word hit me like a slap. Not a guest, not someone who could politely clap from the sidelines and then fade into the background. No, I was going to be in the wedding. Front and center. Smiling for the cameras. Playing nice.
I stared at the message for a long time, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. What was I supposed to say? No thanks, I’d rather choke on a hairball than be part of your new happy family dynamic? That seemed... unhelpful.
In the end, I typed out a noncommittal, Sure, just let me know what you need, and hit send.
But that was just the start. Over the next few weeks, it became a nightmare of obligations. Group chats with Margo’s friends about bachelorette party plans. Emails about venue tours. Calls from Dad asking if I’d be willing to do a toast at the reception—just a short one, kiddo, nothing fancy.
I felt like I was being swept into a whirlpool of tulle, pastel napkins, and carefully orchestrated smiles, and the harder I tried to resist, the more tangled I became.
By the time spring break rolled around, I knew I couldn’t avoid it any longer. My name was already on the bridal party list. My place was set at the table. Whether I liked it or not, I was going home.
There was still one more horror awaiting me on the way to the wedding week(yeah they had a wedding week, my literall nightmare). Dress shopping wasn’t exactly my idea of fun. Actually, it ranked somewhere between dentist appointments and cleaning out the attic. The mirrors in these places didn’t help. They had a way of making you hyperaware of every part of yourself you wished you could just… ignore. However Margo insisted that I come with her and her daughter Jazz to pick out dresses. Apparently a bridesmaid dress wasn't enough, we needed unique dresses for all the events of this wedding from the bridal shower, bachelorrete party, wedding rehearsal, etc. To add to this my mom had often taking me dress shopping so going with my new step mom wasn't something I was sure I was ready for.
However, as you may have noticed earlier in the story, I'm really bad at saying no. So, of course, I said yes—and went.
As soon as I stepped into the dress store, I was greeted—no, ambushed—by my new stepmother, Margo, and her daughter, Jazz. Margo, towering at nearly 6'1", was a force of nature. She had the kind of presence that turned heads the moment she walked into a room—statuesque, curvy in all the right places, with a thick cascade of red hair that fell past her shoulders. Her warm yet overpowering hugs always ended with my face smothered against her ample chest, leaving me gasping for air and dignity.
Jazz, on the other hand, was her opposite in nearly every way. Barely 5'2" and slender to the point of looking deceptively delicate, she had the same fiery red hair as her mother, but hers was wild, untamed, a mess of waves that framed her freckled face. She had a grin that made my skin prickle—too knowing, too mischievous, like she was constantly in on a joke I wasn’t privy to. Something about her made me uneasy, like a cat toying with a mouse just for the fun of it.
At 5’6” and about 130 pounds, I wasn’t overweight, but I wasn’t what anyone would call confident either. My large chest, the part of me that always seemed to garner attention I didn’t want, was something I constantly tried to hide. Loose shirts and baggy hoodies were my go-to armor. But here, in this boutique with Margo and Jazz, I felt completely exposed.
The shop was practically a shrine to all things girly—soft pink walls, glittery accents, and a faint floral perfume that clung to everything. Margo, though, looked like she was in her element. She flitted between racks with an energy I didn’t expect, holding up dresses and tossing them into a growing pile for Jazz and me.
“Oh, Bell, this would look gorgeous on you!” Margo exclaimed, holding up a fitted green dress that I already hated on principle.
Jazz smirked. “Yeah, Bell, imagine walking into the wedding looking like that. Heads would turn.”
“Hard pass,” I muttered, trailing behind them like a reluctant shadow.
“Sweetheart, you don’t even know how good you’ll look until you try it on,” Margo said, her voice as warm and inviting as ever.
It was hard to hate her when she talked like that. I wanted to roll my eyes, but instead, I found myself softening toward her despite my initial resistance. She had a way of making you feel like you belonged.
Jazz, on the other hand, was a tornado of chaos. She was pulling dresses off racks at random, holding them up to herself, Margo, and even me, like some kind of amateur stylist.
“Try this one,” Jazz said, shoving a slinky black dress at me.
“No way.”
“Oh, come on,” Margo interjected, laughing. “Let’s all try something on. It’ll be fun!”
When we got to the dressing rooms, Margo glanced at the small stalls and then at our growing pile of dresses. “Why don’t we all share a room? It’ll be faster.”
“What?” I squeaked, clutching my pile like a lifeline.
“Relax,” Jazz said, already pushing me toward the largest stall. “We’re all girls here. What’s the big deal?”
I froze for a second as Jazz and Margo walked in casually, setting down their own piles of dresses. Growing up, it had always been just me, my dad, and my brothers. Changing in front of someone else? It wasn’t something I’d ever done.
“Uh, you know, I can just wait until you’re done…” I started.
“Nonsense,” Margo said, waving off my protest as she slipped off her cardigan, revealing a sleek blouse and toned arms.
Jazz was already pulling off her shirt, standing there in just her bra and shorts as she sorted through her dresses. “Bell, you can’t try anything on if you don’t get undressed,” she said with a grin.
My face burned as I fumbled with the hem of my hoodie. Slowly, I peeled it off, then my jeans, until I was standing there in my plain bra and underwear, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.
Jazz, however, seemed unfazed. She stripped off her shorts and bra, standing completely naked as she held up a glittery red dress to herself. “What do you think, Mom? Too much?”
Margo turned to me with a wink. “Jazz has no sense of modesty. You’ll get used to it.”
“Uh-huh,” I mumbled, my eyes darting anywhere but at Jazz, who was now shimmying into the dress.
Margo pulled off her blouse and skirt with practiced ease, slipping into a soft lavender gown. “Bell, sweetheart, you’ve got a great figure. You should show it off more.”
“Y-yeah,” I said, feeling more awkward by the second.
Jazz, now fully dressed, turned to me with a mischievous grin. “Speaking of showing off…”
“Jazz, don’t even think about it,” I warned, but it was too late.
Her fingers darted to my sides, tickling me mercilessly.
“Jazz! Nohohoho!” I squealed, trying to squirm away, but there was nowhere to go.
“Ticklish, huh?” Jazz teased, her fingers attacking my ribs and stomach. “You’re too easy, sis!”
“Jazz, leave her alone,” Margo said, though she was laughing too.
But then Margo joined in, her hands squeezing gently at my sides. “You’re in trouble now, Bell.”
“No! Plehehease!” I gasped, my laughter echoing in the tiny dressing room as they both tickled me.
“Team effort!” Jazz declared, her fingers diving under my arms while Margo focused on my stomach.
By the time they stopped, I was a giggling, breathless mess, leaning against the wall for support.
“You two are the worst,” I said between gasps, though I couldn’t help but laugh.
Margo smiled, placing a hand on my shoulder. “We’re just trying to make you feel comfortable, sweetheart. You’re family now.”
Jazz smirked, her wild curls bouncing as she twirled in her dress. “And family doesn’t get off easy.”
Despite myself, I smiled. Maybe this whole wedding thing wouldn’t be so bad after all.
Jazz was rummaging through a rack of clothes when she suddenly gasped dramatically. “Wait here. I just saw the perfect section!” She darted out of the dressing room before I could protest, leaving me alone with Margo.
I shifted awkwardly, glancing at the pile of dresses I’d already tried on. Margo, meanwhile, was busy slipping out of her blouse to try on a sequined top she’d plucked from her own pile.
“Bell, you don’t mind, do you?” she asked casually, already unclasping her bra.
“Uh…” I stammered, my cheeks heating. “No, it’s fine.”
Growing up with only my dad and brothers, I’d never really been around other women like this. Changing in front of someone else felt alien—intimate, even. Margo, on the other hand, was completely at ease.
She caught my hesitant glance and smiled warmly. “You’re not used to this, are you?”
I shook my head, looking down at my feet. “Not really. I grew up with just my dad and my brothers. I’ve never… you know… changed in front of anyone.”
“That makes sense,” she said, slipping the sequined top over her head. “It’s a little strange at first, but you’ll get used to it. Jazz and I do this all the time.”
I managed a small smile. “Jazz seems… comfortable with everything.”
Margo laughed, the sound light and genuine. “That’s Jazz. She’s fearless. A bit wild, but her heart’s always in the right place.”
I glanced at Margo, who was adjusting the top in the mirror. Despite her casual demeanor, there was a warmth about her that I couldn’t ignore.
“You really care about my dad, don’t you?” I asked suddenly, the words surprising even me.
Margo turned to face me, her expression softening. “I do, Bell. I know it’s probably hard for you to see him with someone else, but your dad is an amazing man. He’s been through so much, and he deserves to be happy.”
Her sincerity caught me off guard, and I felt a lump rise in my throat. “I just… I want him to be okay, you know?”
“He is,” Margo said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “And I hope, in time, you’ll see that I’m not trying to replace anyone. I just want to be part of his life—and yours, too.”
Before I could respond, Jazz burst back into the dressing room, her arms laden with more clothes. “Okay, ladies, I hit the jackpot! Bell, you’re gonna love—or hate—these.”
The momentary seriousness dissolved as Jazz dumped the pile onto the bench and started sorting through it. She held up a short, shimmering dress with a deep neckline and grinned devilishly. “Try this one first.”
I groaned. “Absolutely not.”
“Oh, you’re trying it,” Jazz insisted, stepping closer. “Unless you want to deal with these again!” She wiggled her fingers menacingly, and I instinctively backed away.
“Jazz, don’t you dare!” I warned, but she lunged, tickling my sides with merciless precision.
“Jazz!” I shrieked, doubling over in laughter. “Stooop! Nohoho!”
Margo laughed and joined in, her nails lightly dancing along my ribs. “Come on, Bell, don’t fight it. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”
Between their combined efforts, I was a laughing, squirming mess, barely able to stay on my feet.
“Fine! I’ll wear it!” I gasped, tears of laughter streaming down my face.
Another thing I learned about my new stepmother—aside from her impeccable taste in both humor and husbands—was that she was rich. And not upper-middle-class, nice suburban house rich. No, I mean private-island-on-the-west-coast rich.
The wedding wasn’t held in some charming vineyard or rustic barn venue. Nope. It was on an island. A literal private island with sparkling blue water, impossibly white sand, and a luxury resort that probably cost more per night than my tuition for an entire semester. Everywhere I looked, there were silk-draped archways, twinkling fairy lights strung between palm trees, and floral arrangements so elaborate they probably required their own passports to get there.
The ceremony itself took place on a perfectly manicured lawn overlooking the ocean. My dad, wearing a sharp suit and looking like he’d won the lottery (which, in a way, he had), stood at the altar, practically glowing. Margo walked down the aisle in an elegant ivory gown that somehow managed to look both timeless and casually effortless. The sun dipped just low enough on the horizon to cast everything in gold. Honestly, it was the kind of wedding you’d see on the cover of a bridal magazine and think, “Yeah, okay, that’s staged.”
I tried not to let my own insecurities bubble up too much during the event. Weddings had a way of making you reflect on yourself, and standing there in a plain dress that Jazz had picked out for me, I felt self-conscious. I wasn’t the type who dressed up often—or well. At 5’6” and about 130 pounds, I wasn’t unhappy with my body, but I wasn’t exactly used to flaunting it either. My large chest, something most people assumed I’d consider an asset, had always felt more like a nuisance. I hid it under loose shirts and sweaters, avoiding anything that might draw attention.
Amidst all the champagne toasts and tearful vows, I met my new step-siblings.
First, there was Jazz—yes, that Jazz, who we’ve met before, nothing new to add. Quick-witted, sharp-tongued she had a way of teasing me that bordered on infuriating but was never mean-spirited, and as much as I hated to admit it, she was growing on me.
Then there was her older sister, Sloane. Sloane was cool. Effortlessly cool. The kind of cool that makes you sit up straighter when she walks into the room. She had dark auburn hair that she wore in a sleek, shoulder-length bob, and her hazel eyes had this piercing quality, like she could see right through you—and probably didn’t hate what she saw, but wasn’t exactly impressed either. She dressed sharp, all tailored blazers and stylish heels, and she had an MBA from somewhere fancy stamped all over her vibe. Despite her intimidating presence, she was surprisingly warm, and after a few conversations, I realized she had a dry, wicked sense of humor that rivaled Jazz’s.
And then there was Callum, the older brother. Callum was… well, he was the golden child. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped auburn hair and a face that probably belonged on a cologne billboard. He worked in finance—naturally—and had that annoyingly easy charm that made him an instant hit with both grandmothers and bartenders. He laughed a lot, had a firm handshake, and looked like the kind of guy who jogs at 5 a.m. for fun. But beneath the polished exterior, there was something genuinely kind about him. He paid attention when people spoke, remembered small details, and always made sure everyone had a drink in their hand at the reception.
Despite my earlier misgivings about my dad moving on too quickly, I found myself feeling surprisingly… comfortable with them. Jazz, Sloane, and Callum welcomed me and Adrian like we were already part of the family. They teased us, included us, and by the end of the night, I was laughing so hard at one of Callum’s terrible dance moves that I nearly choked on my champagne.
At one point during the reception, I found myself sitting at a table with Margo, watching the others dance. She leaned in, her smile warm and genuine. “You know, your dad talks about you all the time,” she said. “He’s so proud of you, Bell.”
I blinked, a little taken aback. “Really? He doesn’t… say much about stuff like that.”
She laughed softly. “Oh, he’s not the type to gush, but trust me, it’s there. He loves you and Adrian more than anything.”
For a moment, I felt my defenses lower. Margo wasn’t just some glamorous stranger anymore. She was someone who genuinely cared about my dad—and maybe even about me.
By the time the night ended, I left that wedding with a stomach full of expensive food, a slight buzz from way-too-fancy cocktails, and—for the first time since my dad’s announcement—a genuine sense of excitement about our new extended family.
Chapter 3: Best Made Plans of Men
“So…” Kristen drawled, flopping onto my bed as I stuffed the last of my clothes into my suitcase. “You’re really going to spend the whole summer with them?”
I sighed, shoving the suitcase zipper closed with more force than necessary. “Yeah… it’s going to be interesting, I guess.”
Kristen raised an eyebrow. “That’s one way to put it.”
I didn’t argue. I still wasn’t sure how I felt about it myself.
The email had come in the middle of lunch, while I sat at a corner table in the student union, absently poking at my barely-touched salad.
Subject: Update on Internship Placement.
For a moment, excitement surged. I’d been waiting for weeks to hear the final details. My fingers fumbled as I opened it, my heart hammering with anticipation.
The first sentence hit like a sucker punch.
We regret to inform you…
I reread it twice, my brain struggling to process the words that followed.
Due to unforeseen restructuring… Your position has been eliminated… We hope you’ll consider reapplying in the future.
The fork slipped from my hand, clattering against the tray.
“No,” I whispered under my breath. “No, no, no…”
The cafeteria noise buzzed around me, a chaotic backdrop to the sharp, ringing silence in my head. My hands trembled as I clutched my phone, willing the words to change.
They didn’t.
The internship I’d fought for—the one that was supposed to be the launchpad for my future—was gone.
I barely registered the vibration of my phone until dad popped up on the screen. For a second, I considered ignoring it, but my thumb betrayed me, swiping to answer before I could think it through.
“Hey, Dad,” I said, my voice hollow.
“Hey, kiddo!” His tone was chipper, oblivious to the chaos swirling inside me. “Just wanted to check in! You all set for summer? Margo’s been planning like crazy—she’s got a whole itinerary lined up. Jazz is convinced she’ll get you into trouble within a week.”
I didn’t respond. The words barely registered.
“Becca?” His voice shifted, concern creeping in. “You okay?”
I swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in my throat. “The internship got canceled,” I said flatly, the words bitter on my tongue.
A pause. “What? Canceled? What happened?”
“Budget cuts. Restructuring. Whatever excuse they gave me doesn’t matter,” I muttered. “It’s just… gone.”
“Ah, kiddo…” His sympathy hit harder than I expected.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the inevitable Dad pep talk, but instead, his tone shifted. “Well… sounds like the perfect excuse to spend the summer with us.”
I frowned. “What?”
“Margo’s been planning this big family thing at her place. The beach house, Jazz, Callum, and Sloane—everyone’s going to be there. It’ll be good for you to get away from all the stress for a while.”
I hesitated. The thought of spending three whole months with my dad’s new family wasn’t exactly high on my list of appealing options.
Kristen snapped her fingers, bringing me back to the present. “Earth to Becca? You’re seriously doing this?”
I exhaled, dragging a hand through my hair. “I don’t really have a choice. I don’t have any other plans, and—” I hesitated, choosing my words carefully. “It’s not like I can afford to stay here all summer.”
Kristen gave me a knowing look but didn’t press. “Margo’s the stepmom, right? What’s she like?”
I sighed. “She’s… a lot.”
Kristen smirked. “That bad?”
I thought back to the first time I met Margo—tall, towering at almost 6’1”, with a presence so commanding it was impossible to ignore. She was beautiful in that effortlessly intimidating way, full-bodied with curves that made her look like she stepped out of some old Hollywood film. Her long red hair was always perfectly styled, cascading down her back like something out of a shampoo commercial. And the hugs—God, the hugs—every single one involved getting smushed face-first into her chest like she was trying to suffocate me with affection.
Kristen choked on a laugh. “Wait—you mean she boob smothers you?”
“Every. Single. Time.”
She howled. “Oh my God. I need to meet this woman.”
I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, well, you’re not the one getting manhandled.”
Kristen wiped at her eyes, still grinning. “And what about Jazz?”
I hesitated. Jazz.
Where Margo was larger than life, Jazz was deceptively unassuming. Barely 5’2”, thin, with the same fiery red hair, only hers was wild—untamed waves that framed her freckled face. She had a way of moving that made her seem like she was always half a step away from causing trouble.
And then there was that grin.
The one that made my stomach do weird things. The one that felt too knowing, like she was constantly in on some joke I wasn’t. It made me uneasy… in a way I couldn’t quite explain.
Kristen must have noticed my hesitation. “Huh.” She studied me for a second before saying, “You sound weird about her.”
“I do not,” I said too quickly.
Kristen’s grin was pure evil. “Ohhh, you so do.”
I groaned. “I hate you.”
“You love me,” she corrected. “And I expect full reports on whatever chaos this girl drags you into.”
I sighed, dragging my suitcase off the bed. “I’ll try not to die.”
Kristen smirked. “No promises, huh?”
I didn’t answer. Because honestly?
I wasn’t so sure myself.
"Where is this house again?" asked Kristen?
Part 4 California Dreaming
The drive to Malibu California felt like stepping into a postcard.
I’d never been to the beach before—not really. I’d seen it in movies, sure, and once on a miserable school trip where the sky had been gray, the water choppy, and the whole place smelled like dead fish. But this?
This was something else entirely.
The farther I drove, the more the landscape transformed. The city thinned, giving way to winding roads that clung to the edges of towering cliffs. To my right, the Pacific stretched endlessly, a glittering expanse of blue and gold under the afternoon sun. It was mesmerizing—waves rolling in smooth, rhythmic crashes, their white foam dissolving into golden sand. I cracked my window, and the warm, salty breeze hit me immediately, carrying the scent of the ocean and something sweet, like sun-warmed wildflowers.
God, it was beautiful.
The road curved along the coastline, weaving between massive rock formations and palm trees swaying lazily in the wind. The houses that lined the cliffs were ridiculous—ultramodern glass fortresses, sleek mansions with infinity pools that seemed to spill right into the ocean. It was the kind of wealth I couldn’t even begin to wrap my head around.
And then I reached it.
The house sat at the end of a private, gated drive, hidden behind towering hedges and a pristine white stone wall. As the gates slid open, I got my first full view—and holy shit.
It wasn’t just a house. It was a statement.
Three stories of sleek, modern architecture, all sharp angles and floor-to-ceiling windows that reflected the sky. The entire front was lined with balconies, each one overlooking the ocean like a private observation deck. The exterior was a mix of white stone and warm wooden accents, effortlessly elegant, like something ripped from the pages of a luxury magazine.
A long driveway led to a massive garage, and beyond that, perfectly manicured gardens stretched toward the cliffs. There were palm trees, exotic flowers, and a pathway that, from what I could see, led directly down to the private beach.
I pulled up slowly, my fingers gripping the steering wheel like I needed to hold onto something solid. This wasn’t just out of my league—this was another planet.
Before I could fully process it, my eyes caught on something even more absurd.
The pools.
Yes, plural.
The first one sat at the front of the house, an infinity pool so clear and pristine that it looked like liquid glass, reflecting the sky perfectly. The second pool—yes, second—was larger, sprawling across the back terrace with waterfalls spilling over sculpted rock formations. There was a built-in bar, submerged lounge chairs, and even a section that disappeared into a shaded grotto.
It was excessive. It was over the top.
And it was gorgeous.
I stepped out of the car slowly, my sandals crunching against the white stone driveway. A soft breeze rolled in from the ocean, carrying the sound of distant waves and the faint echo of seagulls overhead. For a moment, I just stood there, drinking it all in.
The house. The view. The ridiculous richness of it all.
I had no idea how I was supposed to fit into this world.
Margo’s hazel eyes sparkled as she leaned forward slightly, her manicured hands cradling her iced tea glass. “Now, we’re extremely excited to have you here, sweetheart,” she said warmly, her voice dripping with that polished charm she seemed to exude so effortlessly.
“But…” Her tone shifted just slightly, the pause hanging in the air like a perfectly timed note.
“But?” I echoed, raising an eyebrow as I tried to read between the lines.
“Your father and I, unfortunately, have to head out this evening.” She gave a small, apologetic smile. “Some last-minute plans. There’s a gala downtown—something for one of the charity foundations we’re involved with. You know how these things are.”
I nodded, though I didn’t entirely know. My experience with charity events was limited to school bake sales, not lavish soirées where the attendees probably donated more in one night than I’d ever make in a year.
“But don’t worry,” Margo continued, her smile widening. “You and Jazz will have the whole house to yourselves.”
I blinked, suddenly feeling my stomach twist again in that now-familiar, unplaceable way. “The whole house?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice light and airy. “It’ll be nice for you two to spend some time together. Before I could respond, she added with a soft chuckle, “Just don’t let her get you into any trouble, okay?”
I forced a laugh, though it came out awkward and strained. “Trouble? Me? Never.”
Margo’s playful smirk lingered as she stood, brushing invisible wrinkles from her dress. “I’ll hold you to that,” she said, casting a glance over her shoulder as she headed toward the door. “Jazz can be a handful sometimes, but I think you’ll manage just fine.”
I watched her leave, my mind racing. Being left alone with Jazz—this wasn’t exactly how I imagined the summer starting. And yet, as much as the thought made me nervous, there was an undeniable undercurrent of… something. Anticipation? Excitement?
Whatever it was, it left my cheeks warm and my heart beating just a little too fast.
The afternoon sun cast a golden glow over the sprawling backyard as I made my way toward the pool. My sandals clicked softly against the stone pathway, and the sound of trickling water from the nearby fountains filled the air. The closer I got, the more I could hear faint splashes and the unmistakable sound of Jazz’s laughter.
The pool came into view, an impossibly large, glistening expanse of water surrounded by lounge chairs and shaded cabanas. Jazz was floating lazily on a bright pink pool float, her head resting on her arms, sunglasses perched on her nose. She looked completely at ease, the epitome of summer.
“Hey,” I called out, unsure if she’d heard me over the sound of the fountains.
Jazz lifted her sunglasses just enough to peer at me with those sharp, mischievous eyes. A slow grin spread across her face. “Well, look who decided to show up. Did Margo’s sitting room bore you already?”
I rolled my eyes, walking closer and sitting down on one of the lounge chairs near the pool’s edge. “I figured I’d come see what all the noise was about.”
“Noise? This is my quiet time,” Jazz teased, giving the float a little push to glide closer to where I was sitting. “I thought you’d be too busy unpacking or trying to blend into the wallpaper.”
“Oh, hilarious,” I shot back, leaning forward. “I didn’t realize comedians came with the estate.”
Jazz snorted, tilting her head back to soak in the sun. “You missed your chance at a career in comedy, Becca. Truly. The world mourns the loss.”
Despite myself, I laughed, shaking my head. Jazz had a way of getting under my skin, but it was hard to stay annoyed when she looked so utterly carefree.
“You’ve got to loosen up,” Jazz said, sitting up slightly on the float. “It’s summer. You’re in Malibu. Live a little. Or, I don’t know, at least dip your toes in the pool.”
“I’m good, thanks,” I said, though the water did look tempting under the warm sun.
Jazz rolled her eyes dramatically. “Suit yourself.” With a graceful motion, she slid off the float and into the water, surfacing with a shake of her hair that sent droplets flying.
She swam to the edge and rested her arms on the pool’s lip, looking up at me with a smirk. “You’re really just going to sit there? Not even a little splash?”
“Not everyone lives in a swimsuit all summer, Jazz,” I shot back, though my tone was more amused than annoyed.
“Who said anything about a swimsuit?” she quipped, standing up and climbing out of the pool in one fluid motion.
And that was when I froze.
Because Jazz wasn’t wearing a swimsuit. Or anything at all.
The water glistened on her skin as she reached for a towel, completely unfazed by her lack of clothing. My brain short-circuited as I tried—and failed—not to notice how effortlessly confident she seemed.
“Uh, Jazz?” I stammered, feeling my cheeks go red hot.
She glanced at me over her shoulder, a playful grin tugging at the corner of her mouth as she casually wrapped the towel around herself. “What? Don’t tell me you’re shy now.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again, at a complete loss for words. Jazz just laughed, tossing her wet hair back.
“Relax, Becca,” she said, draping the towel over her shoulders and sauntering past me. “It’s not like you’ve never seen a naked person before. Or is this the first time?”
I buried my face in my hands, my voice muffled as I muttered, “Oh my god, Jazz.”
Her laughter echoed behind me as she headed toward the cabana. “Welcome to Malibu, Becca. Better get used to it.”
I watched, half in disbelief, as Jazz gracefully climbed out of the pool. Water clung to her skin, dripping down in a slow cascade, and I couldn’t help but stare. She was completely bare, with only a towel hanging loosely over her shoulders as she reached for it casually, completely unfazed by her nudity.
Jazz’s body was an effortless masterpiece of confidence, every movement radiating a sort of free-spirited grace. Her red hair, a wild mass of frizzy curls that cascaded down her back, was still damp from the pool. It framed her face, slightly damp but still striking against her fair, freckled skin. The sun caught in the strands, making them seem almost fiery against the bright backdrop of the Malibu sky.
Her body, sculpted with the kind of natural athleticism that made everything look easy, was completely visible now. The light caught the curves of her waist, the tautness of her stomach, the smoothness of her legs, and I found myself fighting to look away, though my eyes betrayed me. She had the kind of body that was at once lean and curvy, strong but soft in all the right places. The water droplets clung to her, glistening on her smooth skin like tiny jewels.
Her confidence was practically palpable. As she turned to face me, her playful grin grew even wider, and I could feel my face go redder than I thought was possible. It wasn’t just that she was naked—it was the way she wore her body like it was nothing to be embarrassed about.
“Jazz…” I stuttered again, trying not to look at her, but my eyes couldn’t help but trace the smooth lines of her body.
She laughed, the sound light and teasing, and flung her hair back as she tossed the towel around her shoulders. “What’s the matter, Becca? Never seen a naked person before?”
I opened my mouth, but no words came out. My heart was beating in my chest like a drum, and I felt both embarrassed and oddly drawn to the effortless way Jazz carried herself.
She winked at me, flashing a grin that seemed to say she knew exactly what she was doing. “Relax, don’t let it freak you out,” she said, her voice cool and teasing. “You’ll get used to it. Welcome to Malibu.”
My mind was spinning, the mix of my discomfort and something else I couldn’t quite name swarming around inside of me. I couldn’t tell if I wanted to run away or stay, but I was definitely caught in the whirlwind of Jazz’s carefree, uninhibited energy.
Part 5: Let the games begin
Later that evening, I found Jazz sprawled out in the game room like she was queen of her domain—or maybe just queen of everything. The room, with its plush beanbag chairs and absurdly large TV, was bathed in the soft, pulsing glow of a neon sign in the corner that read, GAME OVER. But if Jazz was any indication, she was far from over.
She lounged on a massive beanbag, her body draped across it with the kind of casual confidence that made me feel like I was intruding. The TV painted her in shifting hues of blue and pink, making her seem almost ethereal, like she belonged to another plane of existence where people were just born perfect.
She had changed since the pool, but somehow this was worse—or better, depending on how masochistic I wanted to be. An oversized hoodie hung lazily off one shoulder, teasing just enough collarbone to set my stomach fluttering with something uncomfortably close to awe. The fabric pooled around her, and I was sure it belonged to someone else—definitely not hers, unless Jazz had a secret fondness for ridiculously large hoodies.
And those shorts. God, those shorts. They were so criminally short they couldn’t have been legal in some states, leaving her legs completely bare. Long, smooth, and toned, they folded beneath her in a way that somehow managed to seem both casual and deliberate. My eyes lingered for a moment too long, betraying me despite every logical thought screaming at me to stop staring.
She didn’t notice me at first. She was engrossed in whatever game she was playing, her face scrunched in adorable focus, lips slightly parted as her thumbs flew over the controller with surgical precision. Her hair was tied up in a loose bun, though a few rebellious strands had escaped to frame her face in soft, coppery waves. It gave her an air of effortless chaos, as if she were too cool to care about perfection but had somehow stumbled into it anyway.
I hovered in the doorway like some awkward ghost, unsure whether to interrupt or retreat. My heart was pounding, and my palms were clammy in a way that felt annoyingly cliché. This wasn’t just intimidation or even infatuation. It was something darker and deeper, a knot in my stomach that tightened the longer I stood there, as if she had me under some spell without even looking at me.
Here, in the game room, under the soft, flickering glow of the TV, she seemed... softer. The usual cocky grin and sharp-edged remarks were absent, replaced by a quiet focus. The tension she always carried, like she was braced for battle, was gone, leaving something raw and strangely vulnerable in its place.
She looked...
Cute.
No—hot.
The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. My chest tightened, and my stomach churned with a nauseating mix of guilt and something else I didn’t want to name. Shame coiled tight, winding through me like a snake, hissing accusations in my ear.
She was my stepsister now, for God’s sake. My stepsister. There was a special circle of hell reserved for people who thought things like this, and I could already feel the flames licking at my heels.
But no matter how much I tried to shake it off, my eyes betrayed me, tracing the way her legs stretched out, long and smooth, disappearing into the tiny shorts she always seemed to wear. Her frizzy red hair was tied into a messy bun, loose strands framing her face in a way that felt almost too perfect to be accidental.
I hated the way my pulse quickened.
“Hey,” her voice cut through my spiraling thoughts, sharp and teasing. “You just gonna stand there like a creep, or are you planning to join me?”
I flinched, heat rushing to my face as I realized how long I’d been standing there, frozen in the doorway like some kind of idiot.
Jazz didn’t even look at me as she spoke. She didn’t have to. The smirk tugging at the corner of her lips said she already knew exactly what she was doing to me.
“Are you going to stand there all night, or do you want to play?” Her voice broke the silence, smooth and teasing, pulling me from my thoughts like a hook yanking me to the surface.
Jazz didn’t look up from the screen, but the smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth said she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I—uh…” I stumbled over my words, feeling every bit the awkward mess I was trying so hard not to be. “What are you playing?”
She glanced at me then, her hazel eyes gleaming with amusement as if my awkwardness was her favorite game. “Mario Kart,” she said, holding up the extra controller. “Think you can keep up, or should I let you watch and take notes?”
The challenge in her tone sent a jolt through me, half-irritation, half-something I didn’t want to name. I stepped into the room, determined to play it cool, even as my cheeks betrayed me by flushing red.
“Hand it over,” I said, trying to muster as much confidence as I could. “But don’t cry when I beat you.”
Jazz laughed, a low, rich sound that made my skin prickle. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping with playful condescension. “We’ll see who’s crying by the end of this.”
I sat down on the beanbag next to hers, already regretting the decision. Her proximity was overwhelming, the faint scent of chlorine and vanilla clinging to her like a spell I couldn’t break.
And as the game loaded up, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I’d just walked into a battle I was destined to lose. But God, I didn’t mind losing to her.
We played a few rounds in comfortable silence, each of us trading wins. I took a couple of victories, then she evened the score. But after the last round, she set down her controller, turned to me with a knowing grin, and spoke the words that would change my life.
"Want to make this more interesting?"
Had I known where that question would lead me—how far it would take me, how much it would change me—I might have said no.
…Or maybe I would have said yes.
To this day, I still can’t decide.
But hindsight is 20/20, and in that moment, with my heart pounding just a little too fast, I swallowed hard and answered, "Maybe?"
Jazz’s smirk deepened, and she pushed herself off the beanbag with an easy grace, stretching slightly as she stood. “Wait right here,” she said, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’ll be back in a sec.”
Before I could respond, she darted out of the room, leaving me alone with the hum of the TV and a growing sense of unease. I sank back into the beanbag, my mind racing through possibilities. What was she up to now?
When Jazz returned, she was holding a small, worn hat in one hand. It was black and floppy, the fabric soft from years of use, with the kind of personality that suggested it had seen more wild nights than I ever had. With a dramatic flourish, she plopped it down on the floor between us like she was presenting a crown.
“Okay,” she said, settling back onto the beanbag and tucking her legs beneath her. “Let me explain how this works. It’s called The Punishment Game.”
I raised an eyebrow, leaning forward slightly. “Sounds… ominous.”
Jazz grinned. “It’s a game my siblings and I used to play,” she said, her voice dripping with nostalgia and mischief. "We’d bet on stupid stuff—who could hold their breath the longest, who’d win a round of Mario Kart, who could keep a straight face the longest. Loser had to pull a punishment from the hat.” She nudged it toward me with her foot. “Wanna play?”
I stared at the hat, my instincts screaming that this was a bad idea. But Jazz’s gaze was locked onto mine, expectant, challenging.
And, against all better judgment, I found myself saying—
“…Maybe.”
I glanced at the hat like it might bite. “And what kind of ‘punishments’ are we talking about here?”
Jazz shrugged, the picture of casual innocence, though her eyes betrayed her enjoyment. “Oh, you know. Fun stuff. Embarrassing stuff. A few that might make you squirm a little.”
“That’s… comforting.”
She laughed, the sound low and warm, like she was reveling in my discomfort. “Don’t worry, nothing too extreme. It’s mostly about having a good time and maybe getting a little revenge on the winner for being better at the game.”
I studied her for a moment, trying to gauge how serious she was. “This sounds like an elaborate excuse for you to torture me.”
“Not torture,” she corrected, her tone light but teasing. “Just… playful consequences.”
I stared at the hat, my stomach tightening at the possibilities it held. “And you’ve played this before?”
“Many times,” she said with a grin. “It’s practically a family tradition. And now that you’re part of the family…” She trailed off, letting the implication hang in the air.
My gut churned, a mix of dread and curiosity swirling together in a way that left me off-balance. “I’m not sure if I should be flattered or terrified.”
“Why not both?” Jazz said with a wink. She picked up the controller and handed it to me, her fingers brushing mine just enough to make my skin prickle. “So, you in?”
The hat sat between us, silent and foreboding, daring me to take the leap. Against my better judgment, I found myself gripping the controller tighter and nodding.
“Let’s do this,” I said, though the words felt more like a gamble than a declaration.
Jazz’s grin was wolfish as she leaned back, already settling into her role as the orchestrator of my doom. “You’re going to regret that,” she said sweetly, and I couldn’t tell if it was a promise or a threat.
As I gripped the controller tighter, locking my jaw, the countdown began.
Three. Two. One.
The race was on.
For most of the track, I managed to stay ahead, my kart deftly maneuvering the neon chaos of Big Blue. Adrenaline coursed through me, every drift and shortcut bringing me closer to an impossible victory. Jazz’s kart was close—too close—but for once, I was holding my ground.
“You’re surprisingly good at this,” she said, her voice light and teasing, but her focus razor-sharp.
“Don’t sound so shocked,” I shot back, though my voice wavered just enough to betray how much effort I was putting into this.
Jazz chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Careful, little sis," she murmured, her tone dipping into something almost predatory. "Pride comes before the fall."
I ignored her, locking in on the finish line ahead, but then—without warning—Jazz sat up straighter and tugged at her oversized hoodie.
“Can’t play like this,” she muttered, almost to herself.
Before I could process what was happening, the hoodie was gone, tossed carelessly to the side. She was left in nothing but a plain black bra, the straps snug against her freckled shoulders. Her skin glowed under the soft ambient light, and the curve of her collarbone seemed impossibly elegant.
I swallowed hard and forced my gaze back to the screen. Focus. Focus on the game, not on her.
“Much better,” Jazz said, rolling her shoulders with a sigh of satisfaction. “I swear, these things are practically a handicap.”
I barely registered her words, too busy fighting the heat crawling up my neck and the strange knot forming in my stomach. Was this… normal sibling behavior? I mean, I only had a brother growing up, so I had no frame of reference for this.
My fingers slipped on the controls, and Jazz noticed.
“Oh, don’t tell me you’re distracted already,” she teased, leaning forward just enough that her hair, wild and frizzy from the earlier swim, framed her face like a fiery halo. Her hazel eyes sparkled with mischief as she caught my gaze for a brief, damning second. “This doesn’t bother you, does it?”
“N-no,” I stammered, cursing the way my voice cracked. “Why would it?”
Her grin was downright feral. “Just checking.”
The rest of the race was a blur of panic and bad decisions. I couldn’t focus; every time I tried, my thoughts betrayed me, looping back to the way her bare skin caught the light, the way her voice dipped just enough to send chills down my spine.
And then came the BOOM—the dreaded blue shell.
My kart spiraled into oblivion, and before I could recover, Jazz sped past me, crossing the finish line with a flourish.
“YES!” she exclaimed, throwing her hands up in mock triumph. “Another victory for me. How does it feel, loser?”
I slumped back against the couch, glaring at her. “Cheap shot,” I grumbled. “You only won because of that stupid shell.”
“Excuses, excuses.” She stood, stretching languidly before darting out of the room.
“Where are you going?” I called after her, but she didn’t answer.
A moment later, she returned with a small, floppy hat. Tossing it onto the couch beside me, she dropped down with a smug look that made my stomach churn.
“Okay,” she said, sitting cross-legged and tugging her wild hair into a loose knot. “Time to introduce you to a little family tradition. We call it The Punishment Game.”
I eyed the hat warily. “That… sounds ominous.”
“Oh, it’s worse than ominous,” she replied, her grin widening. “It’s fun. The rules are simple: We play a game—any game. Loser draws a punishment from the hat and has to do whatever it says. No exceptions.”
“And these punishments…” I trailed off, dread pooling in my gut.
Jazz shrugged, her tone breezy. “Some are embarrassing. Some are annoying. A few are… memorable.”
I stared at her, my mind spinning. Was this really just a game? Or was it something more?
Her hazel eyes locked on mine, a challenge gleaming in their depths. “So, you in? Or are you too chicken to play with your big sister?”
I swallowed hard, my palms slick against the controller. “Fine,” I said, my voice wavering just enough to betray my nerves. “Let’s play.”
Jazz’s grin turned razor-sharp. “You’re going to regret that,” she purred, and the way she said it made my skin prickle with both anticipation and something darker, something I couldn’t quite name.
Jazz twirled the hat between her hands, the motion almost hypnotic as she grinned at me like a cat with a cornered mouse. “Okay, let’s see what fate has in store for you.”
Reaching into the hat, she dug around for a moment, drawing out a small notecard with an air of ceremony. She flipped it over and gave a low whistle.
“Oh, this one’s a classic,” she said, holding up the card for me to see.
I leaned in, my pulse quickening as I read the words scrawled on the front in bold, slanted handwriting: Safeword Challenge.
Before I could ask, Jazz turned the card around, showing the back where the punishment was spelled out in clear, concise terms.
Safeword Challenge:
The loser is tied up by the winner and tickled for 15 minutes. If they can endure the full time, the punishment ends. If they can’t handle it, they may yell “Safety” to stop—but doing so means they must draw a new punishment from the hat.
I stared at the card, my mind racing. The words felt like a trap, one I’d walked into willingly. My palms were suddenly clammy, and my stomach churned with a strange mixture of apprehension and… something else.
Jazz’s grin widened as she lowered the card, her hazel eyes practically glowing with mischief. “Well, well,” she drawled, setting the card down on the coffee table with a dramatic flourish. “Looks like I get to tie you up and tickle you. Unless, of course, you’re brave enough to last the full 15 minutes.”
I swallowed hard, my throat suddenly dry. “This… this is a joke, right?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” Jazz said, cocking an eyebrow. She leaned forward, the faint scent of her citrus shampoo brushing past me. “Unless, of course, you’re too scared. You could just forfeit and pull a new punishment. But hey, no judgment.”
The smugness in her tone set my teeth on edge. My pride flared, determined not to let her see just how much she was getting to me.
“I’m not scared,” I said, though my voice wavered just enough to make her smirk.
“Oh, good,” Jazz purred, standing and stretching like a lazy predator. “Then let’s get started.”
Part 7 Back to the beginning
That brings us back to wear started, me tied to the chair with Jazz straddling. If you recall I lost the punishment, barely lasting 5 minutes. The agreement for the card I previously drawn was that I had to last 15 minutes of being tickled and if I lost I had to draw a new punishment from the hat.
My breath caught as she unfolded it, slowly, deliberately, savoring every second of my dread. Her eyes flicked over the words, and for a moment, she kept her expression neutral—long enough for me to foolishly hope that maybe, just maybe, it wouldn’t be so bad.
That hope died a swift and painful death when her face lit up, her expression morphing into pure, unbridled glee. It was the kind of look that could make a grown man cry.
“Oh, you’re going to love this,” she said, her voice practically singing with delight, each word a dagger aimed directly at my dignity.
I didn’t love it. Whatever it was, I already knew I was going to hate it.
Jazz cleared her throat, holding the slip up like a royal decree. “Ohhh, this one’s perfect,” she purred, drawing out the suspense.
Servant Bell:
The loser must wear a provided outfit with a bell around their neck and serve the winner drinks, snacks, and anything else they ask for… for one hour.
Every time the bell rings, the winner may tickle the loser for 30 seconds.
My stomach plummeted past rock bottom, tunneling its way straight to the earth’s molten core. I opened my mouth to protest, but all that came out was a pathetic, “Provided… outfit?” My voice cracked like a preteen attempting their first solo at a talent show.
Jazz’s laughter was musical, lilting, and utterly ruthless. Her eyes sparkled with pure, malicious glee as she hopped up from the couch, her ponytail bouncing like an infuriating exclamation mark punctuating her victory.
“Oh, you’ll see,” she called over her shoulder, practically skipping toward another room. She paused just long enough to throw a playful glance back at me, winking for good measure. “Wait right here, handsome.”
And with that, she disappeared, leaving me alone to stew in my humiliation and dread.
The oversized hat sat on the coffee table like a symbol of my impending doom, its absurdity almost mocking in the face of what was coming next. My pulse raced as I stared at it, wishing for the millionth time that I’d never agreed to play her stupid game.
But it was far too late for that now.
I wanted to run. I wanted to chew through the ropes, claw my way out of this ridiculous situation, and never look back. But by the time the thought even began to form, Jazz had returned, and my stomach dropped like a rock.
She was holding it.
A tiny, pastel-pink bikini.
I stared at it, blinking furiously as though I could will it to transform into something less horrifying—like a suit of armor or, preferably, a giant black hole that would swallow me whole. Spoiler: it didn’t.
“No way,” I said immediately, the words tumbling out with more panic than conviction. I shook my head so hard it felt like my brain might rattle loose. “Absolutely not. Forget it.”
Jazz tutted, wagging her finger at me with the exaggerated disapproval of a kindergarten teacher catching a kid mid-paste-eating session. “Tsk, tsk,” she chided, her voice oozing with smug delight. “A deal’s a deal, remember? You agreed to the rules. And unless you’d rather choose the alternate punishment.
“Another punishment,” I blurted out, clinging to the flimsiest thread of hope. “What’s the other punishment?”
Her grin widened, slow and sharp, like a wolf sizing up its cornered prey. “Oh, it’s simple, really.” She leaned in, her eyes locking onto mine, amusement dancing in their depths. “You stay right here, tied to this chair, and I tickle you… for an hour.”
An hour.
My blood ran cold, and I swore my heart stopped mid-beat. An hour of this? I couldn’t survive another sixty seconds, let alone sixty minutes, of Jazz’s relentless, merciless torment. My ribs still ached from the five minutes she’d already inflicted—her nails skimming every vulnerable spot until I’d been reduced to a quivering, pleading wreck.
Jazz leaned in even closer, so close her lips brushed my ear, her breath warm against my skin as she whispered, her tone dripping with faux sweetness. “So, what’ll it be, hmm? One hour of this”—she wiggled her fingers just inches from my ribs, and I flinched so hard the chair creaked beneath me—“or one hour as my obedient little servant… in a cute outfit?”
The strawberry scent of her perfume hung heavy in the air, sweet and cloying, seeping into my thoughts and making it nearly impossible to think clearly. My palms grew clammy against the armrests of the chair, and I hated how my body betrayed me. Even now, my sides twitched involuntarily, bracing for the touch I feared and dreaded.
“Fine,” I muttered finally, the word scraping out of my throat like sandpaper. I clenched my teeth so tightly it was a miracle they didn’t crack. “I’ll do it.”
Jazz’s entire face lit up with triumph, her grin so wide it could have powered the sun. “Good choice, sweetheart.”
With deliberate slowness, she began untying me from the chair, her fingers surprisingly gentle as she loosened the ropes. The tension in my shoulders eased incrementally, but the humiliation waiting for me loomed heavy, an oppressive weight that pressed down harder with each passing second.
Once I was free, Jazz stepped back, twirling the tiny bikini between her fingers like it was some grand prize. Then, with an infuriating little flourish, she tossed it into my lap, where it sat like a neon-pink flag of surrender.
“The bathroom’s down the hall on the left,” she said brightly, her voice almost sing-song. She crossed her arms, leaning against the doorframe with casual ease. “And don’t take too long, or I might just have to come in there and help you. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
The wicked gleam in her eyes made it very clear that she’d love nothing more than to follow through on that threat.
I swallowed hard, my throat dry as sandpaper. With shaky hands, I picked up the bikini, its fabric feeling absurdly soft and insubstantial in my grip. My dignity had never felt so fragile.
As I stood, my legs wobbling like a baby deer’s, Jazz smirked and gave me a teasing little wave. “Tick-tock, cutie. I’ll be waiting.”
Her laughter followed me as I stumbled down the hallway, clutching the humiliating outfit in my hands like it was a bomb about to detonate.
I closed the bathroom door behind me and locked it with a deliberate click, the sound reverberating in the cold, tiled room like the sealing of a tomb. For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the door as though it might provide some kind of escape. Spoiler: it didn’t.
In my hand, I clutched the bikini like it was a cursed artifact—one specifically designed to destroy any shred of dignity I still possessed. My palms were slick with sweat, the fabric damp where my fingers gripped it too tightly, and I could feel the faint tremor in my hands as I held it up to the light.
The thing was tiny. Impossibly small. The pink fabric gleamed mockingly under the harsh fluorescent light, the strings dangling limply like they were daring me to try and make this work. It looked like it had been designed for a doll—or a particularly brave Vegas showgirl—not a grown man.
I stared at it, willing it to evaporate into thin air, to combust in a burst of merciful flames that would leave me with an excuse to storm back out and demand a do-over. No such luck.
Taking a deep, shaky breath, I unfolded the bikini, the absurdity of the situation crashing over me in waves. My reflection in the bathroom mirror caught my eye, and I froze.
There I was, standing there with a bright pink bikini in my hands like some kind of tragic clown, my face flushed and my expression hovering somewhere between utter defeat and the faint hope of a last-minute miracle. My eyes flicked to the pile of ropes still faintly imprinted on my wrists, a reminder of what awaited me if I dared to back out now.
For a fleeting moment, I considered my options. Could I fake an injury? Maybe claim sudden food poisoning? No—Jazz would see through that in a heartbeat. And even if she didn’t, the punishment hat was still out there, waiting for me to gamble my dignity away even further.
Then there was the alternative—being tied back to that chair, helpless under Jazz’s relentless tickling for a solid hour. The phantom memory of her fingers skimming over my ribs and digging into my sides sent an involuntary shudder through me. My skin tingled, and I instinctively clutched my arms around myself as though I could block out the sensation.
With a defeated groan, I peeled off my shirt, letting it fall to the floor like a white flag of surrender. My jeans followed, pooling around my ankles as I stepped out of them. Now stripped down to my underwear, I hesitated, catching my reflection again in the mirror.
I looked ridiculous. Vulnerable. Humiliated. My chest rose and fell with uneven breaths, my cheeks burning with shame as the image of Jazz’s smirk floated unbidden into my mind. She was probably lounging on the couch right now, perfectly at ease, waiting to see me emerge like some pitiful parody of myself.
My heart thudded heavily in my chest as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my underwear, pausing one last time as if I might somehow summon the courage to back out. But there was no going back. Not with Jazz waiting.
I slid them down, the cool air hitting my skin and only amplifying the raw vulnerability coursing through me. I didn’t think it was possible to feel more exposed until I picked up the bikini bottoms.
They stretched as I tugged them on, the fabric clinging uncomfortably tight to every inch of me. It didn’t just fit snugly—it revealed. Absolutely nothing was left to the imagination, and I found myself squirming, adjusting the strings in a futile attempt to make it feel less obscene. It didn’t work.
The bikini top was even worse. As I tied the strings behind my neck, the cups pressed awkwardly against my chest, creating an illusion of cleavage that was somehow more humiliating than the bottoms. My reflection in the mirror was almost unrecognizable—a ridiculous caricature of myself, bright pink and absurdly vulnerable.
I swallowed hard, my mouth dry as the realization settled in. There was no way to spin this, no silver lining to be found. My dignity was well and truly gone, and the worst part? I had no choice but to walk out there and face her.
Jazz’s laughter was practically echoing in my head already, her strawberry perfume and mocking grin waiting just outside that door. I closed my eyes, took one last deep breath, and steeled myself.
This was going to be the longest hour of my life.
I walked out the room, my face redder than it's ever been in my life. Jazz was waiting for me, a holding a little collar with a bell around. This was without a doubt the most humilating moment of my life. My flight instinct has never been higher but something made me want to face this.
I walked out of the bathroom, each step feeling heavier than the last, my bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor. My face was so hot it could’ve doubled as a space heater, and I couldn’t bring myself to look up. The urge to bolt—just turn around, barricade myself in the bathroom, and refuse to come out—was overwhelming. But somehow, I kept moving, my body betraying my screaming instincts.
Jazz was waiting for me in the center of the room, her grin so wide it looked like it might split her face in two. She was holding the final piece of my humiliation: a delicate pink collar with a tiny silver bell dangling from it. It jingled faintly as she swung it back and forth on one finger, the sound filling the air like some cruel countdown.
I froze. My stomach churned, and I felt my fingers curl into fists at my sides, my nails biting into my palms. Every instinct screamed at me to run, to find some way—any way—to escape. But something rooted me to the spot, a strange and masochistic defiance that wouldn’t let me back down.
Jazz tilted her head, her ponytail swishing, and her grin widened as she took me in from head to toe. “Well, well, well,” she drawled, her tone dripping with exaggerated appreciation. “Look at you. You’re really rocking the look, you know that?”
I didn’t reply. Couldn’t reply. My throat was dry, and my voice seemed to have taken a vacation along with my dignity. My arms instinctively crossed over my chest, trying—and failing—to cover the bikini top that barely clung to me.
Jazz stepped closer, the bell in her hand jingling with every step. “Aw, don’t be shy now. You were so confident earlier, remember? What happened to all that bravado?” She stopped just inches away, her strawberry perfume invading my senses, and I hated how it made my brain foggy, like she’d found a way to weaponize it.
“This is without a doubt the most humiliating moment of my life,” I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.
Jazz laughed, a bright, carefree sound that only deepened my embarrassment. “Oh, sweetheart, it’s about to get so much worse. But don’t worry, you’re doing great so far.” She held up the collar, the little bell jingling like a taunt, and gestured for me to tilt my head up.
I hesitated, my flight instinct roaring back to life. Every muscle in my body was coiled, ready to bolt. But somehow, I stayed put. Something deep inside me—a mix of stubbornness and the tiniest spark of defiance—made me want to face this, to endure it no matter how humiliating it was.
“Come on,” Jazz said, her tone softer now, though no less teasing. “Let’s get this over with. You don’t want me to have to put it on myself, do you?”
The mental image of Jazz strapping the collar around my neck like I was some kind of pet sent another wave of heat rushing to my face. Reluctantly, I lifted my chin, my heart pounding like a war drum as she stepped even closer.
“That’s a good girl,” she murmured, her fingers brushing my neck as she fastened the collar. The bell jangled faintly with every tiny movement, the sound filling my ears and driving home just how ridiculous I must’ve looked. "A bell for my Bell" she clapped.
“There,” Jazz said, stepping back to admire her handiwork. She clasped her hands together like an artist unveiling a masterpiece. “Perfect. Now, let’s see how well you follow orders, shall we?”
I swallowed hard, my cheeks burning hotter than ever. This was going to be a long, long hour.
"Now said Jazz, come out to the pool and serve me.
I froze, my blood turning to ice. The mental image slammed into me like a sledgehammer—me, parading outside in this ridiculous excuse for an outfit, with the bell around my neck jingling like some humiliating beacon. My throat tightened as I managed to stammer, “I… I can’t, Jazz. I can’t go outside in this. Someone might see me.”
Jazz tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with mock sympathy as she took a step closer. Her fingers reached out, giving the little bell a playful flick that sent it jingling softly. Each sound felt like a dagger to what little remained of my dignity. “Oh, sweetheart,” she said with a grin that didn’t reach her eyes, “if you think that’s bad, let me remind you of the alternative.”
Her voice dropped into a syrupy, menacing whisper as her grin widened. “I take you right back to that chair, tie you up again, and tickle you senseless for an entire hour. And yes, you’ll keep that adorable little bikini on for the whole thing.”
I glanced down at myself, the cruel reality of her words twisting my gut like a vice. The bikini was absurdly small—neon blue, bright enough to attract attention from space, and so tight it felt like a second skin. The top strained against my chest, showing far too much cleavage for comfort. It barely managed to cover what it was supposed to, and every movement made me hyper-aware of how precariously it stayed in place.
And the bottoms—oh, the bottoms were worse. They clung so tightly to my hips that they might as well have been painted on, the material doing absolutely nothing to hide the curve of my rear. In fact, it highlighted it, exposing more skin than I’d ever willingly shown in public. The thin straps sat high on my hips, making me feel like every inch of me was on display.
“Jazz,” I tried again, my voice shaking with desperation, “please. This is… this is too much. I can’t go outside like this. Someone might see me!”
Her grin sharpened, and she leaned in close, her strawberry-scented perfume swirling around me, clouding my thoughts. “So what’s it going to be, champ?” she murmured, her breath warm against my ear. “Face the music out by the pool… or spend the next sixty minutes tied up while I tickle every inch of you in that?”
Her fingers wiggled dangerously close to my ribs, and the phantom memory of her nails sent a shiver racing down my spine. My sides still ached from the torment she’d already inflicted. I knew I couldn’t survive another round—especially not an hour of it.
“Fine,” I croaked, my voice cracking under the weight of my humiliation. “Let’s go.”
Jazz clapped her hands together in delight, her grin spreading wider as she stepped back. “Good choice,” she chirped, spinning on her heel and heading toward the sliding glass door. “You’re going to look absolutely precious out there.”
I shuffled after her, each step making the bell around my neck jingle obnoxiously. Every sound was a cruel reminder of just how ridiculous I looked. The bikini’s tightness amplified my discomfort, every movement making me hyper-aware of how exposed I was.
Jazz reached the sliding door and slid it open with a dramatic flourish, stepping aside to let me pass. “After you,” she said with a mock bow, her voice brimming with amusement.
I hesitated, my feet rooted to the floor. My cheeks burned as I imagined stepping into the sunlight, the bikini’s unforgiving cut leaving nothing to the imagination. But as my gaze flickered back to the chair, still sitting ominously in the corner, I knew I didn’t have a choice.
Taking a deep breath, I stepped outside, the sun hitting my exposed skin like a spotlight. I felt like every inch of me was on display for the world to see. This was, without a doubt, the most humiliating moment of my life—and Jazz was savoring every single second.
Jazz had already made herself comfortable by the pool, reclining on a lounge chair like she was royalty. She waved lazily at me as I stepped outside, the bell around my neck jingling with each hesitant step. My cheeks burned hotter than the afternoon sun as I approached her, every muscle in my body screaming at me to run back inside.
“Ah, there you are,” Jazz said with a grin, her sunglasses sliding down her nose as she gave me a long, appraising look. “Looking good, sweetheart.” She gave a low whistle for added effect, and I felt like shrinking into the ground.
“Can we just get this over with?” I muttered, crossing my arms over my chest in a futile attempt to preserve what little dignity I had left.
“Oh, no rush,” Jazz said breezily, stretching her arms behind her head. “But since you’re here, I could use a drink. Be a doll and get me some lemonade, would you?”
I glared at her, but the threat of that chair—and an hour of tickling—kept my mouth shut. Instead, I turned toward the patio table, where a pitcher of lemonade and a few glasses waited. The bottoms of the bikini shifted uncomfortably as I walked, the fabric hugging my hips and making me hyper-aware of every move.
The bell jingled with every step, a humiliating soundtrack to my ordeal.
I poured her drink as quickly as I could, my hands trembling slightly as I handed it to her. “Here,” I said through gritted teeth, avoiding eye contact.
Jazz took the glass with an exaggerated smile, sipping it slowly and making a show of savoring it. “Mmm, perfect. You’re a natural at this, you know.”
The bell around my neck jingled softly as I shifted uncomfortably, but the sound was enough to make Jazz’s grin widen. “Uh-oh,” she said with mock seriousness. “You know what that means.”
Before I could react, Jazz launched herself off the lounge chair with startling speed. I barely had time to take a step back before she tackled me to the soft grass, her weight pinning me down.
“No, no, no!” I squealed, my voice high-pitched and panicked as she straddled my waist, her fingers already wriggling threateningly.
“Rules are rules, sweetheart,” she said, her tone dripping with playful malice. Her fingers darted to my sides, kneading the sensitive spots just above my hips.
I exploded into helpless laughter, the sensation overwhelming me instantly. “J-Jazz, no! P-Please!” I managed to gasp between uncontrollable giggles.
She didn’t stop. Her fingers danced along my ribs, brushing just under the bikini top and sending jolts of unbearable ticklishness through my body. I squirmed and thrashed beneath her, but my limbs felt useless, like jelly. I was too ticklish to fight back, my body betraying me completely as waves of laughter tore from my throat.
“Aww, you’re so ticklish!” Jazz cooed, her hands skittering over my belly now, dipping dangerously close to the edge of the bikini bottoms. “It’s almost too easy.”
I couldn’t respond—not with her fingers finding every vulnerable spot and exploiting it mercilessly. Tears streamed down my face as I laughed uncontrollably, my voice growing hoarse. “S-Stop! I c-can’t—please!” I gasped, my words dissolving into more laughter.
Jazz finally relented after what felt like an eternity—though it was probably only a minute. She sat back on her heels, still perched on my waist, and gave me a smug smile. “That was fun,” she said, brushing her hands off like she’d just finished a job well done.
I lay there, gasping for air, my body still trembling from the residual ticklish sensations. The bell gave one last mocking jingle as I tried to sit up, and Jazz laughed, patting me on the head like a well-behaved pet.
“Come on, sweetheart,” she said, standing and offering me a hand. “Let’s see how long you can keep that bell from ringing again.”
As I tried to catch my breath, Jazz plopped herself back onto the lounge chair, stretching out like a satisfied cat. She sipped her lemonade leisurely, glancing at me over the rim of her glass. “You know,” she said, tapping her chin with mock thoughtfulness, “I think I’m getting hungry. Be a dear and make me a sandwich, will you?”
I gawked at her. “You’re kidding,” I said, my voice hoarse from laughing.
She arched an eyebrow, that ever-present smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”
Groaning, I forced myself to my feet, the bell around my neck jingling softly. Jazz’s smirk deepened at the sound, her eyes glinting with mischief. “Oh, and one more thing,” she added, her voice honey-sweet. “Try not to let the bell ring too much on your way, hmm? I’d hate to have to tackle you again.”
My stomach twisted. The thought of her pinning me down and tickling me senseless—again—was enough to make me want to melt into the ground.
I moved toward the kitchen as cautiously as I could, keeping my steps slow and deliberate. Each shift of my hips threatened to set the bell jingling, and the bikini’s skimpy fabric didn’t help matters. I walked as if I were on a tightrope, every muscle tense, my arms slightly out for balance.
Behind me, I heard Jazz laugh. “Careful, sweetheart,” she called. “One wrong move, and I’ll pounce.”
Her words sent a shiver down my spine, but I clenched my jaw and kept going, focusing on the task at hand.
Once in the kitchen, I moved as quickly—and quietly—as possible. I grabbed bread, sliced turkey, and cheese from the fridge, my hands trembling slightly as I worked. Even spreading the mayo was a challenge, my nerves on edge.
As I finished assembling the sandwich, I felt a flicker of triumph. I’d made it this far without setting the bell off. Maybe, just maybe, I could survive this humiliation intact.
Carrying the plate carefully, I tiptoed back to the pool, hyper-aware of the bell’s delicate chime. Jazz watched me the entire way, her grin never faltering.
“Ah, there’s my little chef,” she said as I set the plate down on the small side table next to her. “But you’re not quite done yet.”
I frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”
Jazz leaned back, her sunglasses glinting in the sun. “Feed it to me,” she said, her tone so casual it made my stomach drop.
“Feed you?” I echoed, my voice barely above a whisper.
She nodded, clearly enjoying my mortification. “That’s what a good servant does, isn’t it? Now, chop chop.”
Suppressing the urge to argue, I picked up the sandwich with trembling hands. I knelt beside her chair, feeling the sun warm my already flushed skin. With excruciating slowness, I brought the sandwich to her mouth.
Jazz took a bite, her eyes never leaving mine as she chewed. “Mmm,” she said, savoring it like it was the finest gourmet meal. “Delicious. You’re quite talented, you know.”
My face burned hotter, but I said nothing, focusing instead on getting through this ordeal as quickly as possible. Each time she leaned forward for another bite, the bell around my neck shifted threateningly, teasing me with soft chimes.
“You’re so tense,” Jazz teased between bites. “Relax a little. You’re making this way more awkward than it needs to be.”
Relax? In this bikini? With this bell? Feeding her like I was some kind of personal servant? Impossible.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the sandwich was gone. Jazz wiped her mouth delicately with a napkin and patted my head like I was a particularly obedient pet. “Good job, sweetheart,” she said, her voice dripping with faux affection. “You’re really getting the hang of this.”
I stared at the ground, my humiliation complete. And then, just as I started to stand, the bell gave a soft chime.
Jazz’s grin widened, predatory and gleeful. “Uh-oh,” she purred, sitting up. “You know what that means.”
Before I could even think to run, she lunged.
efore I could even think to react, Jazz lunged like a predator pouncing on her prey, and suddenly I was flat on my back, pinned beneath her. My wrists were trapped above my head by one of her hands, while her other wiggled menacingly in the air.
“No! Jazz, wait! Please!” I begged, my voice climbing in pitch as panic took hold. My legs kicked helplessly, the movement making the bell jingle furiously.
She chuckled, her face inches from mine. “Oh, sweetheart, you know the rules. The bell rang.”
Her fingers struck like lightning, skittering across my exposed ribs. I shrieked, the sound bursting out of me before I could stop it. Jazz’s nails were merciless, dancing over every ticklish spot with expert precision.
“Not the ribs! Not the ribs!” I howled, twisting as much as I could under her weight. But there was no escape. She knew exactly how to keep me pinned and completely vulnerable.
“Aw, poor baby,” she cooed, her tone dripping with mock sympathy. “Does it tickle? Huh? Does it?”
“Yes!” I gasped, my voice breaking into laughter as her fingers trailed down to my hips. “Jazz, please! I can’t—ahhh!”
Her nails grazed the sensitive skin just above the waistband of the bikini bottoms, and I bucked like a fish out of water. Every nerve in my body seemed to light up at once, sending waves of unbearable sensation radiating through me.
“Such a cute laugh,” Jazz teased, her fingers now targeting the soft spot just under my arms. I screamed with laughter, my head thrashing side to side as she exploited yet another unbearably sensitive area.
“Stop! I’m begging you!” I managed to choke out between bouts of uncontrollable giggles. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and my sides ached from the relentless assault.
But Jazz showed no mercy. “You’re so ticklish,” she said, her voice practically gleeful. “It’s adorable. I think I could do this all day.”
Her fingers darted down to my thighs next, tracing along the inner edges with agonizing precision. My legs twitched violently, but her grip on my wrists kept me completely at her mercy.
“Jazz! Stop! I can’t take it!” I cried, my voice raw from laughter. My body felt like it was on fire, every inch of me hypersensitive to her touch.
She finally slowed, her fingers coming to rest on my heaving stomach. I was gasping for air, my face flushed and my body trembling from the sheer intensity of it all.
Jazz leaned down, her face close enough for me to see the wicked glint in her eyes. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous,” she said softly, her voice still laced with amusement. “But next time that bell rings? You’d better be ready.”
With that, she released my wrists and sat back, giving me a moment to recover. My hands immediately went to my sides, rubbing the spots where her fingers had tormented me.
Jazz stood, brushing herself off as if nothing had happened. “Now, why don’t you get me another drink?” she said, her tone as casual as if we were discussing the weather.
I glared at her through watery eyes, my breath still coming in short gasps. But deep down, I knew one thing for certain: I had to keep that bell from ringing again.
Jazz stretched luxuriously on the couch, wiggling her toes as she eyed me with a smug smile. "You know what, sweetheart? My feet are sore after all this hard work making your life miserable. Be a dear and give me a foot massage."
I froze mid-step, a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over me. "You can't be serious," I said, my voice cracking.
Her grin widened, the very picture of devious amusement. "Oh, I'm dead serious. Unless you'd like to see what else is waiting in the punishment hat?" She gestured to the dreaded hat, sitting innocently on the table, and I swallowed hard.
With a resigned sigh, I walked over to her, my steps painfully slow to avoid ringing the bell. Jazz wiggled her toes again, her playful smirk daring me to back out.
"Go on," she said, patting the cushion at her feet. "Take a seat."
I lowered myself onto the floor, my face burning with embarrassment. The bikini was already exposing far more than I wanted, and the thought of being this close to her feet, of all things, made my stomach churn.
Tentatively, I reached out and took one of her feet in my hands. Her skin was soft, warm from lounging in the sun, and her nails were painted a glossy, deep red.
"Don’t be shy," she teased, wiggling her foot in my grasp. "Get in there."
Gritting my teeth, I began to knead the arch of her foot, my thumbs pressing gently into the soft curve. Jazz let out an exaggerated sigh of contentment, leaning back against the couch with a satisfied smile.
"That’s more like it," she purred. "You’re not half bad at this, you know. Maybe I should keep you on as my personal masseuse."
I didn’t respond, focusing instead on the task at hand. My hands moved up to her heel, applying a little more pressure as I worked out imaginary tension. Jazz hummed appreciatively, her toes curling slightly in response.
"Careful with the bell," she said, her voice a warning laced with amusement. "Wouldn’t want to interrupt your excellent service, would we?"
I adjusted my position, moving slower and more deliberately as I switched to her other foot. My hands slid along the ball of her foot, up to the base of her toes, which she wiggled teasingly against my fingers.
"You’re really good at this," she said, her tone dripping with mock surprise. "It’s almost like you’ve done it before. Who knew you had such a talent?"
The comment only deepened the blush already staining my cheeks. As I continued, Jazz occasionally made little comments or exaggerated noises of pleasure, clearly enjoying my discomfort as much as the massage itself.
Jazz stretched out lazily on one of the pool loungers, flipping onto her stomach with the grace of a cat settling into a sunbeam. Her long hair spilled over her shoulders, and with a casual motion, she reached behind her and unhooked her bikini top, letting it fall onto the lounger.
"Alright, sweetheart," she drawled, propping her chin on her hands and peering back at me with a mischievous smirk. "T. Rub some lotion on my back, will you? Can’t risk getting sunburned."
I froze, my heart skipping a beat and then racing to catch up. The tiny bell around my neck gave a faint jingle as I hesitated, and Jazz raised an eyebrow.
"You don’t want to keep me waiting, do you?" she teased, her tone light but laced with authority.
"No, of course not," I muttered, my voice weak and shaky. My hands fumbled as I picked up the bottle of sunscreen, the cool plastic slipping against my sweaty palms.
Steeling myself, I walked over to the lounger and knelt beside her. Jazz rested her cheek on her forearms, her bare back exposed to the sunlight, smooth and golden. Her confidence was almost overwhelming, as if she hadn’t a single care in the world.
As I poured the lotion into my hands, the cool sensation startled me, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from Jazz’s skin when I placed my palms against her back.
Her skin was soft, impossibly smooth, and my hands trembled slightly as I began to spread the lotion over her shoulders. My heart pounded louder than the jingling bell, each beat hammering home the surreal nature of this moment.
Why was I blushing? Why was my pulse racing? Why couldn’t I stop noticing the curve of her back, the slight tension in her muscles as she shifted under my touch?
She’s your stepsister, I reminded myself harshly. This is humiliating, not... anything else.
And yet, as my hands moved down to the middle of her back, smoothing the lotion over her skin in slow, deliberate circles, a confusing cocktail of emotions churned inside me.
What is wrong with me?
I focused on the task, determined to push away the intrusive thoughts. But they wouldn’t leave me alone. Was it Jazz’s teasing confidence, her ease in commanding attention and control? Was it the way her skin seemed to glow in the sunlight, the playful lilt in her voice that made every word sound like a dare?
Or was it me?
The thought hit like a lightning bolt. Was I attracted to her? To girls? To her, specifically?
The existential crisis roared to life, drowning out everything else. I’d always been certain about who I was—what I wanted. But now, under the weight of Jazz’s teasing grin and the warmth of her bare back beneath my hands, that certainty crumbled.
"Something wrong?" Jazz asked, her voice breaking through my spiral. She tilted her head to look at me, her eyes sparkling with mischief and something else I couldn’t place.
"No," I blurted out, my voice higher than I intended. "Just... focused."
Her smile widened, and she rested her head back down. "Good. You’re doing great. Don’t forget the sides."
My hands moved mechanically, working the lotion along her sides, careful to stay professional. If Jazz noticed my inner turmoil, she didn’t let on. But I couldn’t escape the feeling that she knew exactly what she was doing—pushing boundaries, testing limits, and enjoying every second of my discomfort.
Jazz reached for her bikini top lazily but paused, glancing at me with that same infuriatingly smug grin. "Oh, one more thing," she said, her tone casual, like she was discussing the weather. "You know, I heard that little jingle from your bell earlier while you were rubbing in the lotion."
My heart stopped.
"I—what?" I stammered, my voice pitching higher.
Jazz’s grin widened, and she sat up slightly, her bare chest making me flush an even deeper shade of red. Her confidence was unwavering, her presence magnetic and overwhelming.
"You heard me," she teased, her fingers wiggling in the air ominously. "That bell jingled, which means you’re due for a little... penalty."
I instinctively stepped back, shaking my head, but Jazz was faster. Before I could react, she lunged off the lounger, tackling me onto the soft grass beside the pool.
"Jazz! No, wait—!" I yelped, but my protests were drowned out by my own laughter as her fingers found their mark.
Her nails danced along my ribs, tracing over the sensitive skin with expert precision. I squirmed beneath her, trying desperately to twist away, but her weight pinned me down, her bare skin warm against mine as she laughed along with my helpless giggles.
"Tickle, tickle, tickle," she cooed, her voice mockingly sweet as her fingers explored every vulnerable spot.
"No! Jazz, stop—please!" I begged, my voice broken by gasping laughter. My arms flailed weakly, but I couldn’t push her off; every attempt was thwarted by the unbearable sensation of her nails skimming over my sides, my stomach, even under my arms.
She shifted slightly, her hands now attacking the backs of my knees, making me thrash even harder. "You’re way too ticklish for your own good," she teased, her grin as bright as the sun overhead.
"I c-can’t—breathe!" I choked out between fits of laughter, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes.
Jazz finally relented, leaning back slightly but still pinning me down with her hips. She was grinning ear to ear, her chest rising and falling as she caught her own breath.
"See? That wasn’t so bad," she teased, brushing a stray strand of hair from her face. "Although I have to say, the bell makes it way too easy to catch you slipping."
I glared up at her weakly, my chest heaving as I tried to recover. "You’re evil," I muttered, my voice hoarse from laughing so hard.
"Aw, don’t be like that," Jazz said, giving my side one last playful squeeze before standing up and offering me a hand. "You’ve survived this long, haven’t you?"
I reluctantly took her hand, letting her pull me to my feet. As she grabbed her bikini top from the lounger and slipped it back on, she shot me a wink.
"Next time, try harder not to jingle, okay?" she said, her tone light and teasing.
I didn’t respond, too busy trying to steady my wobbly legs and my racing heart. Jazz, meanwhile, strolled back to the lounger, humming a tune under her breath like she hadn’t just completely humiliated me.
And despite everything, a small, traitorous part of me wondered if she’d do it again.
Jazz leaned back for a moment, her breath coming in soft puffs as she gave me a few seconds to recover. The heat of the moment was starting to subside, but I couldn’t ignore how close she was, how her body was still pressed against mine, and most unsettlingly—how I kept glancing at her chest.
I felt a blush rise in my cheeks, and my mind screamed at me to stop, but my eyes betrayed me. It was impossible not to notice, with her breasts still exposed and my face so close to hers. My stomach churned with discomfort, and I tried to avert my gaze, focusing on anything else in the moment—the grass beneath me, the clouds overhead, anything that didn’t remind me of the situation I found myself in.
But I couldn’t escape the reality. She knew. Jazz knew.
Before I could even try to steady my breathing, she let out a soft, knowing laugh, a sound so light it sent a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over me.
"Are you really that uncomfortable, sweetheart?" she teased, her tone playful but sharp. "I mean, I know I’m irresistible, but come on... you’ve been all over me with those hands," she added with a smirk, clearly catching onto my every thought.
I froze, my cheeks burning with a mix of shame and frustration. I tried to force my gaze elsewhere, but her voice—her laugh—just drew my attention back. It was like a magnet, pulling me in.
"I-I wasn’t—" I stammered, not sure how to explain the embarrassment that was radiating off me.
Jazz smirked, her eyes twinkling with amusement. "You know, it’s really cute when you try to look away," she said, leaning in just a little closer, her voice dipping low. "But don’t worry, I’ve got a feeling you're gonna be seeing a lot more of me."
The way she said it, so teasing and sure of herself, made my heart beat faster. I couldn’t look at her the same way anymore—not with that smile, not with those eyes that seemed to pierce through every layer of me.
"You’re impossible," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper as I desperately tried not to look at her, though it felt like she was drawing me in further with every word.
Jazz chuckled, clearly enjoying my discomfort. "Maybe," she said, her voice light, "but it’s fun to see you squirm." She stood up, brushing a few loose strands of hair from her face. "Anyway," she said nonchalantly, as if we hadn’t just been wrestling on the grass, "let's get back to it. I think it’s your turn to really earn your keep, don’t you?"
The hour dragged on, a blur of humiliating tasks, each one more absurd than the last, and every movement setting off that dreaded bell, sealing my fate to more ticklish torture. Jazz had a way of keeping me on edge, constantly making me feel like I was about to snap under the weight of both the tasks and the endless teasing.
First, she had me pick up the pool toys that had been left scattered around the yard. It was a simple enough task, but the way she made me bend over to gather them made sure the bell rang every single time. I could feel the cool breeze hit my exposed rear as I bent down to scoop up a brightly colored beach ball, my heart hammering in my chest, praying that I wouldn’t be caught. But the bell chimed, and just like that, Jazz was behind me, fingers digging into my sides, sending me into a fit of giggles and desperate squirming. I couldn’t escape—her grip was too firm, and my body was too sensitive.
Next, she made me fold towels, though I wasn’t allowed to just stack them neatly. No, she wanted them perfectly folded. So, as I knelt down to fold the first towel, I tried to be as careful as possible, hoping the bell wouldn’t ring. But of course, as soon as I moved the towel the wrong way, there it was—a soft chime, signaling that my fate had been sealed again. I didn’t even have a chance to react before Jazz tackled me, pulling me into her grasp and tickling my sides and stomach until I was breathless, writhing beneath her, utterly powerless to stop her.
The worst was when she made me sweep the patio. It was hard enough keeping up with the broom and trying to make sure the floor was clean, but each time I had to move the broom in a way that triggered the bell, Jazz was right there, ready to pounce. Her fingers found their mark on my ribs, or would sneak up to my armpits, and I couldn’t do anything but laugh uncontrollably, my whole body shaking as I tried—and failed—to hold it together. Jazz would let me struggle for a few seconds before making sure I couldn’t breathe from laughing too hard. She was relentless.
At one point, she had me try to climb up a ladder to retrieve a decoration that had blown up onto the roof, something I could’ve easily done if my body wasn’t trembling from all the ticklish sensations. I carefully stepped up each rung, aware that any wrong movement would make the bell ring. And when it did, Jazz was right there, pulling me off the ladder and into her arms, tickling me mercilessly until I couldn’t stand it anymore.
By the end of the hour, I was a mess—exhausted, humiliated, and utterly at her mercy. The tasks she’d given me were designed to keep me on edge, every movement punishable by her sadistic tickling. Each time I thought I’d finally escaped, the bell rang, and Jazz was there, ready to remind me who was in charge.
As the hour dragged to its end, every muscle in my body ached, and my skin felt hypersensitive from Jazz's relentless tickling. My sides throbbed, my feet were sore from constant movement, and my arms felt like lead from the endless tasks she’d concocted. Every time I thought she was done, she found some new way to tease me—a feather duster to my neck, her fingers dancing up my ribs, or a playful jab to my belly. By the time she finally called it quits, I could barely stand straight, let alone muster the energy to argue.
“All right, sweetie, you survived,” Jazz said with a grin, tossing the bell collar into a nearby chair. “You’re free to go clean up now. You’ve earned it.”
I could barely manage a glare as I trudged toward the house, every step a reminder of how thoroughly she'd worn me out. My hair stuck to my forehead, and my skin glistened with a mix of sweat and sunscreen. The bikini was still cutting into me, leaving red marks around my hips and shoulders. The thought of a hot shower and actual clothes was the only thing keeping me moving.
As I approached the bathroom, I heard voices from the kitchen. Before I could slip past unnoticed, I turned a corner—and froze.
Standing there, mid-conversation, were my dad and stepmom.
Their conversation faltered as they both turned to look at me. For a split second, the world seemed to freeze.
My dad’s face went through several stages of emotion in rapid succession: confusion, dawning realization, and then full-on embarrassment. His brow furrowed, his lips parting as if he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words. His eyes flickered downward before immediately snapping back up, his cheeks flushing a deep red.
My stepmom, ever poised, took in the sight of me with a raised eyebrow and a small, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of her lips. She tilted her head slightly, her gaze lingering just long enough to make me want to curl up and disappear.
I was suddenly, acutely aware of every humiliating detail. The bikini clung to me like a second skin, leaving almost nothing to the imagination. My chest, barely covered, felt completely exposed, and the bottoms rode up in a way that made me want to tug them down—but I couldn’t, not without drawing even more attention.
I’d never let anyone see me this close to naked, not since I was a little kid running around in the sprinkler. And now? Now my dad, of all people, had to see me like this.
“Oh, uh…” my dad finally stammered, his voice awkward and thick with discomfort. He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck as though the ceiling had suddenly become the most fascinating thing in the world.
My stepmom, on the other hand, was clearly trying not to laugh. “Well, isn’t this… a look,” she said, her tone carefully neutral but her eyes sparkling with amusement. “Something special going on at the pool?”
My face burned so hot it felt like I might combust on the spot. “I… I…” My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, but no words came out.
“I’ll, uh, give you some privacy,” my dad muttered, shuffling awkwardly toward the living room, his eyes glued firmly to the floor.
I couldn’t take it anymore. The mortification was suffocating, pressing down on me until all I could do was bolt. With a strangled noise that might’ve been a squeak of humiliation, I fled toward the bathroom, the bell on my collar giving a mocking jingle with every panicked step.
Once inside, I slammed the door shut and locked it, leaning back against it as my chest heaved with ragged breaths. I stared at my reflection in the mirror, my hair a wild mess, my cheeks scarlet, and the ridiculous bikini looking even worse under the harsh bathroom lights.
“I can’t believe this,” I groaned, pressing my hands to my burning face. The image of my dad’s mortified expression and my stepmom’s amused smirk replayed in my mind, making my stomach churn with embarrassment.
I slid down to the floor, burying my face in my knees. “This has to be the most humiliating day of my life.”
As I sat on the cold bathroom floor, still trying to will my embarrassment into nonexistence, a soft knock came at the door. My heart sank further. "Honey? It's me," my stepmom's voice called gently from the other side.
Great. Of all people.
“I’m fine,” I mumbled, though my voice cracked, betraying the fact that I was anything but.
“Sweetie, I’m coming in,” she said, and before I could protest, the doorknob turned, and she slipped inside, closing the door behind her.
There she stood, effortlessly elegant as always, her perfectly arched brow lifting slightly as she took in the sight of me crumpled on the floor in a bikini that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.
“Well,” she began, a faint smirk tugging at her lips as she folded her arms, “I see Jazz wasted no time roping you into her games.”
My cheeks flared up again, hotter than before. “It’s not what it looks like,” I blurted out, even though it absolutely was what it looked like.
“Oh, honey,” she said with a chuckle, moving to sit down beside me on the floor. “It’s exactly what it looks like. Jazz has been dying to break you in.”
I groaned, burying my face in my hands. “This is so embarrassing,” I muttered. “I can’t believe she got me to wear this—this thing. And now Dad’s seen me in it. Dad.”
She reached out and gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze, though the amusement in her voice remained. “Your dad will survive, trust me. He’s seen worse, even if he’d rather not admit it.”
“I’ve never let anyone see me like this!” I said, my voice tinged with desperation. “It’s humiliating.”
She tilted her head, her smirk softening into something gentler. “I get it. Really, I do. Jazz has a way of... pushing people’s boundaries. But you handled it better than most. Honestly, I’m impressed you lasted the whole hour.”
I glanced at her, frowning. “How do you know about the hour?”
She let out a low laugh. “Oh, sweetie, Jazz did the same thing to me the first summer I moved in. That girl loves her games, and she loves getting her way. If it makes you feel any better, she had me dressed as a pirate with a bell on my hat.”
I blinked, momentarily stunned by the mental image. “Wait, you did this too?”
She nodded, a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “Oh, yes. Jazz made sure I walked the plank, fed her snacks, and polished her shoes—all while she kept finding excuses to make the bell ring. She takes the ‘queen of the house’ thing very seriously.”
Despite myself, a small, reluctant smile tugged at my lips. “So, it’s not just me?”
“Not at all,” she said, patting my knee. “And for what it’s worth, you’re not the first person to come running to the bathroom afterward. It’s part of the initiation, in her mind. But look at it this way—if she’s gone to this much trouble, it means she likes you. Jazz doesn’t waste her time on people she doesn’t care about.”
I mulled that over, the sting of humiliation easing slightly. “She has a weird way of showing it,” I muttered, though my voice lacked its earlier venom.
She chuckled again, her eyes sparkling with mirth. “That’s Jazz for you. She likes to remind people who’s in charge, but underneath all that mischief, she’s got a good heart. Give it time, and you’ll see.”
I leaned back against the door, letting out a sigh. “I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“You really don’t,” she said with a grin. “But for what it’s worth, you’re handling it better than I did. And hey—maybe next time, you’ll be the one making her wear the bell.”
The idea of payback brought a glimmer of hope to my mortified soul. “You really think so?”
She laughed, standing up and brushing imaginary dust off her pants. “Oh, absolutely. But for now, go ahead and get changed. You’ve earned it. And if it makes you feel any better, I’ll make sure your dad forgets all about this by tomorrow.”
As she turned to leave, she paused at the door and glanced back at me, her smirk returning. “But, you know… that bikini is kind of cute on you.”
I groaned, throwing a hand towel at her as she slipped out the door, laughing.
Later that evening, after the whirlwind of humiliation, exhaustion, and confusion, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling as the events of the day replayed in my mind like some bizarre fever dream. The faint sound of waves crashing against the shore outside did little to quiet the storm of emotions swirling inside me.
I was sore from head to toe—my ribs still tingling from Jazz’s relentless tickling, my legs aching from the endless errands she’d put me through, and my pride bruised beyond recognition. Yet, none of that compared to the thoughts spinning in my head every time I pictured her smirking face.
Why does she have to be so infuriating? I thought, frowning up at the ceiling. So bossy, so smug, so… My mind betrayed me, finishing the thought with so beautiful.
I groaned, flipping onto my stomach and burying my face in my pillow. That was the worst part of all this—the way my feelings didn’t make sense. Jazz was my stepsister, for crying out loud! Sure, we weren’t biologically related, but it still felt wrong to even think about her like that. And yet…
I thought about the way her strawberry perfume lingered in the air whenever she got too close. The way her laugh was equal parts teasing and musical, sending an involuntary flutter through my chest. The way she’d looked lying there on the lounge chair earlier, her bare back gleaming in the sunlight as she ordered me around like I was hers.
My face burned at the memory. I hadn’t even let myself look at her directly for more than a second after she took off her bikini top, afraid of what I might feel if I did. But even without looking, the image had burned itself into my brain. I hated it. And I hated how much I didn’t hate it.
What’s wrong with me? I thought, pulling the covers over my head as if that would shield me from my own thoughts. She’s just messing with me. That’s what Jazz does—she pushes people’s buttons because she likes being in control. It doesn’t mean anything. It can’t.
But deep down, I knew it wasn’t that simple. I hated how much I cared about what she thought of me. How, even in the middle of being humiliated in that stupid bikini, part of me had wanted her approval. And how, despite everything, I couldn’t stop replaying the sound of her laugh, the way her eyes sparkled when she teased me, or the soft curve of her smile when she finally let me go.
I sighed, rolling onto my back and staring up at the dark ceiling once more. I couldn’t tell anyone about this. Not my dad, not my stepmom, and definitely not Jazz. This was something I’d have to deal with on my own.
As the exhaustion of the day finally began to pull me toward sleep, one last thought crept into my mind, unbidden and unwelcome: What’s going to happen tomorrow?
And with that, I drifted off, my dreams filled with strawberry perfume, mischievous grins, and the faint, maddening sound of a bell.
