MILF Desire System: The Degenerate Son's Forbidden Path

A Four-Hundred-Thousand-Dollar School Run or Whatever She’s Hiding, It Isn’t a Guy

Damon padded across the pavement of the outside parking with his bag dragging at one shoulder and the morning still sitting hot behind his eyes, and the G-Wagon was waiting where it always waited, black as a threat, Brabus G63 squatting on the stone like it had opinions about every other car in the driveway.

He hauled the rear door open and threw the bag in.

Outside the thing was armor, all blacked-out slabs and a grille built to intimidate traffic, and then you opened a door and it contradicted itself completely — baby-blue leather everywhere, quilted and soft, a low expensive glow running the trim, that specific rich-person calm people paid extra for so a tank could feel like a lounge.

Four hundred thousand dollars of German engineering and his sister had specced the interior like a Bavarian daycare, and the first time Damon sat in it he’d asked whether the seats came with a diaper subscription.

He’d been made to walk the last two blocks home that day. Worth it. He’d say it again.

Vespera came out a minute later with one bag of her own before she dumped it in the back like the car already knew her hands, and dropped into the driver’s seat with the same clean control she brought to everything else in her life.

Engine on. Gate ahead.

Damon poured himself into the passenger seat and looked over at her, already in a mood, because he’d been awake since five, he’d won every single round the morning had offered, and a man riding a high like that needed a soft target, and God had generously provided him with an older sister.

"Why are we using this car again, sis? You’re staying on campus anyway. Why didn’t we just order a VIP Uber? Or have the chauffeur take us?"

"I hate Uber. I don’t like the chauffeur either. I mean, don’t you find him weird?" Vespera made a face, then looked out the passenger window like that settled a decade-long philosophical debate. "And I missed my car while I was at school."

Damon rolled his eyes without taking them off the road. "That’s why we’re driving a four-hundred-and-twenty-thousand-dollar car to college."

"Exactly."

"That wasn’t agreement."

"Sounded like it."

Damon glanced sideways at her. Vespera had been weirdly insistent about riding with him this morning too — could’ve taken the chauffeur, could’ve called another car, could’ve had someone deliver the G-Wagon to campus without her lifting a single manicured finger. Instead she’d been standing downstairs before he even made it out of the breakfast room, keys already in hand and asking, acting like the continued survival of the Viremont house personally depended on the two of them sharing this exact twenty-minute drive:

Sharing the cabin, the quiet and the fact that nobody else got this version of her.

’She’s fine. Everything’s fine.’

"You know," he said, "I’m starting to think this isn’t about the car."

Vespera’s fingers tightened around the wheel for half a second — half a second, but he clocked it, because clocking things was rapidly becoming his entire personality. The leather creaked under her grip like she had been caught wanting something she was not supposed to name.

"Don’t be ridiculous."

"Very convincing."

She gave him a sideways look sharp enough to file paperwork with. "I was at school all week."

"And?"

"And I missed home."

Damon said nothing.

Vespera sighed, visibly annoyed that he was making her finish the sentence out loud. "And I missed you, idiot."

That shut him up for about two seconds. A genuine, honest two seconds, which for Damon currently qualified as a religious experience. Missed you. It was like she was saying compliment so it would not sound like a confession and Damon too didn’t seem to notice either.

"Aww."

"Don’t."

"My big sister missed me."

"I will leave you on the sidewalk."

"In Manhattan?"

"Preferably somewhere expensive, so you can suffer with dignity."

Damon laughed but Vespera didn’t quite laugh with him:

There was a smile there, small at the corner-of-the-mouth she rationed like it cost her something but her eyes stayed locked on the road and the tips of her ears had gone faintly pink and she was good at pretending like it was the weather.

’Interesting.’

There were thing that didn’t need a panel to be worth seeing but it never crossed his mind.

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At the next light, she reached over without warning and straightened his shirt for absolutely no reason with her fingers careful like she had thought about it before she did it.

"You look stupid," she said before he could open his mouth.

Her hand lingered on the fabric one tiny second too long enough that he actually noticed it lingering before she pulled it back to the wheel like it had never left.

Damon looked at her wondering why she was being weird and shook his head... but Vespera kept staring dead ahead at a red light that had absolutely nothing interesting about it.

Maybe she just missed her little brother, sisters do that and it’s a completely normal and not a non-suspicious human phenomenon.

"So we’re doing this every weekend?" he asked.

"When our schedules match."

"That’s suspiciously specific."

"Drive with someone else, then."

Damon looked at her.

Vespera looked at him, both hands on the wheel with her chin up, daring him to actually take her up on it; daring him to give this seat to anybody else.

The look lasted a beat too long enough for her oldest sibling territorial.

"Didn’t think so," she said, far too satisfied with herself, and pulled away from the light like the conversation had been won on points. Like she had claimed him and the car in the same breath.

Damon leaned back in his seat, smiling despite himself, watching the city slide by the window and doing absolutely nothing productive with the thought currently forming behind his ribs.

Estates fell away behind them, Billionaires’ Row sliding past the tint in long expensive stretches of hedge and stone and other people’s money. "Okay, another question. Who’s bringing it back? Because it sure as hell isn’t me, I’ve got—"

"Why would I let you drive my car?" she cut in right there with her older-sister heat coming up under all the calm. "I cannot bear the thought of you driving my baby the way you drive those speed demons of yours."

"Hey. Those cars have character. They’re what’s left of the classics."

She laughed and glanced at him, grey eyes bright for a second before the serious face came back down over it. "Alright, Grandpa. It was either this or sitting in one of yours, and you know I can’t sit in any of them."

His turn to roll his eyes. "Says the woman who owns a Bugatti Tourbillon. That’s faster and far more dangerous than anything I’ve got."

"Exactly why I don’t drive it much either. Also, it’s not about the car. It’s about who’s driving it." She checked her mirror without hurrying. "And we both know how you drive."

Fair enough.

He drove like the road owed him someone and was pretending not to be home.

<annotations style="display: none;">Or maybe I am the one reading through it when its nothing, right?</annotations>

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