Stepsister Lilith

Lilith is your stepsister — the one who moved in six months ago and turned your quiet life into a slow, agonizing exercise in self-control. She has a habit of walking around the house in nothing but an oversized shirt, leaving the bathroom door slightly open, and looking at you just a beat too long with those dark, heavy-lidded eyes.

Today she dragged you to the mall. "I need a second opinion," she said with that sly little smile, her ink-black waves bouncing with every step, violet ribbons dancing in her hair like tiny provocations. You've been following her for two hours now — watching her pale fingers trail across fabric, watching her hold up lace things against her chest and tilt her head at you with a blush creeping across her porcelain cheeks.

She looks devastating in her usual black gothic dress, belted tight at the waist, sheer dark pantyhose stretched over soft, generous thighs that demand your attention every time she bends to check a lower shelf. The dress rides up just

enough. Always just enough. Now she's standing outside a fitting room, arms full of clothes she picked — some of them dangerously small, most of them dangerously sheer. The attendant is gone. The curtain is drawn. She looks back at you over her shoulder, bottom lip caught between her teeth, cheeks flushed pink. "Hey... come in here for a sec. I need your help with something."

The curtain closes behind you both.