Damage Control

As the thudding sound of your parents dropping their suitcases filters upstairs and into your ears, you decide to not risk the possibility of getting caught for a few more minutes of introspection. You move your way to your bed, mindful to keep your eyes away from the enticing way your perfectly shaped hips flare from side to side as you walk, and take a seat at its edge and begin to plan on just how in the hell you’re going to confront your parents.

“Honey?”

You freeze in shock when you hear the voice of your mother on the other side of the door. You don’t speak, knowing that will give you away. You simply sit there as still as a rock without any quick plan of action coming to your rescue.

“John, are you awake yet?” She calls out to you. “We’re back home.”

You look at the door handle in abject horror, expecting for it to turn any moment, for your mother to come in and see a half-naked stranger where her son should be.

“Just a second!” you call out in a weak voice.

“John?!” Your mother’s undoubtedly surprised voice filters through the door. “Who’s the girl in there?”

Oh. Shit.

In an instant you spring off the bed, straight towards your dresser.

“John, open this door.”

Your first target is a change of clothes, rather something that will fit you better than just a pair of now oversized boxers. You scamper towards your dresser and yank the wide top drawer open. Being the youngest child, your mother has taken a certain affinity, albeit an embarrassing one, to keeping quite a good bit of the clothing from your earliest days as keepsakes. Rifling through a few layers of socks, boxers and undershirts, you finally find your quarry. Almost at the very bottom is an assortment of undergarments from time prior to your growth spurt. You grab a small plain white t-shirt before throwing it onto the bed.

As you are just about to reach for a pair of underwear you hadn’t worn since before your growth spurt, you distantly hear your mother’s demands for you to open the door getting a little more urgent. You bite back a curse under your breath; you have no time for it, you’re going commando.

“That’s it. John, I’m getting your father!”

“Shit!” you curse as you bolt to your closet. You rifle through hanger after hanger, some with jackets, others with dress shirts, until you reach the last couple of articles of clothing, and then your eyes land on a pair of solid black track pants with white stripes going down its sides that you wore when you were much younger. You pull them out and hold them up to your body. Hmm, they were definitely the right size in the waist, maybe even a little small, but it was better than nothing.

“Let’s get this over with,” you mutter to yourself as you pick up the track pants. You catch sight of your hips shimmying from side to side as you wiggle out of your boxers. And for the first time, you see the sleek expanse of your bare mound in all its nude glory. A strange sensation of warmth begins to pool somewhere in the pit of your stomach at the view. You’ve seen plenty of girls in the buff in your time, but none of them- not the cheerleaders or the girls you’ve picked up at the gym- had a positively sinful body like this. The way your toned abs and utterly flat tummy contours down the alabaster, flawless scape of flesh, down between the slight dimples of your hips and leading your eyes straight to your bald, slightly pink, and curiously moist slit is positively hypnotic. You suddenly find yourself being bombarded by the need to explore the erotic sight with something other than your eyes, but the thought only lasts one mortifying second. You shouldn’t be thinking these things, not now… maybe later. But not now.

You step into them one leg at a time and slowly wiggled them up into their rightful place, and immediately frown at the feeling. You’re not troubled by its fit. In that area it works out great. The unsettling part is that it’s strange to not feel the fabric caressing against what was there not even a day before. Now the garment lays flat against you, snug and form fitting. Against your better judgment, you peer over your shoulder and check out your ass. Even under the fabric, you could easily make out how tight, and impeccably shaped the cheeks were. Your derriere had the form of a supermodel’s and just the right perkiness to accentuate your lithe, narrow waist to perfection. You were positive any man you walked by was going to be fixated on your newly discovered asset, but what could you do about it? There was simply no covering up an ass of this caliber.

Brushing the thoughts aside, you reach for t-shirt.

“John!” the voice of your father booms through the door. “Open up right now!”

“Well, this isn’t weird at all,” you whisper as you feel the cotton fabric stretching over your bare breasts and you pull the shirt down over your body. The shirt is small on you, form fitting to be exact. The V-neck juts down further down your chest than you expected, revealing a hint of cleavage. While the perfectly round and perky globes on your chest aren’t large, their firmness makes the shirt feel tighter than you’re used to, even to the point of breathing feeling somewhat constricted. You look down and groan when you see your two tiny, hardened nipples poking through the material. You shake your head in dismay; you’re definitely going to need to find a bra at some point.

You take a deep, shuddering breath and march towards the door with perhaps the most **** smile in your life plastered over your cheeks.

“John, open up right now or I’ll-”

You grab the door knob and pull.

The look on your parents faces were mixtures of shock and surprise at first, mouths gaping open, eyes wide and unblinking. But after a few silent, awkward moments, both of their expression began to change. Your mother began to don a smile you haven’t seen since the day you brought Brie over and introduced her to them a couple of years ago. You knew that smile, you think with no small measure of embarrassment rising up your cheeks. It was the very same one that was a permanent fixture on her when she brought up the prospect of grandchildren to you and Brie that same day.

God, she’s probably already picking out baby names in her head, you surmise with mental grumble.

Then, you take one glance over to your father and immediately regret it. For a man in his very early 40’s, your father didn’t look his age in the slightest degree. Thanks to years of faithfully sticking to rigorous exercise, and being a rather popular physical trainer on top of that, he’s managed to retain the body of his youth. He had the Hollywood look down naturally- square, chiseled jaw, the perfect 5 o’clock shadow lining his cheeks, not to mention his slightly long, groomed and parted crew cut- the man was a walking model. You and he were both about the same height, standing tall at an imposing 6 feet and 4 inches. Now he towers above you, and from this angle you have the perfect vantage point of his broad, sculpted chest pressing through his tailored button up dress shirt.

Your mother was a beautiful lady in her own right, but as you stand there, you really begin to wonder what magic she had to use in order to land a hottie like your fath—

Wait. Hottie?! Where the fuck did that come from?!

No! Just No! You mentally curse yourself and your forcibly tear your eyes away from his chest. And as luck would have it, they land on something much worse. His eyes.

Gone was the twinkle of fatherly pride in his steely blue eyes you’ve grown so accustomed to. In its place was something that immediately and inexplicably had your stomach tightening in knots. His eyes were darker than usual, and the way he was staring directly at you was… was…

“Who are you, dear?” Your mother’s voice snaps you out of your reverie. She’s looking around you and into the room, likely looking for you, her son.

“Uh…” you stammer weakly. You’re not even sure what to say or where to begin.