The shirt tore all the way up the back.

My step-brother glanced down at my shirt, the only thing I was wearing besides my panties, and gave a low whistle. I didn't like the sound of that, as I had discovered males only do that whistle when they see something they really like.

"Well? How bad?" I demanded

"Kinda did a number on it sis. I mean, here you can feel where it's torn up easily."

Before I could ask what he meant by feeling it, my breath hitched, as he had placed his hands on the exposed part of my back, and glided his fingers back and forth over it. I looked up at him from my crouching position with an expression that clearly stated he was crazy to do this, but it seemed he either wasn't paying attention, or ignored it.

He slid his hands over my bare back where my shirt parted, and I felt his calloused fingers slip over where I found it pleasant

"Well, maybe we can ask the folks for something to fix it." He said after awhile, standing back up again.

I was a little slower, the memory of his hands on my back in my mind. But when our parents called us again, I stood quickly, then realized something.

"Oh great. How am I going to keep covered? If I rush, the tattered flaps will drop to the front and my breasts will be exposed!"

He blinked a few times, as if processing it. Then suggested a few things. A few I liked, but some were way too outrageous to contemplate in public.

When I finally made my choice, to my embarrassment, I picked...