Meat The Byrne Family: Ryan Part1 (Patreon)

Hello all! Sorry for the slight delay. Here is the Ryan story. Enjoy!

Preview:

The seasonal aisle at the Walmart smells like plastic pumpkins and industrial cinnamon. The goth femboy known in town as 'Charlie, The Straight Collector' pads along this same aisle and has already decided he hates it. He slouches against the cart with his elbows hooked over the handle, letting his sister, Ryan push him along like cargo. A cigarette hangs off his lower lip, unlit for about thirty seconds, long enough to get passed the annoying workers that keep telling him smoking is banned inside, before he flicks the lighter and takes a drag anyway, right under the glaring white lights and the little sign about a smoke-free environment.

"Twelve dollars for a skeleton." He says, slow, flat. "Twelve. It's three pieces of plastic and a staple."

"It's got glowing eyes." Ryan retorts, barely convinced herself but she likes having the last word.

"Yeah, right. It's got a battery slot and a fucking dream is what it's got."

Ryan takes the corner too fast on purpose, shoulders filling out her tank top, and forearms thick where they grip the cart. The cart's front wheel shrieks as she bruskly stops, and drops a bag of fake cobwebs into it like she's dunking a basketball. "We're hosting, gotta make it worth spreading the word about it."

"We're hosting a party, not a haunted house. Nobody's grading us, Ryan."

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Most of the registers are closed. Two self-checkouts, and one of them blinking an error. Ryan swings the cart toward the only free lane on momentum alone before she actually looks at who's working it. When she does look, her hands stop pushing, and the cart rolls the last two feet on its own and clips the end of the belt with a thud. The guy behind the register is maybe five six, long black hair pulled over one shoulder in a loose rope, the kind of hair that somebody takes care of. Skin like he's never been outside in his life. The vest doesn't fit him, that's the first real thing the punk girl notices, the standard-issue blue drapes off his shoulders like it was cut for somebody with twice the frame, and it hangs open because there's nothing underneath it to close over, just a thin white tee tucked into black work slacks. The slacks aren't much better either, they're cheap polyester and they were absolutely not designed with him in mind, they pull across the his behind in a way that no amount of standing still can fix, seams straining at the hip, the fabric gone shiny where it's been stretched over too much curve for too many shifts in a row.

The young man bends slightly, reaching under the counter for something, and his whole bakery is just presented. Not on purpose, there's no performance in it at all, he's just an air-head looking for a roll of receipt paper, and his ass is sitting there in cheap Walmart polyester.

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"You like it?" She grins down at him, teeth bared.

Peter's face floods back with a blush from his collar to his hairline in real time. He turns his head to the side, staring at the vending machine like it's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen, lips pressed together.

Ryan laughs, soft this time, and then clenches her crotch muscles, deliberately, making her fat meat jump inside his still-trembling, oversensitive guts.

"Nngh!" The moan jumps out of him before he can stop it, his hole clamping down around her in a reflex he has no control over, and his head lolls back toward her, eyes glassy and betrayed.

"Asked you a question, cutie" She rolls her hips once, a lazy half-thrust, just to feel him jolt. "It's rude to ignore a girl as hot as me. Especially when she's still in your fun-pipes"

He finally nods. Small, quick, mortified, and then hides his face against her shoulder .

"There we go. Was that so hard?" She shifts her grip, adjusting his weight in her arms, still buried to the hilt, in absolutely no hurry to move. She stands there holding him, content, letting the break room's light hum fill the silence while his breathing evens out against her neck.