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Rolling with my Stepbrothers

A Reverse Harem Romance

 Part of the

Eggplant County Roller Derby series

Sylvie Haas
 Copyright

Rolling with my Stepbrothers Copyright © 2024 by Sylvie Haas

All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as
permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Cover design: Bookin’ It Designs
Editing: Bossy B-word Editing Services
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-963987-00-3
Paperback ISBN: 978-1-963987-01-0
 Contents

Blurb
1. One
Commando
2. Two
Cheri
3. Three
Cheri
4. Four
Stonewall
5. Five
Taz
6. Six
Cheri
7. Seven
Cheri
8. Eight
Stonewall
9. Nine
 Commando
10. Ten
Cheri
11. Eleven
Taz
12. Twelve
Cheri
13. Thirteen
Stonewall
14. Fourteen
Cheri
15. Fifteen
Taz
16. Sixteen
Cheri
17. Epilogue
Cheri
More from Sylvie Haas
About the Author
 Blurb

Whatever you do… Don’t get pregnant!

That was 1 of the 3 simple pieces of advice my pregnant friend gave me. The other two gems… Go on the all-expenses-paid
trip to your mother’s destination island wedding, and hook up with a hot cabana boy.
It couldn’t be simpler.
To give myself credit… I attended the exotic wedding.
It’s the other two pieces of advice that got complicated. I didn’t hook up with a cabana boy. I hooked up with my brand-new
older stepbrothers. Don’t judge… They agreed to a no-strings-attached, experience-building fling. The deal seemed flawless at
the time.
And, yep, you guessed it… I’m pregnant.
With my grumbly brothers’ adamant claims that they don’t want a relationship, can my sunshiny personality help me find the
bright side of my situation?
If you love dirty-talking stepbrothers who have over-the-top ideas of how to please their sister, and like to call her naughty
names, you’ll join them for a fling, too! But whatever you do… Don’t get pregnant! ;)
 One

Commando

“Nothing like sliding into my favorite booth at my favorite diner.” I don’t bother looking at the menu the waitress set down. The
thought of a double cheeseburger, extra pickles, and steak fries have my tastebuds eager for civilian food. The diner’s changed
over the years, but the burgers and the name, Keep Yer Belly Full, remain the same.
Taz offers a fist bump. “A big hell yeah to freedom.”
“Same, bro. I love fighting for it, but I’m overdue for sleeping in and not having a schedule.”
“You’ll get tired of it before our leave is over.”
“That last undercover op got to me.” I drag a hand through my hair and take a deep breath, deciding not to belabor the point.
Taz was there, he knows. It’s the first time I’ve considered getting out of the military, and with my reenlistment date rapidly
approaching, the possibility is unnerving.
Serving my country with honor has been my life goal. No distractions allowed.
What would Taz and our other brother, Stonewall think if I got out?
“Don’t bring that shit home with you.” Taz nods at something behind me. “Get that ray of sunshine in your head instead.”
I turn, unsure what he’s referring to. My mind is instantly cleared when my eyes land on one of the other waitresses. A smile
that’s as wide as it is bright red. Long brown silky hair. A petite figure that would have been underserved by the frumpy
uniforms the waitresses used to wear. Her denim short-shorts offer a full view of her toned legs. What does she do to stay in
shape? I’ve heard waitressing is exhausting.
I’m consciously advising myself to let go of the crude thoughts about giving her a workout, and how good those thighs would
feel wrapped around me, and that I should stop staring. I’m also ignoring myself.
The patrons at the table she’s serving break out in laughter. She does too.
It’s the biggest, heartiest laugh, and then she snorts. Unabashedly. My dick is instantly hard.
Chances are it was already headed that way, but it’s the fact that she snorted, no apologies, just pure joy, that takes a
sledgehammer to my hardened heart. There is good in the world. And apparently, I want to fuck it.
She responds to a woman at the table. “No kids for me. I can’t be trusted with keeping another human alive. I barely manage
myself.”
She snorts again and pre-cum spurts from my tip. What’s gotten into me? I shift while watching her walk to the register. My
jeans aren’t tight, but there’s not enough room for a full-fledged erection.
She turns. Our eyes lock. I’m busted.
“You boys ready to order?” Our waitress snaps me back to reality. How did I not notice she’d returned? Her belly is big
enough she rests her notepad on it.
I stutter to place my order, the effects of that young waitress leaving me shell-shocked. Not wanting to come across as a perv
staring at someone who has to be more than ten years younger than me, I direct my attention to Avery, politely addressing her by
the name I learn from her nametag, and complete the same order I’ve been placing since the diner opened.
Now that I’ve acknowledged her, I notice that she doesn’t look old enough to be pregnant. Or have I hit that point where
young adults look like kids? That would make my reaction to the other waitress even less appropriate.
I have enough sense not to ask either of their ages. My brothers and I haven’t spent much time in mainstream society the last
thirteen years, and they were a hard set of years. Maybe we should sit a tour out, and get in touch with the people we serve.
The president of our motorcycle club, aptly nicknamed Prez, comes in and detours in our direction.
Taz makes room for him, and Avery adds his order to our tab. The MC is full of fellow military so they understand our
schedules. Prez is older than me and also single. His whole life is dedicated to the MC now that he’s out of the military. Is that
my path? All MC?
My gaze shifts back to the waitress who makes me feel things I’d written off. Things that need to stay written off. I’m not the
family-guy type, no matter how much I want to put a baby in her.
And she’s happy. I could learn from her.
No. That wouldn’t be fair to her.
My internal discussion makes me feel psychotic. Physically angling my head away, I look out the window. She’s at an
entirely different place in life than I am. She deserves to live it without my burdens.
The tapping of Avery’s pen on her notepad draws me back. Avery has a gleam in her eye. “Are you guys single?”
“Whoa!” I hold both hands up in front of my chest. “Not interested.”
Taz brings his fist to his mouth and coughs the word, “Asshole.”
I force my eyes from Avery’s belly to her face. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean because of that.” I awkwardly motion toward her
elephant-sized midsection. “I’m single, but I’m not dating.”
She rubs a hand over her belly, triggering my brain to think of how little Miss Snorts-A-Lot would look pregnant. Fuck. I fail
to stop myself from scanning the restaurant for her, but she’s gone.
Avery tears a piece of paper out of her notepad and sets it on the table with a pen. “Don’t worry. I’ve had enough of men to
fill me up for a while. I saw you looking at Cheri, and it’s entirely possible that I saw her looking at you two earlier. If you
want me to pass your number on, I will.”
My fingers twitch. I ball my fists, pressing them into my thighs. “Do you realize how old we are?”
Taz sets his hand over the paper and pen. Adrenaline courses through me, sparking possessiveness. What right do I have to
tell him no?
Avery drags a finger over her belly. “Boys our age do this and run. You look like you have your shit together. Cheri’s a hard
worker, the best baker in town—cherry desserts are her specialty—and she fills in as a waitress for extra cash. Works here and
at Sugar D’s Donut Shop. It would do her good to have some fun if you know what I mean.”
Fun… cherry… I shouldn’t be having these thoughts.
Prez wrings his hands. “Fun? Don’t look at me unless Cheri wants to get married. My twin brother and I just found out we
have to get wifed-up or Grandma rewrites her will.”
The mention of his grandma reminds me that our dad flew into town to scatter his mom’s ashes. I steal a glance at Cheri,
who’s returned, and let her sunshine blast the thoughts of death from my mind.
“I think marriage would be a deal breaker for Cheri, which brings us to you.” Avery winks at Taz, stroking his ego, and he
sits taller. Avery has no idea how easy it is to flatter him. I love my little brother, but he never passes up a chance to have fun. I
don’t know how he compartmentalizes his life so easily.
Taz scribbles his info down, then slides the pen and paper toward me, raising an eyebrow. It might ruin me to see him with
Cheri, but I’ve sworn off distractions. I shake my head.
“You want to think about it?” Avery asks me.
“Like I said, I don’t date.”
“When the right woman comes along, don’t be afraid to let your guard down, big guy.” Avery picks the pen and paper up,
shoves them in her apron pocket, and walks away.
What does this pregnant teenager think she’s doing, matchmaking thirty-somethings with her barely-out-of-the-cradle friend?
And why am I considering walking over to Snorts-A-Lot and showing her how hard she’s making me? Absolutely not. I don’t
date. And I certainly don’t fuck a teenager just because she’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.
 Two

Cheri

The mischievous smile on Avery’s face as she enters the break room causes my hand to stop midway to grabbing my coat. “I’ve
got to get to roller derby practice, but what are you up to?”
She hands a small paper to me while biting her lower lip.
I read what appears to be a name and phone number, but the name is Taz. Not a good sign. Avery needs someone stable, not
someone nicknamed after a devil. “What’s this?”
“A favor.” I try to hand it back to her, but she cradles her belly with both hands.
“What kind of favor?” I shrug my coat on, still holding the paper.
“I saw you staring at the guys who rolled in on the motorcycles. I also saw them staring at you. It’s my last day of work and I
wanted to do something nice for you.”
Was I that obvious? Is this why she was at their table so long? She was talking to them about me? The world sways a little
before I gather my thoughts, but they’re too fleeting to stay in my grasp. A strange feeling works its way through me. It’s light
and giddy and tingly.
“Avery…” I draw out her name. She’s been on my case about working too hard. She’s not wrong, but her pregnancy is proof
of how quickly life can take a detour. That’s why I’m using my time to bake my heart out while saving up money so I can move
out of my mom’s house. Living on my own seems scary, but I need to learn to take care of myself.
And not just financially. My mom and I have possibly gotten too used to hanging out with each other. Someday I might want
to get married, and I don’t want to be worried Mom will take it too hard.
“Taz is the smiley one with the five-o’clock shadow and a shit-ton of casual-sexy.” She taps the paper that’s still in my hand.
“And I don’t want to jump to incorrect conclusions, so I’ll let you know that the guy who came in last is looking for a wife. I
told him you weren’t interested.”
“What is wrong with you?” I ask, with too much excitement.
She raises her shoulders. “Should I have left the wife option open?” She motions over her shoulder. “I’ll let him know.”
I grab her hand. “No! I don’t have time to date… or get married.”
“You need to do something other than work.”
“I love my work.”
The back door flies open. My mother parades in looking way too happy, which is saying a lot coming from me.
“Cheri.” My mom draws out my name with her fake French accent, and wraps her arms around my shoulders.
“Is everything okay? I need to get to roller derby practice.” I hoist the strap of my gear bag over my shoulder when she lets
go.
She reaches into her Gucci-knock-off purse, pulls out a small packet of papers, and slaps them at my hand that’s holding the
phone number. I reposition the paper Avery gave me so I can see what my mom added.
Airline tickets? I’m processing that they contain my name when she says, “I’m getting married! We bought your flight, paid
for your room, and all of your food is covered.”
“To who… you don’t… how?” I’m certain that she said she’s getting married, but she’s not dating. I would know. I live with
her. When neither of us is working, we play Scrabble and binge Netflix.
 As that thought highlights the stagnation of my life, I’m grateful that Avery got a guy’s number for me. My entire life revolves
around work, derby, and hanging out with my mom. I’m twenty—not a teenager anymore. I need to grow. And maybe, I need a
man, or at least a good time with one.
Still confused, I turn my attention back to my mom who is absolutely glowing. She says, “It’s shocking, but I met the perfect
man. One thing led to another and he’s whisking me away for my dream wedding. I’ll still make time for you sweetie, but I’ve
wanted a man in my life, and I found him.”
This is getting sadder by the minute. Skeptical of how she went from meeting a guy to having a destination wedding, I ask,
“When did you meet him?”
“Yesterday. It’s crazy. But it’s love at first sight, and we’re not getting any younger. He’s here on vacation to visit his sons.”
She squeezes my hands. “Please be happy for me. And please be on your flight tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?” My question comes out in a shriek. I lower my voice to address the other problem. “How can you afford this?”
“He’s filthy rich, but that’s not why I’m marrying him. He’s the kindest man, and good in—”
“Stop, Mom. I have work and roller derby. I can’t just leave.” I try to shove the plane ticket back at her, but she doesn’t take
it.
Avery clears her throat. “I could fill in for you.”
I’d forgotten she was there. “I couldn’t ask that.”
“You didn’t. I offered because that’s what friends are for. I can delay my last day one more week. And I’ll talk to the girls at
Sugar D’s. We’ll make sure your shifts are covered.”
Avery’s already sending a text message, so I return my attention to my mom. “Why the rush?”
“The resort had a last-minute wedding cancellation. They’re booked out a year in advance. Cheri, this has to be the universe
telling me it’s the right thing to do.”
“I’m happy for you.” At least I’m trying to be. I paste on a smile and hope it looks sincere.
“So, it’s a go? Surely you can miss a few roller derby practices,” Mom says.
“No.” I can’t ditch them on a whim. Plus, Avery hasn’t been able to participate in months and Angel is out with a suspicious
ankle injury.
“She means yes. Everyone misses once in a while,” Avery says.
“Great! We can talk when you get home.” Mom exits so quickly, my head is spinning.
Avery plucks the packet from my hands, leaving me staring at Taz’s number. Could I be so lucky? All I have to do is put
myself out there and the universe will handle the rest? My mom seems to think so. I’m not so sure. I’m happy, not lucky.
Avery gasps. “This place looks incredible.”
I angle my head to see the paper my mom printed about the location. A luxury resort with private hot tubs on every balcony
and a crystal blue and aquamarine ocean on one side. The other side gets the ornate pool and cabana view.
I haven’t made it halfway down the list of amenities when Avery says, “Plan B. Wait to call Taz. Go on this all-expenses-
paid vacation to support your mother and hook up with a cabana boy first.”
“Plan B. It sounds perfect.” As long as I don’t leave my coworkers in a bind, I’m going. Maybe I’ll even consider the
cabana-boy thing. I’ll happily accept this stroke of luck.
“It is, Cheri. Don’t pass up an opportunity like this. Go have fun.”
“There has to be a catch.”
“Do you want me to make one up? Fine. One word of caution regarding the cabana-boy hookup. Whatever you do… don’t get
pregnant. It’s a vacation fling. What happens on the island stays on the island. All of that good stuff. Focus on fun.”
I can’t believe this fell in my lap. I can’t believe my mom is getting married.
Avery cocks her head to the side. “Do it for me.” She takes Taz’s number from my hand and tucks it into the papers. “I’ll let
him know that you won’t be calling right away.”
“Or should I be the one to let him know I’ll be gone for a few days?”
“No. Erase him from your brain. Don’t let anything stop you from letting loose, and please, so I can live vicariously, come
back with a better first-time story for yourself than I have.”
“That sounds like a challenge.” A challenge I’m willing to take.
 Three

Cheri

I consider myself a happy person. I laugh freely. I love my jobs. And I have the best friends—my coworkers and teammates.
I’m successfully crafting the life I want.
But after the whirlwind of Avery getting Taz’s number for me, the panty-melting gaze from the guy sitting with Taz, and my
mother’s surprise wedding, doubt crept in. By the time I’d made it from the diner to roller derby practice, I was questioning
everything.
Should I skip the last-minute trip and be responsible? Or did my desire to stay home have more to do with Taz’s rugged
jawline, muscles, and sex appeal? His phone number was the only one on the paper but the other man in his booth, the older
one I’d caught staring, would serve as an acceptable alternative.
With my head still spinning, I’d done the only rational thing I could think of, and went to roller derby practice to hash out my
existence.
My teammates agreed… Take the trip! There would be time to sort out the other options when I got home.
Two plane flights later, after a whole lot of flying over the ocean to get to the private island, it’s good to have my feet on the
ground again. However, it’s not so wonderful to have rain drenching me as I hurry across the tarmac.
Thankfully the limo driver says it’s fine if I get the seats wet.
And in no time at all, he drives me to the resort where the bellhop delivers my bags to my room and makes sure I don’t need
anything. How could I? There’s a basket of snacks and he showed me the drinks in the fridge. There are fluffy towels and plush
blue-and-white bedding. A partially private balcony. And a gorgeous view of the ocean.
The sounds of crashing waves wash away my concerns.
Avery was right. I need this. I need to experience life.
The rain stops and the light breeze brings the salty air to my nose. I lean over the balcony rail, looking side to side and
below. No one’s in sight. Feeling bold, I step into the sheltered part of my balcony with the hot tub. I peel my wet clothes off
my body and wrap myself in the luxurious white robe.
I won’t judge my mother for marrying a sugar daddy as long as she’s happy. She’s one lucky woman to marry into this kind of
money. I correct my thinking. He’s one lucky guy to marry a woman as amazing as my mom.
Grabbing the folding drying rack that’s tucked into a corner, I place it on the balcony and drape my drenched clothes over the
dowels.
I leave the sliding door open when I head inside. What do I do with myself? No mom to play Scrabble with. No derby
practice. No work schedule. Who am I and what do I want?
It’s a short-lived problem since I called ahead to make special arrangements to prepare cake pops for my mom. They’re her
favorite. But the kitchen space won’t be available for another hour.
I stand in the middle of the room admiring the mermaid décor, truly at a loss for what to do. I grab my phone and turn music
on. For a fleeting moment, I consider dancing, but when I lift my arms and sway my hips, it hits me that I’m tired.
Wow! Am I always tired and don’t know it? I love my life. I love being on the go. But maybe I need a change.
With only six hours until the wedding, I unpack my bags to make sure the rain didn’t get inside. All good.
A lightness washes over me. Avery’s right. I should live my life while I can.
 There’s no telling what will happen, when I’ll have unexpected responsibilities pop up, or whether I’ll wake up one day to
discover I’ve become a withered old hag, working my fingers to the bone, and I’ve let my life pass me by.
With my arms wide, I spin, carefree, then throw myself onto the bed, face first. If this is how the upper-class lives, I’ll have
to take tips from Mom on how to snag a rich guy.
In the meantime, after lounging, I get dressed and head to my comfort place, the kitchen, where I do what I do best—bake.

With the cake pops prepared, I return to the room.

Craving the luxurious feel of the robe on my body again, I strip down and put it on. That’s all I need until it’s time to get
ready for the wedding.
When I step onto my balcony, I realize the breeze has picked up. My wet shirt has been whipped around and barely hangs
onto the drying rack. My leggings have tangled on the dowels. My white socks and red bra have blown around the wooden
posts of the balcony railing. Close call. I snatch them up.
A quick inventory… Uh oh! My bright red panties are nowhere to be seen.
Shit. I check inside the hot tub, scan the room…nothing. Rushing to the rail, I lean over. In a heartbeat, against the white
wooden deck and brown-and-green dune grasses, the splash of bright red fabric takes no time to recognize.
My panties have blown onto someone’s first-floor balcony. Once I quell the panic, I take it as good news. My panties are
caught on the corner post. I should be able to approach from the beach, reach through the plants that offer a bit of privacy along
the balcony’s edge, and reclaim the escapees.
Grabbing my keycard as I rush through the room, I’m out the door in a flash.
 Four

Stonewall

With only an hour before the wedding, Commando, Taz, Dad, and I have the driver take us from the cliff overlooking the ocean
back to our rooms.
Grandma made it widely known she wanted her ashes scattered in the mountains, mingled with the majestic beauty. But with
Dad’s unexpected wedding, he decided we’d bring a portion of her ashes to the island and spread the remainder of them from
the cliff overlooking the ocean to honor her younger days when she spent all of her free time on the beach.
A weight is lifted from my shoulders that we’ve finally finished toting Grandma around in an urn and sprinkling her ashes. I
just want to be done.
Her death hit me hard. All the lives I’ve taken in my military days—those people had loved ones too. Thinking like that is
dangerous. I shift my thoughts to when we were younger and she was always there for us. Not being able to make it back in
time to say goodbye shook me.
We’re here for Dad though, so that’s good. Though none of us ever thought a wedding would get thrown into the mix.
Everything that’s happening right now casts shadows on the already dark part of my soul. Are all of our missions blotting out
the positives in life and dragging me down?
It only takes a few minutes to throw my board shorts on. And even though my hair’s longer than the typical military cut, since
we were running undercover ops, it doesn’t take much to run my fingers through it and get it back in place. We’re going to be
standing on a windy beach anyway.
Embracing the time I have left to relax, I step on to the wooden deck outside of my room. Something bright red catches my
attention. With each inch I move closer, I absorb another detail. The fabric is silky. It has a lacy edge. It’s lightweight. And
when I lift the small piece of fabric, the shape becomes undeniable.
I’m holding somebody’s panties. If I’d met someone, I might consider this an invitation. But no, I’ve been with my dad,
brothers, and dead grandma’s ashes.
I glance around, finding no one, then reel my hopes in. My brothers are probably pranking me, trying to get me to break free
from my nickname for once.
Clinging to the hint of fun the panties offer, fully knowing I won’t do anything about it, I shove them in my pocket and watch
the waves.
I’m scanning the beach, watching a few surfers, when I catch sight of a woman in white walking down the beach, but not by
the water. Up by the dunes. Her dark hair trails behind her in the breeze. Her path is oddly close to the decks. Does she not
understand privacy?
Or… My dick gets hard. Is she the owner of the panties in my pocket?
She’s scanning the dunes, so I duck into the room, wanting to observe her for a moment longer. I’m pretty sure the resort’s
robes are meant for indoor use. But hey, I gotta give it to her. Be yourself.
It’s something I don’t have much experience with since I joined the military when I was twenty years old. I barely stepped
out of my family’s shadow when I took on a military family. My brothers joined at the same time.
The dark-haired beauty shifts her attention from the dunes to the top floor, points, and appears to be counting rooms. The
wind picks up and catches the edge of her robe, throwing it open, exposing one long leg, with a sinful tuft of hair covering her
pussy.
She isn’t wearing panties. My heart quickens. Could she be the owner of the bright red silk? The odds were slim when I
originally had the thought, but they just improved dramatically.
In a nonchalant move, she grabs the edge of her robe and holds it closed.
Seemingly satisfied with counting the upper rooms, she lowers her attention to the first floor, to my room, or rather the space
outside of my room.
She hasn’t noticed me since I’ve retreated further, hanging near the edge. I’m fascinated by her, and desperately trying to
think of something clever to say. All that comes to mind is, Surely you can spare this pair of panties.
Better to keep that to myself. I’m reclusive, not a perv. Although the panties in my pocket call that into question.
The first floor is elevated a few feet above the beach and the dune grasses offer a buffer above that, obscuring my line of
sight as she approaches.
Then suddenly she’s crawling on the dune toward my deck, and my suspicions are confirmed. I chuckle quietly with the
knowledge that this beauty’s pussy has been in the panties I’m harboring.
I feel guilty for keeping them, but what am I supposed to do? Wave them in the air and say, Are these yours?
It’s a sad fucking day when I decide that I’m even more set on keeping the panties now that I see who they belong to. My dark
heart needs a glimmer of hope. She can give up a pair of panties for the team. I’ve given up years for my country.
The woman extends a hand forward, parting the grasses at the edge of my deck, and mutters something I can’t make out. But
it’s damn cute.
I’m torn. Offering her panties seems like the right thing to do, but I love the idea of considering them a sacrifice. I make
sacrifices all the time in service to the country. No hype, no news stories, just confidential missions. That helps me feel slightly
less selfish about what I’m choosing to do.
I step outside. “Can I help you?”
“Oh! Sorry!” Her head pops above the grasses like a meerkat. She grips the top of the rail and stares up at me.
Am I so in need of a woman that I can’t focus on the moment at hand? All I can think about are her manicured fingernails
gripping my cock while her plump red lips drag back and forth over it.
She wipes wisps of hair from her face as she stands, struggling to keep her robe closed. My pulse is pounding in my ears.
“Perhaps you can help me.” She points up. “I’m on the third floor and the wind blew my panties down. I saw them right
about here, but now they’re gone.”
My fist tightens around her panties as realization sets in. She could be one of the brides getting married here, which would
mean I’m holding a married, or soon-to-be-married woman’s panties. Fuck!
“Wait… Are my panties in your pocket?”
“No,” I answer too quickly and immediately realize I’m gripping them so hard, my forearm is in pain. I relax my fist and
glance down. Shit! Red lace is sticking out. I yank it down, hoping she didn’t see it.
Too late. “What the hell is wrong with you? Give them back.” She thrusts her hand at me.
I’m not only trained to perform under pressure, but I’ve spent years face to face with national threats, never once losing
composure. But staring at this ray of sunshine who has enough energy to make up for her small size, I’m incapacitated.
It’s terrifying.
“You know what? Never mind. I don’t want to know what you plan to do with them. Enjoy.” She turns around, scurries off
the dune, and marches down the beach, leaving me to wonder what just happened.
I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t turn me in to security.
 Five

Taz

Yesterday, my brothers and I were ready to kick back and have a BBQ with Dad at our mountain home in the Cherry Ridge
foothills. Today, we’re standing on the beach on a private island, lined up as groomsmen for our dad’s wedding.
I’m at a loss for how a lifelong commitment can transpire this fast.
We haven’t had time to talk to him about the woman he’s marrying since we had to scatter grandma’s ashes, pack, and get on
an airplane. Plus, he didn’t want us trying to talk him out of the first seemingly irrational thing he’s ever done.
He arranged a brief meeting with his fiancée, and she seems great, but we haven’t met our future stepsister. She was busy
making some kind of special treat for her mom. That’s cool, I suppose. Does that mean we should be doing something for Dad?
Nah.
That seems like girly shit anyway, and Dad’s entire focus is on his future bride. This is the happiest I’ve seen him in a long
time. Mom got sick and died when I was little. I have very little memory of her. My older brothers remember more, but that
was ages ago, and he’s been single for way too long. We’re all glad to see him happy again.
A small band plays reggae versions of wedding music. It’s an intimate affair since no one else is invited. And at our
stepmom’s request, we’re all in beachwear. One point to her. I’ll take boardshorts over a penguin suit any day. Of course,
riding gear is my preference when I’m not on a mission.
Worn, white, wooden planks delineate the path from the bride’s private staging area to the altar.
We’re positioned for a perfect sunset backdrop, and the photographer’s already taking pictures.
A woman steps out from behind the privacy screens. The tiny red bikini top leaves more breast uncovered than covered. It’s
hard for me to see anything else. Then her toned leg makes an appearance through the slip in the matching wrap-around skirt.
Fuck.
My eyes trail upward to her dark hair that the wind insists on blowing over her face.
Her red lipstick matches her bathing suit. She tucks a hair behind her ear and her huge smile falters. Her mouth drops open.
And she stutter-steps as we recognize each other.
It’s Cheri from the diner. No. Fucking. Way. Am I hallucinating?
I elbow Stonewall, but remember that he wasn’t at the diner. I lean forward to catch Commando’s attention. Keeping my
voice down, I urgently whisper, “Is that Cheri?”
His expression serves as confirmation.
Stonewall says, “How do you know her name?”
“She works at Keep Yer Belly Full.” I wrap one hand around the other fist. If Dad expects us to be chill about him marrying a
woman he’s only known for one day, it can’t be that weird that I want to fuck my stepsister.
Dad clears his throat. He doesn’t seem to have heard what we’re saying, just wants us to be respectful.
Cheri has regained her composure and made it down the wooden walkway. As she reaches the altar, her gaze wanders
between the three of us and our dad.
She takes her place on the bride’s side and hones in on Stonewall. He fidgets, shoving his hand in his pocket, and her gaze
follows.
The music shifts to a reggae Bridal March. I glance at the bride, then back at my brothers.
Stonewall whispers, “I’ve got her panties in my pocket.”
 Six

Cheri

Timing is critical as the photographer arranges us in front of the gorgeous sunset. Dutifully stepping into place beside my mom,
I smile. Will the photos reveal the chaos in my mind?
I can’t figure out if this is perfect or a complete nightmare.
There’s not a cabana boy or any male on this island as swoon-worthy as my three stepbrothers. Can ‘what happens on the
island, stays on the island’ apply to people who are returning to Peach Bottom Valley as my new family? I’m pretty sure Avery
would say yes. Time to pivot on the fabulous plan she laid out.
The photographer has our parents step to the side so he can take pictures of the siblings. My heart races and my feet wiggle,
burying themselves in the sand as I stare straight ahead, trying to ignore the three gorgeous men I’m contemplating a fling with.
Standing close to my mother and touching her was fine. Touching my stepbrothers is the starting point for a ridiculous number
of fantasies that have already clogged my gray matter.
“Three of them and one of you.” The photographer rubs his chin. “Let’s start with the three brothers in back and little sis in
front.”
When I fail to engage my feet, the photographer points. “You, right here.”
My legs grow wobbly and a knot forms in my core. “Yes, sir.”
A tortured groan, I believe from Taz, comes from behind me. The sound tips the scales. Who needs a cabana boy when I have
these three? Or at least Taz. Who knew how important Avery getting his number would turn out to be?
I glance over my shoulder and my eyes catch on his chest as he takes in a deep breath. The intensity of his gaze paralyzes me
when I finally look up that far.
He brushes a finger against the back of my hand. Whatever witty comment I planned on saying is gone. He says, “Yes, sir?
Are you always so polite?”
“Yes, sir.” Alarms go off in my brain. The sand under my feet, the whisps of hair streaking across my face, and the lingering
touch of his skin on mine… every sensation lights up my body with desire.
A flash causes me to blink and reflexively turn to the photographer. “Great shot, looking up to your new big brother. How
about you guys pick her up so she’s laying across the three of you?”
Taz’s voice is too low for the photographer to hear. “You want to lay across my front?”
He tucks his finger around my hand and guides it to his hips. My eyes go wide. Taz’s erection is huge. Would I be better off
finding a cabana boy for my first time?
Next thing I know, hands are all over my body, my feet are out from under me, and my brothers have done as the
photographer asked.
“That’s adorable,” Mom says, so I presume Taz’s arousal is no longer evident. Or it will be one of those things no one
notices until we’re looking at the photographs with Aunt Edna. I make a mental note to go with mom to review the proofs.
Aside from being conscious of every single point of contact from fingertips pressing into my skin to my backside spanning
the three hottest men I’ve ever met, I compose myself and survive the remainder of the family photos.
And with only three days on this island, I can’t waste any time approaching my new brothers about my plan.
Pose. Smile. Rethink my sanity. Repeat.
 Seven

Cheri

Because our parents didn’t have time to invite extended family and friends, they opened their reception in the party palapa to
everyone at the resort. The dance music started while we were taking photos.
By the time we walk over, people are swaying and twerking on the dance floor in a way that indicates they found the open
bar. Others have lined up at the buffet, and many are already seated at the tables.
“Have fun,” Mom says to us as she drags my new stepdad onto the dance floor. She drapes her hands around her new
husband’s neck, presses her body tightly against his, and they sway, oblivious to the fast beat of the music.
My brothers and I have lined up near the dance floor, like it’s hot lava and none of us are ready to take the next step.
Stonewall plops into a seat at the nearby table.
“What are you waiting for? Come dance.” My mom motions toward us then returns her attention to my new stepdad. That’s
going to take some getting used to. I don’t know anything about him. I’m dumbfounded that I was worried about meeting a guy
someday and leaving her alone. I sure didn’t see this coming.
I shriek as Taz grabs my hand, then spins me onto the dance floor. My free hand landing on his bare chest is the only thing that
stops my torso from slamming into his. Bummer.
My assumption that we’d dance like most of the other couples, with hands in the air, is wrong. His hands wrap around my
waist, pulling my hips into his. Somehow that makes it impossible for me to breathe.
Angling my head to the side, I use a giant concrete tiki statue as a focal point and mentally talk myself through breaths. In.
Out. In. Out.
“Feel free to move your hands.” His comment makes me painfully aware of how awkwardly my arms are squished between
us.
“I was catching the beat.” The profoundly lame excuse gives me a second to reposition.
I opt for my hands on his shoulders. Big mistake. I’ve now measured the width of his shoulders, and the muscular curve of
them. Where’s that tiki statue? Dang it. Taz turned us and I can’t see it.
“No need to be nervous,” he says with all the calm charm he looks like he’d possess.
“I’m not nervous.” Another excellently lame lie. “It’s just weird how fast our parents went from meeting to marrying. And
now I’m touching my stepbrother’s nearly naked body.” Oh shit, that’s not what I meant to focus on, or say.
Taz laughs and tightens his embrace, which flattens my breasts against his chest. I seriously need somewhere else to put my
hands, but I’m not wrapping them around his neck. Shoulders will have to do.
He says, “Must be destiny.”
“What?”
“Our nearly naked bodies touching. Were you going to call?”
Call? I laser-beam focus on the tiki statue as we turn again. Right, it was his phone number Avery got for me. A nervous
laugh escapes me. “Did you want me to?”
“I don’t give my number out too often.”
I meet his gaze for the first time. Not my best choice, but his deep green eyes lock me in. “So why give it to a pregnant
waitress who says she’s getting it for a friend?”
 “Because she told me which friend.”
“Oh.”
Can he feel my heart pounding?
“Your smile and laugh had already won me over. That’s what I need… when I’m on leave.” His tone shifts after his pause,
like he catches himself. Is that how he delicately underscores that anything that came from me calling him would have been
temporary?
“Don’t hog your sister,” a male voice calls out from a few feet away. It’s my new stepdad. “Let your brothers get to know
Cheri too.”
“We’re not done,” Taz whispers.
I almost collapse as he steps away. Whether my motivations are right or wrong, I can’t tell anymore. We happen to be next to
where Stonewall is sitting. I extend a hand and wonder if he’s still harboring my panties. “Shall we?”
His hands ball into fists. “No.”
I’m pretty sure I visibly flinch but my embarrassment is short lived as Commando takes my hand. He’s taller and thicker than
Taz. I’m slightly more prepared this time and position my hands on his waist as we sway to the music. It turns out that’s not a
great choice either. He’s thicker, but he’s solid muscle. No amount of staring at tiki statues can help. It might be making matters
worse as I’m wondering if his body is as hard as the statue. And not just his body, my mind wanders to particular parts.
“I didn’t mean anything by not giving you my number when your friend asked.” His defensive comment breaks into my
thoughts. It’s cute that he thought about that.
“You didn’t want me to have your number?” I say playfully.
“It’s not like that.”
“It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.” It’s prudent to leave out that his dismissal didn’t stop me from fantasizing about him.
“It’s just that we’re not home for long.”
“Taz mentioned that you’re on leave.”
“Yeah, so it didn’t seem right.”
Are the island breeze and reggae music getting to me, or is the whole scenario of having ridiculously hot stepbrothers
breaking my brain? Avery said to have a good time. I go for it.
I say, “So you’re not the one-night-stand type?”
He coughs. “Is that all you want?”
I’m not sure what I want. Before I can sort it out, he continues, “I’m sorry. You’re my stepsister. We shouldn’t—”
“I was also a total stranger to you up until thirty minutes ago. Don’t make a big deal of it. I’m twenty—more than old enough
to…” What am I about to say? I temper the rest of my statement. “…have fun.”
Taz is sitting next to Stonewall. “Is our stepsister a little tease?”
Was I supposed to hear that? Excitement bubbles through me. Why do I like being called a tease? Isn’t that sexist? I scramble
for sanity. “If a guy said he wanted to have fun, would you call him a tease?”
Taz smiles. “Does he plan on making good on his insinuations?”
“Knock it off.” Commando stills and glares at Taz.
“With the right person, yes.” Am I hypothetically answering for myself?
“Then being a tease is a good thing.”
What just happened? Why are my nipples beading so hard I fear I might poke Commando? And the tingles dancing over my
body, they’re settling between my legs.
The song ends and a band member says they’re going on break. Commando pulls away before the recorded music is piped
through the PA system. The song is slow. Not a great distraction.
I still can’t get a read on Stonewall. That makes me want to dance with him even more. This time, I don’t give him a choice. I
take his huge hand, lift it, and when I realize it will be impossible to move him, I grab his other hand and pretend he’s dancing
with me.
He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t relax.
His dark green eyes meet mine briefly, but long enough for me to see a brokenness. I squeeze his hands.
Commando and Taz look surprised that Stonewall’s cooperating. I’m grateful they don’t interrupt.
 Eight

Stonewall

Cheri’s tiny hands holding mine, and her sweet smile, lift my spirits more than anything has in years. She’s a bright ray of
sunshine on this festive night. And here I am, refusing to stand up and dance with her.
My problems are bigger than I thought. I’d realized I was having a harder time than my brothers separating missions and life,
but I didn’t know how bad it had gotten until I was forced to participate in what should have been a joyous occasion.
Taz razzes me. “You’re missing out.”
Watching them dance with her, holding her body close, I want it too. So why can’t I take my turn? I’m stuck in this mental
hell. Is this my sign that I have to get help? Shouldn’t I be able to enjoy happy moments with my family?
Taz grabs her hand and leads her away from me. What the hell is he doing? Commando and I follow them around the end of
the building where the wooden walkway gives way to sand. The rhythmic sounds of waves are louder than the music.
Moonlight creates a new intimacy.
Taz slowly lets go of her hand, and what I thought was irritation, suddenly reveals itself as jealousy. I need to get a handle on
that shit. It shouldn’t bother me if they decide to do something. The look in Taz’s eyes makes it clear what he wants.
“She’s our sister,” Commando says. Cheri stumbles backward as he steps between her and Taz.
“Step.” Taz doesn’t back down.
I grab their shoulders. “Knock it off, guys.”
It happens so fast, I barely have time to register the feel of Cheri’s hand in my pocket as she extracts her panties. So much for
me trying to defend her.
“I knew it!” she proclaims.
We all turn to stare at our little sister dangling her red panties in triumph. The moonlight hits them perfectly, ensuring we see
her victory.
“I didn’t know you were my stepsister,” I say as if stealing a stranger’s panties is more acceptable.
She looks down, then smiles widely, and without missing a beat, stuffs them back in my pocket. “I don’t have anywhere to
put them.”
I’ll never admit how much it thrills me that she gave me her panties this time.
“I’d be happy to take a pair for the team.” Taz reaches for my pocket, and I slap his arm away.
She waves a hand between us. “Sort that out later. I have a proposition.”
“We should get back to the reception.” Commando steps away.
“Wait!” Cheri lunges, grabbing his arm, and I’m conscious of every microsecond her hands stay on his body. He places his
other hand on hers. More torture for me.
Cheri pulls away slowly as she continues, “Can I be completely open with all of you?”
I grumble, torn between the way my burdens feel less when I’m around her and remembering she’s now my sister. That’s
what I need to keep in mind—she’s a silly little sister, acting her age, which all adds up to her being decidedly off limits.
But I can learn from her. I can remember what it was like to be young and full of life. And I need to get that back. I can’t be
my best self on missions if I can’t be my best self otherwise. When we get home, I’ll call a doctor. I won’t bring it up with my
brothers. I don’t need their grief, or their worry.
 “Openness is good.” Commando speaks over Taz, keeping the comment honorable.
“I was going to hook up with a cabana boy so I would have a memorable first time—”
“Stop.” Taz thrusts his hand out, his fingers finding out how soft her lips are. This is not a reason to be jealous. It’s a reason
to kick my brother’s ass and remind him she’s our much younger stepsister.
He continues, “You were going to lose your virginity with a total stranger?”
He seems offended, and worried, but he seems to have forgotten that aside from the fact that we’re now related by our
parents’ marriage, we’re pretty much strangers as well.
She grabs his wrist, moving his fingers from her lips. I can breathe again. I’m on the virtual edge of my seat to hear her
response. Is this need to protect her a big-brother reaction? There’s a tightness in my throat and my pants. Not cool.
“I wouldn’t exactly be losing anything. I’d know exactly where—”
“Stop,” Taz says again, but she bats his hand away before he can touch her lips. Good girl.
“Fine, you’re not losing anything. But why would you want to have sex with a stranger who doesn’t care about you?”
“I want to be able to walk away, no strings attached.”
My balls pump a little seed into my board shorts. Has my cock not heard any of my rationalizations about her being our little
sister? The possessiveness is getting harder to hold back. It’s not just protecting her; I want to claim her. I want her to be mine,
and to be full of my baby. Am I losing all sanity? I’d make a terrible, broody-ass father.
Commando shoots me a concerned glance. Neither of us likes the path Taz is on with her. The problem is that I want to kick
Taz off the fucking path so I can walk it.
“I’m surprised you don’t have a boyfriend.”
Dammit Taz.
“I don’t really have time with my schedule, which is why Avery got your number for me.”
“So I can teach you how to have sex?”
She shrugs. “Teach? What is there to learn?” She makes a circle with a thumb and forefinger of one hand and pokes her other
pointer finger through the loop. “It’s pretty obvious. Anyway, Avery’s been begging me to date. She thinks I need to have some
fun in my life.”
“And by fun, you mean sex.”
“I suppose so. And since it would be weird for us to date, you’re the perfect candidate.”
Taz’s mouth drops open. He’s actually speechless.
But I’m not. “You can’t have sex with him.”
“What are you going to do, tell our parents?” Taz challenges.
Our dad would be disgusted that we even had a conversation about this, and I can’t imagine what her mother would think.
Yet, the flames of desire refuse to be extinguished. Even if she’s too young. Even if she’s our sister now. Even if— Fuck! If I
stay here one second longer, I’m going to give her a memorable first time myself.
Taz interrupts my internal debate. “Feel free to leave.”
I do, with Cheri over my shoulder, kicking and screaming.
 Nine

Commando

Stonewall storms away with Cheri. It would have been less of a shock if Taz did it. I’ve been silently reminding myself how
young she looked at the diner. How I don’t date. How she’s not a piece of meat thrown to the wolves.
I can’t believe that Stonewall got her before Taz did. Shame washes over me for wishing I’d beat both of them to her.
But Stonewall’s reputation re-inserts itself when he marches straight to the party palapa, deposits her in the middle of the
dance floor, then grabs Taz and me by the arms and pulls us aside.
“She’s our sister, and she’s… barely an adult.”
“No one says you have to be involved,” Taz says.
“That’s the problem.” Stonewall’s jaw flexes.
“It isn’t, though. Just look away, my man. Not your problem.”
“I want her.” Stonewall’s words leave Taz and me stunned.
“She seems game. What do you think? We all take her at once or line up?” Taz raises his hand for a high five. Neither of us
accepts.
“It’s her first time,” I say.
“And if we don’t do it, a cabana boy gets the participation ribbon.” Taz scans the dance floor. We follow his gaze.
She’s at the edge of it, not in the center where Stone left her. Was she going to follow us? Her hands are in front of her chest
while she bounces to the beat, smiling at the guy less than a foot in front of her moving in sync with her. The look on his face
says too much.
He wants to inch those scraps of fabric off of her tits as much as I do.
A server walks past them with a tray of treats. They must be the cake pops our dad said Cheri was making. She looks thrilled
and grabs a stick, turning the round treat upward, and taking the whole big ball in her mouth.
I choke on my saliva. The guy dancing with her does too. He stops dancing, takes her hand, and guides her off the dance
floor.
“Am I going to shoot that mother fucker down on my own, or are we in for Cheri as a team?” Taz says.
“I’m in,” Stone and I say simultaneously as we stride, side by side toward the poor teenage boy who won’t have any idea
what a wrong move he made.
I take one last, extra-large step, thrust an arm out, and shove him away from our sister. He catches his balance and opens his
mouth to say something but promptly clamps his lips shut.
Taz rips the stick of the cake pop out of Cheri’s mouth and she slaps a hand over her lips, coughing through the food. We give
her a second to swallow, and she says, “I almost choked.”
“You want to choke on balls, just let us know.”
I groan. Taz needs to learn to dial it back.
Cheri lights up, looking at him expectantly. “So, you’re going to do it?”
On second thought, Taz might be onto something.
He raises a hand and motions toward Stone and me. “We are. The three of us. It’s all or none.” He grabs an entire tray of
drinks from one of the roving waiters. He’s going for it.
 Cheri takes one of the glasses and smiles.
I’m not sure if it’s a drink or a fruit basket in a cup. A lemon wedge, cherries, leaves, and ice cubes leave little room for
liquid, but I can smell the bourbon. “How old are you?”
A laugh bursts out of Cheri. “Old enough for my new brothers to offer an all-or-none proposition.” She hurries the glass to
her lips, slurps, and catches a cherry between her teeth. An intact stem leaves a second cherry dangling from her lips when she
pulls the cup away.
I wrap my fingers around hers, intent on sliding the beverage from her hand but a shockwave passes through me at our
contact. Stonewall clears his throat. Shaking off the impact of my fingers on hers, I return the cup to the tray. There are so many
things wrong with this situation.
The sexual tension between us is palpable.
Taz hands the tray of drinks to Stonewall, leans forward, and bites the dangling cherry. Add that to the list of ‘wrong’, and
while I had planned on us having a bigger conversation before doing anything, I can’t figure out if I want him to move in for the
kiss or make room for me. He pulls back, the stem remaining in his teeth.
She sucks her cherry into her mouth and darts her tongue out to catch the drip on her lips. I wrestle with my thoughts. Anger
ravages me that we’re too old for her. We need to compose ourselves and respect our stepsister.
And yet she’s handing us a fantasy on a cherry-lined platter. I can’t look away. I can’t walk away. Do I need to speak up and
protect her? Or do we go through with this and protect her from guys who are actual scumbags?
Cheri plucks the stem from his lips and says, “You stole my cherry.” Then she pops the stem in into her mouth.
She’s quiet. We’re staring. Moonlight streaks between Taz and myself as the three of us have practically backed her to the
wall.
“We shouldn’t be doing this.” Stonewall speaks up. I understand where he’s coming from but I like where Taz and Cheri are
taking this. Taz has always been able to cut loose in a way Stone and I couldn’t. He’s no worse for his decisions.
Has my inability to compartmentalize held me back from joy? Should I accept the permission Cheri is granting? My morality
and my most basic human instincts are at war with each other.
My morality tries to point out everything that’s wrong, like wanting to ride her bare.
I’m so busy sorting shit in my head that I’m surprised when she opens her mouth, reaches in with her fingertips, and pulls out
a knotted cherry stem.
I’m ruined. All three of us cough and sputter. Stonewall bobbles the tray, then sets it on a nearby table, helping himself to two
drinks in rapid succession.
With feral intensity, Taz brings his hands up, balls his fists, then presses them into the wall on either side of her. The corded
muscles in his neck flex. She gasps and bumps backward into the wooden wall of the building.
Taz’s voice goes several octaves lower as he growls out, “If I touch you, I own you. Do you understand, Cheri?”
Cheri’s look of surprise morphs into a smile. Holy shit.
I shift my attention to check in with Stonewall. He’s rubbing the back of his neck, stretching his head side to side. She’s
affecting all of us. But just because there’s safety in numbers, doesn’t mean we should all jump off the cliff.
 Ten

Cheri

Taz’s face is shadowed as he cages me with his arms and body. I can’t make out his expression, but his words are clear.
Am I actually feeling sexual attraction radiating from his body? Maybe it’s just me. I’m so fucking turned on right now.
He slowly inches closer but leaves a hint of space between us. With each inhale, I think my chest is going to touch his, but I
swear he’s making sure it doesn’t. Not until I agree. Consent is good.
But the tease is driving me crazy. I want this moment to go on forever. There’s so much anticipation. There’s also too much
dampness between my legs. I want to tease him back.
I take an exaggerated, out-of-sync breath, thrusting my chest at him. My pebbled nipples and barely covered breasts flatten
against his hard body.
He huffs, suppressing a laugh, and pushes away. Dammit, I wanted to break him. I wanted him to be so overcome with
passion that he would ravish me with the wild abandon portrayed on historical romance novel covers.
And as much as all of my pink parts tingle at the thought of being owned, isn’t that a step backward in women’s
empowerment? Great, now I’m thinking too much, officially killing the mood. Why make this complicated? All I have to do is
give in.
He lowers his lips and whispers in my ear. “Even naughty girls have to answer. Do you understand?”
His words speak to a side of me I’m not familiar with. A naughty girl? Why does that excite me? Yes, I want to throw caution
to the wind. Go crazy on the island. I want a glimpse of letting go. Thoughts of my mom agreeing to marry a guy after knowing
him a single day taunt me, but I can’t have Mom in my head right now, no matter how bold her move was.
I ask, “Do you like naughty girls?”
“I like spanking their naughty little asses. I like watching their bright red lips drag back and forth around my cock. And I like
fucking naughty little cherry pussies most of all.”
Did my stepdad talk to my mom like this? No. No. No. Bad thoughts.
I can’t believe what Taz is saying in front of our brothers. Have they shared a girl before, or watched each other? I’m
determined to get out of my head and channel the experience Avery wants me to have, although I’m not sure I’ll be comfortable
divulging many details. It’s all so surreal.
I want to be naughty. I didn’t imagine my first time involving an audience, or being outside where we could be caught, or
with my stepbrothers. That combination certainly fits the naughty bill.
“Does that scare you? Do I scare you?” Taz asks.
He does. Like walking on hot coals while knife-swallowing for the first time. But I only have a few days before it’s back to
the grind. I have a feeling this experience will be worth every bit of terror racing through my veins.
“Touch me.” I manage to get the words out a split second before my vocal cords freeze up.
His exhale warms the side of my cheek. “Are you sure?”
I can’t speak anymore. I need him to take over. I try another approach and move my hand forward, dragging my fingers across
his thigh, and then cup my palm over the crotch of his swimming trunks.
Cherry-flavored desserts are my expertise, not manhood, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that his cock is rock-hard, and
that I am the cause. Happy tingles explode inside me. It’s a heady feeling. I rotate my hand, then rub up and down.
 He grabs my wrist and presses my hand into his body. “Stop.”
Fear races through me. “Am I doing it wrong?”
His grip around my hand tightens. “You’re doing everything right.”
“Then why do you want me to stop?”
“There’s no way I’m going to let you get me off first.”
“Does it matter?” I ask. I really don’t know, but it seems like it shouldn’t.
“It does to me.” He moves my hand to his chest.
Did he mean to put it on his heart? Am I making something out of nothing? Good lord, am I swooning?
I have to get on top of this before I scare them off. I try to pull my hand away, but he traps my palm on the contour of his pec.
I opt for words instead. “Let’s not get carried away with this island fling. You’re just making sure I have a good first time… or
three. No need to get all righteous about this ominous thing called sex that everybody thinks is some sign of importance. We all
get our happy endings and go our separate ways.”
Commando cuts me off. “We’re just protecting our little sister. But you’re right. It needs to be a one-off, an island fling, a
good time to be had by all. Then, we’ll never speak of this again.”
I could kiss him for stopping my verbal diarrhea. But kissing… that would feel too intimate… right up in his face. No. Save
that for kissing the bride and— Shit! I’m doing it again—making this into something. How can I be a naughty girl and dial this
back at the same time?
“Right, let’s fuck and flee.” Not amazing, but it satisfies the non-committal checkbox.
Stonewall shifts uncomfortably. Taz angles his head. “Are you in or out, man?”
Stonewall rubs a hand over his face, paces away a few steps, then returns. “You’re twenty, right?”
“Yes.”
“We’re more than ten years older than her,” he grumbles.
As if that matters.
“And you have experience,” I argue, “which is exactly what I want.”
Taz shifts a leg between mine and presses upward. My breath hitches as he grinds into my sex. Addressing his brother, he
continues, “I’m about to pop this naughty tease’s cherry, so if you don’t want to be guilty by association, get the fuck out.”
Stonewall’s head falls backward for a second before he says, “I can’t touch her, but I can’t leave either.”
Trying to draw him in—because for some reason I want all three of them—I attempt to lighten the mood. “Don’t be such a
grump. If you’re going to watch, what’s a little touch?” I reach over and brush my fingers over his rock-hard abs. I love my
bold, naughty persona.
He flinches and steps back. “There’s a huge difference.”
I fail to see the distinction, but it seems to matter to him, so I shrug and offer, “You can always change your mind.”
“So we’re all in on this?” Taz asks. He’s anxious to get started, the only one who has been all-in from the get-go.
“We go through with this, then never speak of it again.” Commando’s caught up on it being a secret.
Since he’s reiterating his main point, I repeat my new favorite saying. “What happens on the island, stays on the island.”
Taz laughs, but the other two don’t. Commando says, “No strings attached. We’re protecting you from a bad first experience.
Making sure you understand sex should be a good thing. Your happiness should always come first.”
There’s something about the way he says it that makes me all warm and fuzzy inside. Combined with my sex grinding on
Taz’s leg, the orgasm that’s building rises to dangerous heights. I reach out to Commando, grab his arm, and pull him closer. He
reads my cue, leans in, and kisses me while Taz’s hands seem to cover every part of my bikini-clad body. He yanks the little
triangles of fabric to the side and massages my breast.
But the kiss is undoing me. Commando’s lips and tongue mesh with mine. So perfect. So hungry. So intimate. I wasn’t going
to kiss them. Now I don’t want to stop.
Taz firmly presses me into the wall. Both men are distinctly taller than me. Every move of Taz’s leg, every one of his
touches, and Commando’s kiss leaves me helpless. The only question in my mind is how Stonewall can stand there and just
watch.
The sounds of my cries exaggerate the moment, throwing me over the edge of surrender as I give into everything the men are
offering. My body writhes against the two of them. I’m no longer able to hold a kiss or any coherency as I fall apart.
Every time I think I can catch my breath, the orgasm digs deeper. It’s stronger than I’ve ever given myself, and at some point,
morphs into bliss, where I exist in perfection.
I’ve lost track of time and space when a single thought makes its way into my brain. Sex is all it’s cracked up to be. At least I
think it will be. I haven’t even had sex yet.
Commando has leaned away. He’s brushing my cheek with his finger. Taz has given me room to breathe. I dip my fingers into
the sides of my bikini bottom and push it down.
“I was going to take you back to my room,” Taz grunts.
“This naughty little slut can’t wait.” Crap. I said that out loud. I called myself a slut. Well, I am at my mother’s wedding
reception, getting orgasms from two of my new stepbrothers while the third one watches… If the shoe fits.
“My naughty little slut is getting ahead of herself,” Taz says, dropping his board shorts as I step out of my bottoms.
Stonewall steps away. He brings both of his hands on top of his head as he paces. Why does that make me want him even
more? He wouldn’t have stayed if he truly thought this was wrong, would he? No, it’s something else. That guarded look I saw
earlier—something’s broken inside of him.
Taz takes my hand and wraps my fingers around his shaft, which had felt large through his suit, but he’s huge. I think about my
vibrator. I feel so full when I’m riding it.
“Tell me what you’re thinking.” His command is a breathy whisper.
I want to be his naughty slut. Have I not made that clear? As I rub my hand up and down his shaft, trail my fingers over his
slick tip, and spiral my finger through the wetness, I listen for the tiny catches in his breath to learn what he likes. Apparently,
everything.
I’ve never felt so free to explore. Go big or go home. Or in this case… Go big and go home in a few days. I slow-stroke his
shaft, moan, and crane my neck. “I want to be your naughty slut.”
His cock surges in my hand, startling me. My hand flies off, but I make the best of it and bring my fingers to my lips, dragging
my tongue over the saltiness of his pre-cum, locking my eyes with his as I do so. I’m about to drop to my knees and give myself
a full taste of what he has to offer, but he pins me to the wall.
“I had no idea how much I’d enjoy having a stepslut.”
Stepslut? That probably shouldn’t make me happy. It’s degrading. It’s wrong in so many ways. And it whips my insides into a
wanton frenzy. What happens on the island, stays on the island. I need that tattooed on my brain.
Even as I repeat it like a mantra, I know it’s not true. I’m going to hold onto this experience forever. This little stepslut is
already ruined.
He rolls his hips into me. “I’m going to fuck you right here the way a virgin stepslut deserves.”
My sex tingles so hard I almost orgasm on the spot. I throw my arms around his neck. “I’m ready.”
There’s a pause as if he wasn’t expecting me to be good with that. The Peach Bottom Valley version of me worries that I
might overstep, but the wild, island version, affectionately termed stepslut is too sexually charged to care. In fact, being free,
embracing what feels so natural, is the most empowered thing I’ve ever done.
He repositions, cupping his hands below my ass, lifts me, and aligns his cock with my soaking wet entrance. “If you tell me
to stop, I will. Otherwise, it’s time to pop my stepslut’s little cherry.”
“Fuck me,” I say, proud of my shamelessness.
He slides in slowly at first, and I rock my hips to adjust to him. I’ve never been so wet or so stretched. It burns. It feels good.
My world is in chaos. And I’m officially no longer a virgin.
We could stop. That’s the dumbest thought to ever cross my mind. I rock my hips faster, egging him on. He matches my
motion, one of his arms wrapped around my back, protecting me from the hard wall. His muscular body pounds into me from
the front and his cock strips every shred of cherry from my body.
I want to come. I need to come. I want him inside of me forever.
His breaths against my cheek shift to my mouth, offering demanding kisses.
I’m about to lose control.
“I’m going to come,” I say against his lips.
He growls, which speaks to the slut in me, and my fingernails dig into his bare back. His growl intensifies, his cock swells
inside me, and I shatter into a million pieces. My entire consciousness becomes one with him. His seeds pumps into me, filling
me, overflowing. How the hell do I leave this on the island?
 Eleven

Taz

Cheri doesn’t realize that I’m awake. We’re lying face to face, and her head is curled down a little. She’s staring at Stonewall,
who’s sleeping in a chair across the room. He won’t get in bed with us.
I try to breathe in her scent, but it’s so mingled with sex, it takes me a second to parse out the sweet, addictive hints that
belong to her.
I watch the rise and fall of her chest that makes the edge of her dark nipple play peek-a-boo with the edge of the sheet.
I wonder what she’s thinking.
My little stepslut has lived up to her nickname. The last two days, Commando and I have done everything under the sun with
and to Cheri, and it’s been pure freedom. Stonewall is still keeping his distance but is never too far away. Somehow, it doesn’t
feel weird.
Even though he’s always been the strong, silent type, I thought he’d cave in by now. Every time Commando and I give Cheri
an orgasm, he ends up either heading to his room or to the bathroom to take a shower. We all know he is beating off. I still can’t
figure out why he doesn’t just let her take care of that for him.
Commando’s sleeping behind Cheri. His arm is draped over her waist, his fingers on her belly. She’s been so adamant that
what happens on the island stays on the island, but let’s face it, unprotected sex this many times? She could be pregnant.
My brain short-circuits at the thought. Not because I could potentially be tied down with a kid, but because every time I think
about my future, Cheri is in it. She fills me with a sense of freedom. There’s that word again, but the definition keeps morphing.
I’ve always wanted to live life to the fullest. How can I do that if I don’t pursue all avenues, like being a dad?
Stonewall stirs in his chair, his unflinching gaze landing on Cheri. I’ve noted the way Cheri stares at him while we fuck. She
wants him. She never asks. She must sense what we learned years ago: He needs his space.
I shift my hand to Cheri’s pussy and wiggle my finger in her dark curls. “Does my stepslut need breakfast or an orgasm to
start the day?”
“I had too much dessert last night, my stomach’s a little off. But option two sounds grand.”
She keeps her eyes on Stonewall. God, she’s a little tease, shifting one leg over my hip to open herself. The sheet falls away
and Stonewall’s got the best fucking view in the house. I slide my finger onto her clit, watching her nipples bead and her body
shake as I work her into a frenzy.
“You want him to watch that pussy come on my finger.”
“Yes. I’m such a naughty girl. I want to tease him.”
“He may not say it, but he wants you.”
“Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to torture him by carrying out sex acts in front of him.”
She’s playing coy. I love it when she does that. I wish it would work; I think Stonewall needs a little Cheri sunshine in his
life. Can we break him before we get back on our flights home today?
“He tortures himself,” I answer. “You’re just making it more bearable.”
“Do you think he’s…” Her breaths become more erratic as she tries to speak. “Do you think he wishes his finger was
touching me?”
“I know he does.”
 “What about his mouth? Do you think he’s ever had his mouth on a pussy before?”
I can’t believe she’s saying these things, but this is why I love my stepslut. Fuck, my hand stills. Love? At least I didn’t say it
out loud. I pretend to reposition, although I don’t really change anything, and get back in motion. “He’s been with women.”
“So he just doesn’t like me?”
“I think he likes you too much.” I lower my voice to be sure she’s the only one who can hear it, even though the words I’m
speaking are true. That’s why he holds back. He’s afraid to love and lose.
Louder, I say, “He doesn’t have to like you to want to stick his dick in you.”
Her pussy clamps on my finger and her body writhes as she cries out. A sharp tap is distinctly out of place. I split my
attention between making sure she’s satisfied and the source of the sound that happens again.
Commando’s still sound asleep. Stonewall hears it though. His head is turned to the sliding glass doors where we’ve failed
to close the curtain.
“Oh shit, cover her,” he says, jumping up, hurriedly making his way to the patio door. Cheri slaps her leg down, squeezing
around my hand. Not sure if that’s because of the orgasm or the distraction.
Commando wasn’t asleep after all. He makes quick work of positioning the sheet over Cheri. I leave my hand in place,
wanting to make sure she gets her full finish, as I angle my head to look over my shoulder.
Fuck. Dad’s standing on the dune outside of our deck.
“Stay down,” I say to Cheri.
Stonewall charges onto the deck, opening the door as little as possible and closing it firmly.
Dad now has his hands on our deck rail as he peers past Stonewall. The glass on our door isn’t too thick and I’m able to
make out the conversation.
“What’s going on, Dad?” Stone skips past explanations of why all of us are in my room, putting the focus on Dad.
“Have you seen Cheri? Her mom’s looking for her and she’s not in her… Oh.” Dad catches on to the fact that we have a
woman in the room. Hopefully that’s all he realizes. I can’t move or Cheri will be exposed, but Commando hops up, adjusts the
sheet at the end of the bed, then proceeds to sit on the edge, further blocking Dad’s view of his new stepdaughter.
Stone asks, “What’s her mom need her for this early?”
“Her mom’s moving in with me and wants to sell their house. Of course, Cheri will be welcome under my roof as my
daughter.” His voice falters.
“Of course,” Stonewall agrees. “Always take care of family.”
Dad cocks his head to the side, shifting his gaze into the room once again, then back at Stonewall. “Tell her to get in touch
with her mom.” He walks away.
Stonewall re-enters and pulls the curtains closed. Cheri jumps up and grabs her phone. “Oh shit. Mom texted three times this
morning. She knows I’m always awake early.”
I set my hand on her back and caress up and down.
“You’re on vacation. She doesn’t know anything.”
Stonewall says. “I don’t know. I think Dad saw her.”
Cheri frowns. “He didn’t say anything.”
Commando explains, “No. He would leave the burden on us, expect us to be honorable.”
“And you are. We had an agreement—what happens on the island…” Cheri pulls her shorts and top on.
Stone’s face is pale. “He doesn’t know that.”
Commando kicks a chair, shoving it across the tile floor with a horrific scraping sound. “He doesn’t need to know anything.”
I glance at Cheri’s exposed flat belly as she pulls her hair into a ponytail. That might not be possible.
 Twelve

Cheri

Baking and decorating cakes isn’t nearly as fun when my tummy’s upset, which is happening a lot lately. I load the piping bag
and methodically add a basketweave pattern to the next dessert.
My time on the island was unmatched, but there’s nothing like the comfort of your own home when you need to heave into the
porcelain throne. I’m keeping it pristine these days since my stomach decides to upend itself every morning and evening.
Thankfully, I’ve only had two incidents at work, but I’m keeping that bathroom pristine as well.
But what I’d thought at first was just the side effect of too many desserts, then airsickness on the flight home, has lasted too
long. Giving delusion a chance, I hoped I’d gotten food poisoning or picked up a bug while traveling. Those things happen.
But with no other symptoms, like fever or diarrhea, which I would not usually look forward to, I’m forced to admit the only
other symptom… tender nipples. Reality is edging out delusion.
This naughty little stepslut failed to follow the mantra: what happens on the island, stays on the island.
That’s now my least favorite saying.
A pregnancy test is waiting for me at home. I chose to put off taking it until after tonight’s roller derby bout.
I’ve kept my new brothers at bay, reminding them that we are completely platonic now, and even limited those interactions.
I’ve swapped tables with another waitress to avoid interacting with them twice.
The other times they came to the diner, I was in the back, baking, and kept myself busy, not bothering to say hi. But today I’m
carpooling with Beatrix to a roller derby bout and she’s early.
“Your brothers just came in.”
Crap. I grab a piping bag and fill it with icing, hurriedly practicing making roses. “That’s nice.”
“Just thought you might want to say hi.”
“They’re just my brothers.”
“Yeah, they’re family.”
I didn’t tell Beatrix about our island tryst, and I keep up the ruse now. I don’t want to go there. “I don’t even know them. I
mean, our parents got married. And other than seeing them in here, I wouldn’t recognize them on the street.”
I give up on the icing piles that look more like white poop than roses, and grab my gear for practice. “Let’s go.”
Beatrix eyes me suspiciously but drops the conversation and follows me out the back door. We have a team meeting an hour
before our bout, then our warmup time.
Avery shows up while we’re practicing a move called, Eating the Baby. I love the irreverence of roller derby, but now I’m
afraid panic sets on my face every time someone says the world baby. All I can think about is the pregnancy test I’m gonna take
later.
Since Avery’s out with the Nine Month Injury, she’s running the swag table.
“You don’t look so good,” Beatrix says. Perhaps my worry about reacting to the word baby is as obvious as I feared.
“I’m fine,” I say in a way that conveys I’m absolutely not fine. I have to skate to the front of the pack to run our move, which
is a welcomed escape.
The second we end up next to each other, she says, “I’m going to be open with you.”
Coach has us regroup to practice making a wall. I try to skate away from Beatrix, but she grabs my waist, ensuring we stay
Another random document with
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 THE PEAK IN DARIEN: THE RIDDLE
OF DEATH.
It is somewhat singular that the natural longing to penetrate the
great secret of mortality should not have suggested to some of the
inquirers into so-called “Spiritual” manifestations that, before
attempting to obtain communication with the dead through such poor
methods as raps and alphabets, they might more properly, and with
better hope of gaining a glimpse through the “gates ajar,” watch
closely the dying, and study the psychological phenomena which
accompany the act of dissolution. Thus, it might be possible to
ascertain, by comparison of numerous instances, whether among
these phenomena are any which seem to indicate that the mind,
soul, or self of the expiring person, is not undergoing a process of
extinction, but exhibiting such tokens as might be anticipated, were it
entering upon a new phase of existence and coming into possession
of fresh faculties. It is at least conceivable that some such indications
might be observed, were we to look for them with care and caution,
under the rare conditions wherein they could at any time be afforded;
and, if this should prove to be the fact, it is needless to dilate on the
intense interest of even such semblance of confirmation of our
hopes. I must earnestly protest, however, at starting, that, in my
opinion, to regard anything which could be so noticed as being more
than such a confirmation, or, as if it could constitute an argument for
belief in a future life, would be foolish in the extreme, seeing the
great obscurity and the evanescent nature of all such phenomena.
Our faith in immortality must be built on altogether different ground, if
it is to be of any value as a part of our religion or of our philosophy.
But, assuming that we are, individually, already convinced that the
quasi-universal creed of the human race is not erroneous, and that
“the soul of a man never dies,”[36] we may not unreasonably turn to
the solemn scene of dissolution, and ask whether there does not
sometimes occur, under one or two perhaps of its hundred forms,
some incidents which point in the direction of the great fact which we
believe to be actually in process of realization? According to our
common conviction, there is a moment of time when the man whom
we have known in his garb of flesh casts it aside, actually, so to
speak, before our eyes, and “this mortal puts on immortality.” As in
Blanco White’s beautiful sonnet, he is, like Adam, watching his first
sunset, and trembling to lose sight of the world, and the question to
be solved is whether darkness has enshrouded him, or whether
“Hesperus with the hosts of heaven came,
And, lo! Creation widened in his view”;
and he may have asked himself,—
“Who would have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O Sun? or deemed,
While flower and leaf and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind?”
and life, like light, had been only a deception and a veil.
We have walked in company with our brother, perchance for
years, through the “wilderness of this world,” over its arid plains of
toil and through its sweet valleys of love and pleasure; and then we
have begun to climb the awful Andes which have always loomed
before us at our journey’s end,—their summits against the sky,—and
beyond them the undiscovered land. Onward, a little before us, as
chance may decide, our companion perhaps mounts the last
acclivity; and we see him slowly approach the mountain’s crown,
while our lagging steps yet linger on the slopes below. Sometimes,
ere he reach the hill-top, he is enveloped in cloud, and then we see
him no more; but again, sometimes, he remains in the full sunlight,
and though distant from us, and beyond the reach of our voice, it is
yet possible for us to watch his attitude and motions. Now, we see
him nearing the summit. A few steps more, and there must break on
his vision whatever there may be of the unknown world beyond,—a
howling wilderness or a great Pacific of joy. Does he seem, as that
view bursts on him, whatsoever it may be,—does he seem to be
inspired with hope or cast down with despair? Do his arms drop in
consternation, or does he lift them aloft with one glad gesture of
rapture, ere he descend the farther slope, and is lost to our sight
forever?
It appears to me that we may, though with much diffidence, answer
this question as regards some of our comrades in life’s journey, who
have gone before us, and of whom the last glimpse has been one full
of strange, mysterious, but most joyful promise. Let us inquire into
the matter calmly, making due allowance both for natural
exaggeration of mourning friends, who recall the most affecting
scenes, and also for the probable presence of cerebral disturbance
and hallucination at the moment of physical dissolution.
Of course, it is quite possible that the natural law of death may be
that the departed always sink into a state of unconsciousness, and
rather dip beneath a Lethe than leap a Rubicon. It is likewise
possible that the faculties of a disembodied soul, whatever that may
be, may need time and use, like those of an infant, before they can
be practically employed. But there is also at least a possibility that
consciousness is not always lost, but is continuous through the
passage from one life to another, and that it expands rather than
closes at the moment when the bonds of the flesh are broken, and
the man enters into possession of his higher powers and vaster
faculties, symbolled by the beautiful old emblem of Psyche’s
emancipated butterfly quitting the shell of the chrysalis.[37] In this
latter case there is a certain prima facie presumption that close
observation ought to permit us occasionally to obtain some brief
glimpse, some glance, though but of lightning swiftness and
evanescence, revealing partially this transcendent change.
In a majority of deaths, the accompanying physical conditions hide
from the spectators whatever psychological phenomena may be
taking place. The sun of our poor human life mostly sets behind an
impenetrable cloud. Of all forms of death, the commonest appears to
be the awful “agony” with its unconscious groans and stertorous
breath. The dying person seems to sink lower and lower, as if
beneath the waters of an unfathomable sea; a word, a motion, a
glance, rising up at longer and longer intervals, till the last slow and
distant sighs terminate the woful strife, and the victory of Death is
complete. When this is the mode of dissolution, it is of course
hopeless to look for any indication of the fate of the soul at its
exodus; and the same holds good as regards death in extreme old
age, or after exhausting disease, when the sufferer very literally “falls
asleep.” Again, there are deaths which are accompanied by great
pain or delirium, or which are caused by sudden accidents,
altogether hiding from our observation the mental condition of the
patient. Only in a small residue of cases, the bodily conditions are
such as to cause neither interference with nor yet concealment of the
process of calm and peaceful dissolution in the full light of mental
sanity; and it is to these only we can look with any hope of fruitful
observation. I ask whether in such cases instances have ever been
known of occurrences having any significance taken in connection
with the solemn event wherewith they are associated. Does our
forerunner on the hill-top show by his looks and actions, since he is
too far off to speak to us, that he beholds from his “Peak in Darien”
an Ocean yet hidden from our view?
I should hesitate altogether to affirm positively that such is the
case; but, after many inquiries on the subject, I am still more
disinclined to assert the contrary. The truth seems to be that, in
almost every family or circle, a question will elicit recollections of
death-bed scenes, wherein, with singular recurrence, appears one
very significant incident,—namely, that the dying person, precisely at
the moment of death, and when the power of speech was lost, or
nearly lost, seemed to see something; or rather, to speak more
exactly, to become conscious of something present (for actual sight
is out of question) of a very striking kind, which remained invisible to
and unperceived by the assistants. Again and again, this incident is
repeated. It is described almost in the same words by persons who
have never heard of similar occurrences, and who suppose their own
experience to be unique, and have raised no theory upon it, but
merely consider it to be “strange,” “curious,” “affecting,” and nothing
more. It is invariably explained that the dying person is lying quietly,
when suddenly, in the very act of expiring, he looks up,—sometimes
starts up in bed,—and gazes on (what appears to be) vacancy with
an expression of astonishment, sometimes developing instantly into
joy, and sometimes cut short in the first emotion of solemn wonder
and awe. If the dying man were to see some utterly unexpected but
instantly recognized vision, causing him a great surprise or rapturous
joy, his face could not better reveal the fact. The very instant this
phenomenon occurs, death is actually taking place, and the eyes
glaze even while they gaze at the unknown sight. If a breath or two
still heave the chest, it is obvious that the soul has already departed.
A few narrations of such observations, chosen from a great
number which have been communicated to the writer, will serve to
show more exactly the point which it is desired should be established
by a larger concurrence of testimony. The following are given in the
words of a friend on whose accuracy every reliance may be placed:
—
“I have heard numberless instances of dying persons showing
unmistakably by their gestures, and sometimes by their words, that
they saw in the moment of dissolution what could not be seen by
those around them. On three occasions, facts of this nature came
distinctly within my own knowledge; and I will therefore limit myself to
a detail of that which I can give on my own authority, although the
circumstances were not so striking as many others known to me,
which I believe to be equally true.
“I was watching one night beside a poor man dying of
consumption. His case was hopeless, but there was no appearance
of the end being very near. He was in full possession of his senses,
able to talk with a strong voice, and not in the least drowsy. He had
slept through the day, and was so wakeful that I had been
conversing with him on ordinary subjects to while away the long
hours. Suddenly, while we were thus talking quietly together, he
became silent, and fixed his eyes on one particular spot in the room,
which was entirely vacant, even of furniture. At the same time, a look
of the greatest delight changed the whole expression of his face,
and, after a moment of what seemed to be intense scrutiny of some
object invisible to me, he said to me in a joyous tone, ‘There is Jim.’
Jim was a little son whom he had lost the year before, and whom I
had known well; but the dying man had a son still living, named
John, for whom we had sent, and I concluded it was of John he was
speaking, and that he thought he heard him arriving. So I answered,
—
 “‘No. John has not been able to come.’
“The man turned to me impatiently, and said: ‘I do not mean John,
I know he is not here: it is Jim, my little lame Jim. Surely, you
remember him?’
“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I remember dear little Jim who died last year quite
well.’
“‘Don’t you see him, then? There he is,’ said the man, pointing to
the vacant space on which his eyes were fixed; and, when I did not
answer, he repeated almost fretfully, ‘Don’t you see him standing
there?’
“I answered that I could not see him, though I felt perfectly
convinced that something was visible to the sick man, which I could
not perceive. When I gave him this answer, he seemed quite
amazed, and turned round to look at me with a glance almost of
indignation. As his eyes met mine, I saw that a film seemed to pass
over them, the light of intelligence died away, he gave a gentle sigh
and expired. He did not live five minutes from the time he first said,
‘There is Jim,’ although there had been no sign of approaching death
previous to that moment.
“The second case was that of a boy about fourteen years of age,
dying also of decline. He was a refined, highly educated child, who
throughout his long illness had looked forward with much hope and
longing to the unknown life to which he believed he was hastening.
On a bright summer morning, it became evident that he had reached
his last hour. He lost the power of speech, chiefly from weakness;
but he was perfectly sensible, and made his wishes known to us by
his intelligent looks. He was sitting propped up in bed, and had been
looking rather sadly at the bright sunshine playing on the trees
outside his open window for some time. He had turned away from
this scene, however, and was facing the end of the room, where
there was nothing whatever but a closed door, when all in a moment
the whole expression of his face changed to one of the most
wondering rapture, which made his half-closed eyes open to their
utmost extent, while his lips parted with a smile of perfect ecstasy. It
was impossible to doubt that some glorious sight was visible to him;
and, from the movement of his eyes, it was plain that it was not one,
but many objects on which he gazed, for his look passed slowly from
end to end of what seemed to be the vacant wall before him, going
back and forward with ever-increasing delight manifested in his
whole aspect. His mother then asked him, if what he saw was some
wonderful sight beyond the confines of this world, to give her a token
that it was so by pressing her hand. He at once took her hand, and
pressed it meaningly, giving thereby an intelligent affirmative to her
question, though unable to speak. As he did so, a change passed
over his face, his eyes closed, and in a few minutes he was gone.
“The third case, which was that of my own brother, was very
similar to this last. He was an elderly man, dying of a painful disease,
but one which never for a moment obscured his faculties. Although it
was known to be incurable, he had been told that he might live some
months, when somewhat suddenly the summons came on a dark
January morning. It had been seen in the course of the night that he
was sinking; but for some time he had been perfectly silent and
motionless, apparently in a state of stupor, his eyes closed and his
breathing scarcely perceptible. As the tardy dawn of the winter
morning revealed the rigid features of the countenance from which
life and intelligence seemed to have quite departed, those who
watched him felt uncertain whether he still lived; but suddenly, while
they bent over him to ascertain the truth, he opened his eyes wide,
and gazed eagerly upward with such an unmistakable expression of
wonder and joy that a thrill of awe passed through all who witnessed
it. His whole face grew bright with a strange gladness, while the
eloquent eyes seemed literally to shine, as if reflecting some light on
which they gazed. He remained in this attitude of delighted surprise
for some minutes, then in a moment the eyelids fell, the head
drooped forward, and with one long breath the spirit departed.”

A different kind of case from those above narrated by my friend

was that of a young girl known to me, who had passed through the
miserable experiences of a sinful life at Aldershot, and then had tried
to drown herself in the river Avon, near Clifton. She was in some way
saved from suicide, and placed for a time in a penitentiary; but her
health was found to be hopelessly ruined, and she was sent to die in
the quaint old workhouse of St. Peter’s at Bristol. For many months,
she lay in the infirmary, literally perishing piecemeal of disease, but
exhibiting patience and sweetness of disposition quite wonderful to
witness. She was only eighteen, poor young creature, when all her
little round of error and pain had been run; and her innocent, pretty
face might have been that of a child. She never used any sort of cant
(so common among women who have been in Refuges), but had
apparently somehow got hold of a very living and real religion, which
gave her comfort and courage, and inspired her with the beautiful
spirit with which she bore her frightful sufferings. On the wall
opposite her bed, I had hung by chance a print of the “Lost Sheep”;
and Mary S., looking at it one day, said to me, “That is just what I
was and what happened to me; but I am being brought safe home
now.” For a long time before her death, her weakness was such that
she was quite incapable of lifting herself up in bed, or of supporting
herself when lifted; and she, of course, continued to lie with her head
on the pillow, while life gradually and painfully ebbed away, and she
seemingly became nearly unconscious. In this state she had been
left one Saturday night by the nurse in attendance. Early at dawn
next morning,—an Easter morning, as it chanced,—the poor old
women who occupied the other beds in the ward were startled from
their sleep by seeing Mary S. suddenly spring up to a sitting posture
in her bed, with her arms outstretched and her face raised, as if in a
perfect rapture of joy and welcome. The next instant, the body of the
poor girl fell back a corpse. Her death had taken place in that
moment of mysterious ecstasy.
A totally different case again was told me by the daughter of a
man of high intellectual distinction, well known in the world of letters.
When dying peacefully, as became the close of a profoundly
religious life, he was observed by his daughter suddenly to look up
as if at some spectacle invisible to those around, with an expression
of solemn surprise and awe, very characteristic, it is said, of his
habitual frame of mind. At that instant, and before the look had time
to falter or change, the shadow of death passed over his face, and
the end had come.
In yet another case, I am told that at the last moment so bright a
light seemed suddenly to shine from the face of a dying man that the
clergyman and another friend who were attending him actually
turned simultaneously to the window to seek for the cause.
Another incident of a very striking character was described as
having occurred in a family united very closely by affection. A dying
lady, exhibiting the aspect of joyful surprise to which we have so
often referred, spoke of seeing, one after another, three of her
brothers who had long been dead, and then, apparently, recognized
last of all a fourth brother, who was believed by the bystanders to be
still living in India. The coupling of his name with that of his dead
brothers excited such awe and horror in the mind of one of the
persons present that she rushed from the room. In due course of
time, letters were received announcing the death of the brother in
India, which had occurred some time before his dying sister seemed
to recognize him.
Again, in another case, a gentleman who had lost his only son
some years previously, and who had never recovered from the
afflicting event, exclaimed suddenly when dying, with the air of a
man making a most rapturous discovery, “I see him! I see him!”
Not to multiply such anecdotes too far,—anecdotes which certainly
possess a uniformity pointing to some similar cause, whether that
cause be physiological or psychical,—I will now conclude with one
authenticated by a near relative of the persons concerned. A late
colonial bishop was commonly called by his sisters “Charlie,” and his
eldest sister bore the pet name of “Liz.” They had both been dead for
some years, when their younger sister, Mrs. W., also died, but before
her death appeared to behold them both. While lying still and
apparently unconscious, she suddenly opened her eyes and looked
earnestly across the room, as if she saw some one entering.
Presently, as if overjoyed, she exclaimed, “O Charlie!” and then, after
a moment’s pause, with a new start of delight, as if he had been
joined by some one else, she went on, “And Liz!” and then added,
“How beautiful you are!” After seeming to gaze at the two beloved
forms for a few minutes, she fell back on her pillow and died.
An instance—in many respects especially noteworthy—of a similar
impression of the presence of the dead conveyed through another
sense besides sight is recorded in Caroline Fox’s charming Journals,
Vol. II., p. 247. She notes under date September 5, 1856, as follows:
—
“M. A. Schimmelpenninck is gone. She said just before her death,
‘Oh, I hear such beautiful voices, and the children’s are the loudest.’”
Can any old Italian picture of the ascending Madonna, with the
cloud of cherub heads forming a glory of welcome around her as she
enters the higher world, be more significant than this actual fact—so
simply told—of a saintly woman in dying hearing “beautiful voices,
and the children’s the loudest”? Of course, like all the rest, it may
have been only a physiological phenomenon, a purely subjective
impression; but it is at least remarkable that a second sense should
thus be under the same glamour, and that again we have to confront,
in the case of hearing as of sight, the anomaly of the (real or
supposed) presence of the beautiful and the delightful, instead of the
terrible and the frightful, while Nature is in the pangs of dissolution.
Does the brain, then, unlike every known instrument, give forth its
sweetest music as its chords are breaking?
Instances like those recorded in this paper might, I believe, be
almost indefinitely multiplied, were attention directed to them, and
the experience of survivors more generally communicated and
recorded. Reviewing them, the question seems to press upon us,
Why should we not thus catch a glimpse of the spiritual world
through that half-open portal wherein our dying brother is passing? If
the soul of man exist at all after the extinction of the life of the body,
what is more probable than that it should begin at the very instant
when the veil of the flesh is dropping off to exercise those spiritual
powers of perception which we must suppose it to possess (else
were its whole after-life a blank), and to become conscious of other
things than those of which our dim senses can take cognizance? If it
be not destined to an eternity of solitude (an absurd hypothesis), its
future companions may well be recognized at once, even as it goes
forth to meet them. It seems indeed almost a thing to be expected
that some of them should be ready waiting to welcome it on the
threshold. Is there not, then, a little margin for hope, if not for any
confident belief, that our fondest anticipations will be verified; nay,
that the actual experience of many has already verified them? May it
not be that, when that hour comes for each of us which we have
been wont to dread as one of parting and sorrow,—
“The last long farewell on the shore
Of this rude world,”
ere we “put off into the unknown dark”,—we may find that we only
leave for a little time the friends of earth to go straight to the embrace
of those who have long been waiting for us to make perfect for them
the nobler life beyond the grave? May it not be that our very first
dawning sense of that enfranchised existence will be the rapture of
reunion with the beloved ones whom we have mourned as lost, but
who have been standing near, waiting longingly for our recognition,
as a mother may watch beside the bed of a fever-stricken child, till
reason reillumines its eyes, and with outstretched arms it cries
“Mother.”
There are doubtless some to whom it would be very dreadful to
think of thus meeting on the threshold of eternity the wronged, the
deceived, the forsaken. But for most of us, God be thanked, no
dream of celestial glory has half the ecstasy of the thought that in
dying we may meet—and meet at once, before we have had a
moment to feel the awful loneliness of death—the parent, wife,
husband, child, friend of our life, soul of our soul, whom we
consigned long ago with breaking hearts to the grave. Their
“beautiful” forms (as that dying lady beheld her brother and sister)
entering our chamber, standing beside our bed of death, and come
to rejoin us for ever,—what words can describe the happiness of
such a vision? It may be awaiting us all. There is even, perhaps, a
certain probability that it is actually the natural destiny of the human
soul, and that the affections which alone of earthly things can survive
dissolution will, like magnets, draw the beloved and loving spirits of
the dead around the dying. I can see no reason why we should not
indulge so ineffably blessed a hope. But, even if it be a dream, the
faith remains, built on no such evanescent and shadowy foundation,
that there is One Friend,—and He the best,—in whose arms we shall
surely fall asleep, and to whose love we may trust for the reunion,
sooner or later, of the severed links of sacred human affection.

FOOTNOTES:
[36] There is an argument which, I believe, now influences
more or less consciously the minds of many intelligent
persons against the belief in the immortal life. It amounts to
this: Granted that there is a God, and that he is absolutely
benevolently disposed toward mankind, it does not follow (as
commonly assumed) that He will bestow immortality on man,
because it is quite possible that there may be an inherent
absurdity and contradiction in the idea of an immortal finite
creature,—it may, in short, be no more within the scope of
divine power to create an immortal man than to make a
triangle with the properties of a circle. If we could be first
assured that the thing were possible, then arguments derived
from the justice and goodness of the Deity might be valuable,
as affording us ground for believing that He will do that
possible thing. But, while it remains an open question whether
we are not talking actual nonsense when we speak of an
ever-living created being, such reflections on the moral
attributes of God are beside the mark. No justice or goodness
can be involved in doing that which, in the nature of things, is
impossible.
Now, of course, there is a little confusion here between a
future life—a mere post-mortem addition of so many years or
centuries to this mortal existence—and an immortal life,
which, it is assumed, will continue either in a series of births
and deaths or in one unbroken life forever and ever. In the
former idea, no one can find any self-contradiction. It is only
the latter notion of immortality, strictly so described, which is
suspected of involving a contradiction. Practically, however,
the two ideas must stand or fall together; for almost every
argument for the survival of the soul after death bears with
double force against its extinction at any subsequent epoch of
its existence.
Taking then the future life of a man as, to all intents and
purposes, the immortal life, we are bound to confront the
difficulty,—“What right have we to assume that immortality
and creaturehood are compatible the one with the other?”
A priori argument on such a matter is altogether futile. We
know and can reason literally nothing about it. For anything
we could urge antecedent to the observation of a man’s
actual state, it was, apparently, just as probable that he could
not be made immortal as that he could be made so by any
conceivable power in the universe. But we are not quite in the
position of lacking all such a posteriori assistance to our
judgment. We can see how God has actually constituted the
human race, and the problem is consequently modified to
this: “Are there any signs or tokens that man is meant for
something more than a mere mundane existence?” It is
obvious that, if immortality were an attribute which in the
nature of things he could never share, nothing in his mental or
moral constitution would have been made with any reference
to such an unattainable destiny. If, on the other hand, there be
in his nature evidences of a purpose extending beyond the
scope of this life, and stretching out into the limitless
perspective of eternity, then we are authorized to draw the
inference that the Author of his being planned for him a future
existence, and, of course, knew that he might enjoy that
divine heritage.
Here, then, the argument lies in manageable shape before
us. It is true we only see a small portion of humanity, as it has
yet been drawn out; but just as mathematicians can
determine, from any three given points, the nature of the
curve to which they belong, so we have enough indications to
guide us to a conclusion respecting the character of our race.
In every department of our nature, save our perishable
bodies, we find something which seems to point beyond our
threescore years and ten,—something inconsistent with the
hypothesis that those years complete our intended existence.
Our busy intellects, persistently wrestling with the mysteries of
eternity; our human affections craving for undying love; our
sense of justice, born of no past experience of a reign of
Astrea, but resolutely prophesying, in spite of experience, a
perfect judgment hereafter; the measureless meaning which
moral distinctions carry to our consciences; the unutterable
longing of our spirits for union (not wholly unattained even
here) with the living God, the Father of spirits,—all these
things seem to show that we are built, so to speak, on a larger
scale than that of our earthly life. The foundations are too
deep and wide, the corner-stones are by far too massive, if
nothing but the Tabernacle of a day be the design of the
Architect. In brief, then, we may admit freely that, for aught we
know, “God could not give to a triangle the properties of a
circle,” and yet, nevertheless, hold our faith undisturbed, since
we find that the line which His hand has actually drawn is a
curve already,—a few degrees of the circumference of a
stupendous circle.
[37] There is an insect, the Lunar Sphinx Moth, which
exhibits, in its first stage, not only the usual prevision for its
security while in the helpless chrysalis state, but a singular
foresight of its own requirements when it shall have become a
winged moth. Having made, by eating its way upward through
the pith of a willow, an appropriate hiding-place, it finds itself
with its head in a position in which, were it to become a moth,
it could never push itself down, and escape at the aperture
below. The little creature accordingly, before it goes to sleep,
laboriously turns round, and places its head near the
entrance, where, as a moth, it will make its happy exit into the
fields of air. There seems something curiously akin in the
unaccountable foresight of this insect, of a state of existence
it has never experienced, and the vague and dim sentiment of
immortality, common to mankind since the days of the cave-
dwellers of the Stone Age.
 “A VERITABLE HAND-BOOK OF
NOBLE LIVING.”

THE DUTIES OF WOMEN.

A COURSE OF LECTURES
By FRANCES POWER COBBE.

CRITICAL NOTICES.
An eminent American clergyman, writing from London,
says:—
“It is the profoundest, wisest, purest, noblest book, in
principle, aim, and tone, yet written upon the True Position of
Woman in Society. It should be circulated far and wide among
all classes of our countrywomen. It should be made a class-
book in our schools. It should become the ‘Hand-Book’ and
Vade Mecum of young American girls.”
“As I turn the pages of this book, I am struck with its candor,
sympathy, and insight, and wish that it might be read and
pondered by both conservative and radical women. The
former might learn the relation of freedom to duty, and the
latter may well consider the perils which surround each
onward step.... Miss Cobbe might have called her book ‘Old
Duties in New Lights.’ It must help many women to lead
sincere, self-reliant lives, and to determine at critical moments
what their action shall be.”—Mrs. Elizabeth K. Churchill, in the
Providence Journal.
 “The best of all books on ‘Women’s Duties.’ Now that
George Eliot is gone, there is probably no woman in England
so well equipped for general literary work as Miss Cobbe.”—
Col. T. Wentworth Higginson, in Woman’s Journal.
“I desire to commend it to the careful perusal of women in
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“Just now, the first ‘Duty of Women’ is to read this whole
book with studious self-application; for it is rich in saving
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by the love of God.”—Miss Harriet Ware Hall, in Unitarian
Review.
“What is best in the whole book is that she founds her
teaching for women so strongly in the deepest and simplest
moral principles that her thoughts come with a force and
breadth which win for them at once a respectable hearing.”—
London Spectator.
“One of the notable books of the season.... No true woman
can read these lectures without being stirred by them to
completer life.”—Morning Star.
“In Miss Cobbe’s latest book, ‘The Duties of Women,’ there
is much to be commended for its common sense and its
helpfulness. Miss Cobbe goes down to the principles
underlying the topics of which she speaks; and the strength
with which she utters her thoughts is the strength of
conviction and of earnest purpose.”—Sunday School Times.
“This is the very volume needed for parents to intrust to
their daughters when leaving home for school, and for earnest
friends to offer young brides, as a wedding gift.”
Fourth Edition. Cloth. 12mo. $1.00.
New Cheap Edition. Paper. 25 cents.
For sale by booksellers, and mailed, postpaid, on receipt of the price,
by

Geo. H. Ellis, Publisher, Boston.

A YEAR OF MIRACLE.
A Poem in Four Sermons.

BY WILLIAM C. GANNETT.

CONTENTS.
1
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Square 18mo, limp cloth, red edges, Price 50 cents.
Extra cloth, heavy paper, full gilt, Price $1.00.

“The thoughtful reader will find A Year of Miracle a

source of genuine and permanent delight.”—Boston
Transcript.
“A delightful companion for an hour of meditation.”—Zion’s
Herald.
“The sermons are wonderfully beautiful. They are veritable
poems, and poems of a high order.”—Woman’s Journal.
“The theme is hackneyed: the thing is not, neither is Mr.
Gannett’s performance. Such discourses would grace the
best pulpit anywhere.”—Boston Advertiser.
“The several subjects chosen are as hackneyed as the
theme of a school-girl’s composition; but the treatment is
singularly rich, fresh, and sparkling. Mr. Gannett combines in
happy measure qualities rarely found together,—a wide range
of reading and observation, with brooding thought and solitary
fancy, the naturalist’s keen sight and the poet’s deeper
insight. His study of the outer world is close and careful, his
use of scientific detail and illustration apt and striking, with
nothing of parade and pedantry. In almost every page, we feel
the finer touch of genius, and a deep but unobtrusive spirit of
worship.”—Literary World.
“We doubt if more exact and beautiful writing can be found
than in these four sermons. They are not sermons, judged by
ordinary homiletic methods; but, by their effect in awakening
the devotional spirit, they are eminently so. They are full of
science, and yet full of religion, so far as faith in and
reverence for the Supreme enter into religion. This is a little
book, but a full book.”—Christian Advocate.