On so many occasions, I had found pecker tracks on my soiled panties when I emptied the hamper. I knew that they weren't from Daddy, for he had several choices when he wanted to empty his balls. And while I got some kind of kick out of knowing that my brother must have been thinking about me as he used my panties to jerk off into, still I was in a rotten mood at that moment.So I pushed open the door. As expected, there sat Tommy, naked, on the rim of the bathtub. His cock was ensconced in my bright red panties, the ones I used at the end of my period. Not that I thought he was particularly familiar with the concept of menstruation. His hand was flying up and down his silk covered shaft in that sprint to the finish line that leads to a boy's creamy spurt.He looked up in surprise and saw the daggers flashing from my eyes. His face turned red as a beet, red as the panties he planned to soil. Embarrassed, he bent over from the waist, as if to hide his cock and my panties. I glared at him. “Alright,” she said. I knew that wasn’t entirely true, but I didn’t want to prod her too much. The woman had been through a lot. I stood across the kitchen counter from her and watched her eat. Jesus, I thought. She eats like a pig.“Amanda.” She looked up at me with a mouthful of noodles. “You understand that there are rules in this house, don’t you?” She nodded and went back to her plate of food. Of course, knowing how an alcoholic thinks I had devised a test for my own protection. I drew a bottle of vodka from the drawer and placed it on the kitchen counter. Amanda froze. “Amanda, I have to make sure you’re not going to start drinking again.”She gaped at me. Rule number one of addiction or alcoholism is never have any drugs or alcohol around the victim. Everyone knew that.“Do you want it, Amanda?”She stared wide-eyed at the bottle, her mouth still half full of food. A rush of adrenaline surged up my spine. They say an addict can’t refuse another hit. Their brains go into autopilot.
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