Red Lights and Green Smoke

The two-day drive to Amsterdam had been pure gold—endless jokes about truck-stop coffee, debates over playlists, and the easy rhythm of siblings who actually liked each other. My sister, twenty-two and freshly single, had surprised me by insisting on coming along. “I need a change of scenery,” she’d said, tossing her bag into the camper. She was the definition of proper: cardigans, careful language, the kind of woman who blushed at innuendo. Yet here she was, riding shotgun while I hunted cannabis strains for my back pain.

In the coffeeshop the clerk kept winking at her, assuming she was my girlfriend. “This one’s an aphrodisiac,” he said, sliding a jar forward. “Makes everything feel electric.” She laughed, sharp and unembarrassed. “We’ll take three different ones,” I told him. He grinned. “Watch a movie, relax. Enjoy the ride.”

We wandered the red-light district afterward, her curiosity sharper than I expected. “Look at all the ordinary people,” she murmured, watching couples stroll past window displays and sex shops. “It’s like a theme park for adults.” Over dinner and wine she grilled me about the shows, the window girls, the sheer normalcy of it. “I want to see inside one of those places,” she admitted, cheeks pink but eyes bright. “Not tonight, though. Tonight you’re trying your medicine.”

Back in the camper we opened wine and rolled the first joint. The effect hit fast: muscles loosening, laughter bubbling up like champagne. She watched me with amused fascination. “Describe it,” she demanded. “Relaxed,” I said, “like my brain’s on a slow conveyor belt. Everything’s funny and warm.” She tilted her head. “Give me some.” We smoked together, her first time, and she giggled at the ceiling. “This is ridiculous. I love it.”

I suggested the clerk’s advice: a movie. She searched for something about the red-light district and landed on a concert film by an all-female band called Rock Bitch. They performed half-naked, trading licks on guitars and each other. When they flung a golden condom into the crowd and promised the catcher backstage sex, we both howled. “That’s the most honest encore I’ve ever seen,” she wheezed, pouring more wine.

The second strain was heavier. We sank into the sofa like melted wax. She picked another title, giggling. “It’s from one of the shops we passed.” The film opened inside a porn store: couples browsing DVDs, then slipping into back rooms with glory holes and tiny cinemas. “What are the holes for?” she asked, voice thick. “Blowjobs,” I answered. “Guy sticks his cock through, hopes someone on the other side is feeling generous.” She shuddered, then laughed. “Risky. Hot, though.”

The scene shifted to a small cinema where two women serviced several men at once. My sister sighed, low and involuntary, and rested her head in my lap. The weight of her cheek against my jeans stirred something I hadn’t planned on. She noticed the shift, the slow hardening, and didn’t move away. Instead she pressed lightly, experimentally. “You’re getting hard,” she observed, amused rather than scandalized. “Blame the movie,” I managed. “Or the weed. Or both.”

Her hand slipped between her own thighs, skirt riding up. Fingers moved in slow circles over damp fabric. The air thickened with the scent of arousal and cannabis. She bit my cock through denim, a deliberate nip that made me groan. “Careful,” I warned, voice rough. “Or I’ll forget you’re my sister.” She looked up, eyes glittering. “Maybe I want you to forget for a minute.”

I unzipped. My cock sprang free, thick and aching. She took it into her mouth without hesitation, strong and sure, tongue working with wicked precision. I reached down, cupped her ass, then slid fingers beneath her panties to find her pussy slick and dripping. She moaned around me, the vibration traveling straight to my spine. We moved together—her sucking, me stroking—sweating, panting, the camper filled with wet sounds and stifled laughter.

She came first, fingers buried deep, thighs trembling. The sight pushed me over; I came in her mouth, hot pulses she swallowed with a satisfied hum. Afterward she stayed there, breathing heavily, my softening cock still on her tongue, cum glistening on her chin. “Shit,” I said finally. “What just happened?” She looked up, lips curved. “I got exactly what I needed. And I’m still horny.”

She licked my balls, then teased lower, tongue flicking against my ass until I hardened again. “Let me fuck you,” she said, voice steady, climbing astride. She sank down, taking every inch, riding with confident rolls of her hips. We moved like we’d been practicing for years—her strong thighs flexing, my hands gripping her waist—until we both shattered again. Collapsed together, she grinned against my neck. “Tomorrow we’re finding that porn shop. I want to be the one people watch.”