Absolute Power
Chapter 5: Breaking Tara’s Resistance
John heard the front door slam, followed by the percussion of Tara’s running shoes against the hardwood. She always came back from her runs as if the finish line had been painted just past the sink. Today was no different. He saw her, from his vantage at the kitchen table, burst in with her usual energy, ponytail swinging behind her.
She stopped at the fridge, barely slowing, and yanked it open making the condiment caddies rattle. With a practiced motion, she grabbed a bottle of water, cracked the seal, and began to chug. Her throat worked visibly as she gulped, still breathing heavily through her nose. Tara’s face was flushed, a vivid slash of color across her cheekbones, and her neck shimmered with sweat.
John forced himself to keep his eyes up off her leggings. He tried to look bored, absently scrolling his phone with one hand while the other drummed the table, but he couldn’t keep from stealing glances. Tara drained the last half of the bottle in one go, then wiped her mouth with the back of her wrist, glancing over at him like she knew he’d been watching.
“Morning, slug,” she said, twisting the cap back on. “It’s not even noon and you’re already up?”
He mustered a smirk. “Making you look good is hard work, cut me some slack.”
Tara snorted, setting the bottle down with a thunk. “You know, you could easily make yourself into a stud like me. Come with me tomorrow.”
He shrugged, stretching his arms overhead in a parody of her own warmdown. “I’m already a stud.”
She rolled her eyes dismissively and turned away, leaning forward over the kitchen counter on her elbows, shoulders bunching as she worked through a series of deliberate stretches. John watched the play of muscle under her skin, the way her scapulae rolled like smooth stones under wet sand. For a second, he forgot the script and just stared, mesmerized by the glisten of sweat at the small of her back.
Tara caught him, of course. “You good?” she said, twisting to look at him, eyebrow cocked.
He blinked, then rallied. “What are you training for exactly, weirdo?”
She continued her stretch, “You gotta work to keep all this.” She gestured to herself.
John laughed giving up. He noticed the way her hands fidgeted, kneading the flesh at the base of her neck, fingers digging in for a moment before she let go. He seized on the opening.
“You look tense,” he said, going for a tone halfway between concern and provocation. “Want a shoulder massage?”
The words landed, and Tara’s face did a micro-expression flip: first a flash of surprise, then the hard snap-back to mockery. “Massage yourself, slug. I’m fine.”
He pressed, keeping it casual. “Seriously. You helped me with my shoulder last winter, ?”
She stared at him for a moment, the competitive engine in her mind whirring audibly. For Tara, even a suggestion of help from her little brother was something to be deflected and denied. John could almost see the gears turning as she weighed the pros and cons of itting that, yes, her traps were burning, and yes, a massage would help, but also yes, it would mean ceding control to the care of her dork of a little brother, and she’d rather eat glass.
She went with the glass. “Thanks, but I’m fine. Really,” she said, grabbing her water again and slugging another mouthful. But her free hand still hovered at her neck, thumb digging into the muscle.
John leaned back, letting his own hand drift to the table. He closed his eyes for a split second, conjuring the sensation he’d felt with Emily—the slow, building buzz in the back of his head, the feeling like he was winding up a slingshot just behind his eyes.
“You know,” he said, letting the sentence float out with as much gravity as he could muster, “if you just sat down, I could work it out in five minutes. You’ll feel like a new person. Just… try it.”
He watched her, waiting for the familiar signs—the slow blink, the little head tilt, the slight drop in resistance. But Tara was not Emily. Instead of yielding, she tensed, every muscle going rigid. Her eyes narrowed. She looked, for a moment, like she might launch herself at him.
“Jesus, John. What’s with you today?” Her voice was sharp, edged with suspicion. “If you’re bored, go play Xbox.”
But the seed was in her now. He saw it in the way her lips parted, the way her breathing stuttered for just a fraction before resetting. She stood there, restlessly stuck like a horse in the starting stall..
He tried again, dialing the intensity. He could feel the power in his chest, in the way his own heart beat faster, in the way his hands tingled. He forced his voice low, steady, and said, “Seriously. Sit. You’ll thank me after.”
It was like pushing against a wall that only gave millimeters at a time, but it gave. Tara stared at him, the frown lines deepening between her eyebrows, confusion flickering in the corners of her eyes. For a second, he thought she was about to break—maybe even punch him—but instead, she snorted, muttered “You’re so weird,” and then, almost against her own will, pulled out a chair and sat, arms crossed tightly over her chest.
She glared at him. “Happy?”
He tried to keep his hands from shaking as he moved behind her. The air around her radiated energy, the faint, sharp scent of her sweat rising off her skin. Her hair, dark and wet at the roots, clung to the nape of her neck in uneven strands. He hesitated, his palms hovering just above her shoulders, uncertain for a beat, and he saw her nearly shift away, ready to leap away from the display of vulnerability like a gazelle.
He made , setting his fingers gently at the curve where her traps met her neck. The heat of her skin shocked him, and he felt her tense even further beneath his touch. She went still, every muscle humming like a live wire.
“Start with your fingers, not your thumbs,” Tara said, automatically assuming control. “You’ll cramp if you use your thumbs first.”
He obeyed, kneading the muscles at her shoulder with slow, careful pressure. The texture was unfamiliar—firmer than Emily, more resistant, but also more defined, each cord of muscle standing out against his palm. He worked up to the base of her neck, feeling the tension gathered there, hard as a rope.
For a minute, she said nothing. He listened to the sound of her breathing, the wet click of her swallowing, the way her head rolled back just a fraction when he found the right spot.
“You’re not terrible at this,” she said, almost grudgingly.
“Thanks,” he said, voice soft. He kept kneading, working the line of her trapezius up to the shoulder blade, then back down. Her sweat slicked his fingertips. If anything, her posture sagged by a centimeter at a time, the tension melting away in slow increments.
He focused on the sensation behind his eyes—the mental grip he’d established, the pressure it took to keep her in the chair, to keep her from noticing the unnaturalness of the moment. With Emily, it had been easy; with Tara, it was like holding a barbell at arm’s length, every second adding to the strain. But as he worked, he felt her resistance erode, her body accepting his touch, her tenseness relaxing.
She started talking, filling the air with easy, meaningless banter. “I think the team’s gonna be a disaster this year. Coach wants me to captain, but half the freshman girls can’t even run a mile without puking.”
He ignored her chatter and massaged deeper, letting her words fade to background noise. He watched the way her jaw slackened, the way her hands uncrossed and dropped to her lap, fingers drumming absently against her knees. He was winning, slowly, and the thrill of it made his own breath come faster.
Finally, he leaned in close, dropping his voice to a murmur. “Just let go,” he said. “You don’t have to fight it.”
Tara froze. For one terrifying second, he thought she’d snap out of it, whirl around, and deck him. But instead, she shivered—a full-body quiver that started at her neck and rippled down to her fingertips.
She turned her head, looking up at him with wide, puzzled eyes. “Why am I letting you do this?” she asked, voice small. “I should… I should say no.”
He wanted to answer her, to say something that would make sense of the moment, but all he could do was keep kneading, his thumbs now working slow, even circles at the base of her neck.
“Just let go,” he repeated, feeling the words vibrate in the space between them.
She closed her eyes, her head tipping forward, and for the first time since she’d sat down, her whole body relaxed. Her shoulders slumped, the tension draining out of her arms and into his hands. He kept working, feeling the power shift between them, the invisible thread that now bound her to his will.
When he finally stopped, she stayed where she was, eyes closed, breathing slow and even. He watched her for a long moment, savoring the sight of Tara—his unstoppable, unbreakable sister—sitting limp and pliant in the kitchen chair, her willpower spent.
When she finally opened her eyes, she looked at him not with anger, but with a bewildered awe. “What the hell did you just do to me?” she whispered.
He smiled, the secret burning bright behind his eyes.
“Magic fingers,” he said, and let her believe it, at least for now.
The moment lingered, thick and electric, as Tara blinked up at him with a question she couldn’t articulate. John let the silence build, feeling the resonance of his words reverberate between them, before he eased back, hands trailing lightly off her shoulders.
He wasn’t ready to let go. Not yet.
“Bet your traps are still tight,” he said, voice low, a little hoarse. “If you want, we can do it right—lying down, like a personal trainer. It’ll help.”
He expected her to refuse, to spring up and vanish into her room with a snap about how he was being a creep. Instead, Tara sat there, breathing slow, then nodded once, slow and deliberate.
“Yeah. Okay,” she said, blinking almost like she was waking up, and stood.
She led the way down the hall, regaining her composure with motion. In her room, Tara grabbed her rolled-up yoga mat from the corner, flicked it open and across her comforter.
“I don’t want a sweaty bed,” she said, flashing him a wry grin. “I’m not a complete animal.”
John snorted, following her in. “Not completely, I guess.”
Tara flopped face down on the bed, arms folded under her head. “Just don’t be weird, okay? And,” she hesitated and finished with awkward genuineness, “thank you, you’re really good at this.”
“I can only guarantee I will be weird, best I can do,” John said, straddling her and pressing his hands to her shoulders, finding the rhythm again as their usual banter resumed. The tension from the kitchen faded into their usual banter—a back-and-forth that carried them into the next round.
He let his hands wander lower, tracing the line of her shoulder blades. Her skin was still hot and slick from her run, and every time he pressed harder, he felt her muscles tense then yield. He caught the scent of her shampoo, something citrusy, mixed with the raw, salt smell of her exertion.
John’s focus sharpened. He imagined his words—his will—curling around the tightness in her back, relaxing it one fiber at a time. “Just try to relax,” he said, his voice soft, and pushed a thread of suggestion into the space between them.
Tara’s breathing slowed. She rolled her shoulders forward and slumped a little. He kept working, mapping every inch of her upper back with his thumbs and palms. She didn’t say anything for a long time, and for a while the only sound in the room was her occasional moan of relaxation. John realized he was getting hard and reached into Tara’s mind.
He felt the mental connection stretch—taut, electric. Unlike Emily, Tara’s mind was a fortress, every command met with resistance, as if she was interrogating each one before letting it past the gates. John could almost see the gears turning behind her eyes, even as her muscles went slack under his touch.
“You know, my trainer charges like eighty bucks an hour for deep tissue.”
He grinned, emboldened. “Then I should start charging you. Maybe you should be doing my chores.”
She tried to snort, but was too relaxed and it came out as a huff. Her posture softened even more.
“You can work lower, if you want,” Tara volunteered, voice muffled in her arms. “My lower back is trashed.”
John hesitated, then pressed his hands to the small of her back, kneading gently. The material of her halter top ended abruptly, exposing a triangle of skin above the waistband of her leggings. He focused on the rise and fall of her breath, the way her ribs expanded then deflated with each inhale.
He started slow, but curiosity got the better of him. He let his hands travel up, then down again, pushing deeper, circling the tension at the base of her spine. Each time he worked closer to her waist, Tara shifted, her body adjusting to the pressure. Her legs parted slightly, her hips rolling a little.
He could feel her energy, the resistance and the acquiescence, flickering back and forth. John amplified his will, focusing every ounce of intent on keeping her compliant, relaxed, open.
“That’s actually helping,” Tara cooed. “You should think about PT, you might actually be good for something”
He chuckled, a little shaky. “Maybe I do have a talent for this.”
“Don’t get cocky,” she shot back, but there was no sting in it. She yawned, arms relaxing further above her head.
He pushed further, letting his hands glide lower, until he was massaging just above the waistband of her leggings. His fingers grazed the elastic, and Tara tensed for a second before melting into the mat again.
He took a chance.
“You know,” he said, channeling every bit of power into his words, “these work better if you’re not wearing anything up top. Less friction, more .”
Tara’s head jerked up. “Are you serious?”
He kept his tone steady, giving her a challenge. “It’s not like you’re shy, right?”
She hesitated, then propped herself up on her elbows, turning her face to him. Her eyes narrowed, not in anger, but in the way a poker player sizes up a bet.
“Fine,” she said, after a moment. “But if you tell anyone, I’m going to dead-leg you for a week straight.”
With a fluid motion, she peeled off her top and tossed it on the floor, exposing the long, tan lines across her shoulders, the subtle muscle of her arms and back, and the gentle curve of her breasts, compressed and flattened against the mat. The effect of her unbroken curves was breathtaking. John’s vision blurred at the edges; he felt blood thundering in his temples. He was glad she was facing away and couldn’t see the tent he was making in his shorts.
He resumed the massage, this time starting at her neck and tracing slow, deliberate circles down her spine. Every inch of her was a new territory to map—small freckles scattered across her shoulders, the slight dip of her waist, the gentle arch as her back bent under his touch.
She didn’t speak, but her breath deepened, becoming rhythmic, almost meditative. He felt a warmth radiate from her, not just physical. For a second, he wondered if she could feel his heart racing through his fingers.
He let his hands wander lower, exploring the border between her back and her ass. Tara shifted, her thighs tensing. “That’s… intense,” she said, breath catching.
He didn’t reply, just kept working, letting his hands do the talking. He risked a glance at her face; her eyes were closed, brow furrowed, a flush spreading up her neck to her ears. He could sense the battle raging inside her—athlete’s discipline versus something deeper, more primal, harder to name.
He wondered if she was aroused. The idea sent a surge of heat through him, pooling low in his gut. He adjusted his breathing to match hers, slow and deep, letting the rhythm synchronize their bodies. Each time she inhaled, he pressed harder, each exhale a chance to explore further.
Her legs parted more, just enough for him to knead the inside of her thigh. He worked there for a while, marveling at the density of muscle, the small twitches that ran through her when he pressed in just the right spot.
He almost stopped, afraid he was going too far. But instead, he doubled down, letting his hands wander up onto her ass, squeezing and needing with his entire hands. He could feel the warmth of her through the fabric, the way her body seemed to pulse with every touch.
“Careful,” she said, voice thick, “I’m… sensitive there.”
He nodded, barely breathing. He could feel his own erection straining against his shorts, the pressure dizzying. He fought to keep his hands steady, his thoughts clear.
“Just let go,” he whispered, sending the command deep.
Tara shuddered and let out a soft involuntary moan, her body relaxing completely. Her arms fell limply to the side, her face buried in the mat. He kept working her lower back and ass, losing himself in the feel of her, the heat and the shape and the scent.
He wanted to see her, all of her, but he didn’t dare push her further. Instead, he let his hands memorize every detail, every tremor.
He barely ed the sound of footsteps in the hallway until Tara spoke.
“Shit, is that Mom?”
The voice was unmistakable—Catherine projecting through the door. “Tara, dinner is ready!”
Tara bolted upright, covering her chest with her arm. Startled out of his spell, she was flushed from embarrassment and more. She scrambled for her top on the floor, but after a second, seemed to think better of it and pulled on an oversized sweatshirt instead.
John sat back, exhausted. His hands tingled, his breath shallow. He watched Tara compose herself, hair messy, face still flushed, but posture upright and commanding again.
“You coming?” she asked full of bravado again, but unable to look at him.
“Yeah,” he managed, voice hoarse.
They left the room together, Tara leading the way. As she ed him in the doorway, she hesitated for a split second, eyes darting to his. There was something new in them, a glint of confusion, maybe even respect.
He followed her down the stairs, the memory of her body still imprinted on his hands, his mind. She was uncharacteristically quiet at dinner and wouldn’t meet his eyes. He felt the power shift between them and knew she did to.
He replayed the experience, over and over, every detail, every sensation, every moment of control.