Chapter 125 : After the Listings – What She Needed
New York, Queens, a few days later – Alex's POV
The blue light of my monitor washed over my face as I scrolled through yet another listing—open floor plan, glass-walled conference rooms, the kind of sleek modern office space that screamed tech startup. I rubbed my tired eyes, mentally calculating how many months of VC funding this prime downtown location would eat up. Three hours of this and my back had fused to my chair, my coffee gone cold in the neglected mug beside my keyboard.
The numbers kept blurring together—square footage, lease terms, amenities packages—but I needed to find us something right. Something that would impress investors while still being functional for our scrappy little team. Somewhere with enough exposed ductwork to feel authentic but polished enough for client meetings.
My shoulders tensed as I clicked to another listing, the price making my jaw clench. There had to be better options out there.
Somewhere behind me, the door clicked open.
"Don't mind me," Wendy said, her voice carrying that particular lilt she used when she was up to something. "Just here to help you relax."
I didn't look up immediately. Still scanning a bullet-point list of amenities for a place on Henderson Street. "Wendy, I'm in the middle of—"
"I said don't mind me, big brother."
The word hit like it always did—that little electric jolt of wrongness that made everything else feel sharper. Brother. She'd been calling me that more often lately, especially during moments when the air between us thickened. A reminder. A tease. A boundary she kept pointing at while stepping over it.
She stood in the doorway wearing a pleated skirt that ended mid-thigh, charcoal grey, and a white blouse with the top two buttons undone. The fabric was thin enough that I could see the outline of her bra underneath—something lacy, pale pink. Her brown hair was up in those pigtails she'd worn since she was twelve, but nothing else about her looked twelve anymore, and the style did something contradictory to her appearance: made her look younger and yet somehow more deliberate in her choices. Large eyes, the color of warm honey, fixed on me with an expression I'd learned to recognize. Mischief. Anticipation. Something hungrier underneath.
"I'm working," I said, turning back toward the monitor, though the numbers had lost all meaning.
"I know." She crossed the room, and I heard her drop to her knees behind me. The soft thump of weight settling onto carpet. "Keep working. I'm serious. Don't mind me at all."
Her hands found my knees, sliding upward along my thighs with practiced ease. I felt the warmth of her palms through my jeans, fingers tracing the inner seam, inching higher. My cock stirred, already half-aware of where this was heading before my brain caught up.
"Wendy."
"Shh." Her breath ghosted against my hip. "You're busy. Be busy."
She unbuttoned my jeans with quick, efficient movements—the kind of efficiency that spoke of practice, of familiarity with the mechanics of my body. The zipper rasped downward. Her small hand slipped inside, fingers wrapping around my shaft through the fabric of my boxers, squeezing with just enough pressure to make my hips shift forward without my permission.
"I've been thinking about this all day," she murmured, her cheek pressing against my thigh as she worked me free. "Sitting in class, trying to pay attention to—what was it—nineteenth-century literature or something, and all I could think about was..."
She didn't finish. Instead, she pulled my cock free of my boxers, and I felt the cool air of the room hit the skin for exactly half a second before her mouth replaced it.
Warm.
That was the first thought—just the overwhelming soft-heat-wet of her mouth sliding over the head, her tongue pressing flat against the underside. My fingers tightened on the mouse, knuckles going white for reasons entirely unrelated to commercial real estate.
"Mmnn," she hummed, the vibration traveling through me. She pulled back, a string of saliva connecting her lower lip to the tip. "You taste so good, Alex. Don't stop working. I mean it. Ignore me."
I turned back to the spreadsheet. Square footage. Parking ratios. Lease terms. My sister's mouth sliding down my cock with slow, deliberate pleasure.
The first few minutes were almost manageable. Wendy kept a steady rhythm—long, wet pulls that took me halfway into her mouth, her hand working the base, her tongue doing something complicated around the ridge of the head each time she came back up. She made sounds. Not performative ones, not exaggerated. Just the natural wet music of oral sex: the soft shlkk of saliva, the occasional glk when she took me deeper than usual, the satisfied little hums that buzzed against my shaft.
"God, I love your cock," she whispered, pulling off to press kisses along the length of me. Her tongue traced a vein from base to tip. "I know I say that every time, but I really do. It's—" She paused, searching for words, then laughed softly. "It's perfect. You're perfect."
She swallowed me again, and this time she pushed deeper.
My vision blurred slightly. The spreadsheet on the screen might as well have been written in another language.
Wendy's pigtails brushed against my thighs as she worked, her head bobbing with increasing confidence. One of her hands had moved to my thigh, nails pressing small crescents into the denim. The other still gripped my base, but her fingers were loosening, letting more of me slide into her mouth with each descent.
The spreadsheet numbers had long since dissolved into meaningless shapes, my fingers frozen above the keyboard as Wendy's mouth worked me with relentless devotion. My thighs tensed involuntarily when she hollowed her cheeks—that particular suction that made my cock twitch against her tongue. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered that the screen had dimmed from inactivity, the lease terms for Unit 14B completely forgotten.
Wendy's rhythm changed subtly—deeper now, more insistent. Her fingers dug into my hips, anchoring herself as she took me further with each bob of her head. A soft, wet glk escaped her throat when I hit the back, and the sound sent a jolt through me, my focus narrowing to nothing but the heat of her mouth.
My hands, which had been gripping the armrests, now found their way to her pigtails, fingers tangling in the soft strands without conscious thought. The spreadsheet? The office space? All distant memories, drowned out by the slick sounds of Wendy's lips sliding up and down my shaft, the occasional needy whimper vibrating against my skin.
How long had it been? Time had blurred into something liquid, measured only in the growing tightness in my gut, the way my hips had started rocking forward to meet her mouth. The world outside this moment—outside the wet, perfect heat of her—had ceased to exist.
What mattered was her mouth. Her tongue. The way she'd developed this rhythm where she'd take me deep, hold it for a heartbeat, then pull back with a wet gasp before diving down again. The sounds had gotten messier. Louder. There was spit on my thighs now, slicking the path of her hand, making each stroke gurgle obscenely.
"You're still working," she said, pulling back with a wet pop. Her voice was hoarse. Her eyes—those large, expressive eyes that could switch from innocent to wicked in a blink—were glassy, the lids heavy. "Good. You're so good at multitasking."
She wasn't wrong. I'd clicked through three different listings. I couldn't have told you a single detail about any of them.
Then she shifted position.
I felt her adjust on her knees, settling more firmly, bracing one hand against my thigh while the other moved to cup my balls. Her mouth opened wider. And she started pushing forward without pulling back.
The head of my cock pressed against the back of her throat—that soft barrier at the entrance—and I felt her swallow deliberately, a rhythmic glk-glk-glk of muscle working to open herself up. My hand left the mouse and found the back of her head, fingers threading through the hair at the base of her pigtail.
"Ahh—" The sound escaped me without permission.
She pushed further. And further. And then—
Glrrrk.
I was in her throat.
The sensation was unlike anything else. Tight, yes, but also smooth—the esophagus gripping me in a completely different way than her mouth had. Hotter. More constricting. The muscles rippled around my shaft in involuntary waves, and I felt her struggle not to gag, felt the flutter of her throat trying to adjust to the intrusion.
Wendy held still. Her nose pressed against my pelvis. Her eyes, watering slightly, looked up at me along the plane of my stomach, and even through the tears, I could see the triumph there. The devotion.
She stayed like that for five seconds. Ten. Her throat spasmed around me, and she made a sound—not a gag, exactly, but a deep mmmnnf that I felt more than heard, the vibration traveling from her esophagus directly into the core of me.
When she pulled back, it was with a desperate gasp, strings of thick saliva connecting her lips to my cock. She coughed once, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and grinned.
"There," she breathed, her voice wrecked. "Now you can stop pretending to work."
I looked at the screen. I hadn't clicked anything in the last ten minutes.
"Come here." My hand was still in her hair, and I used it to guide her back down. She went eagerly, mouth already open, tongue extended to catch the first drop of precum beading at the tip. "Take it deeper this time."
"Mmm-hmm." The affirmation was muffled, her mouth already full of me.
She didn't just take it deeper. She took everything.
This time, when she pushed past the barrier of her throat, she didn't stop. She pressed forward until her lips were sealed around the very base of me, her chin tucked against my balls, her throat a tight sleeve that gripped every inch. And she stayed there.
I felt her swallow. Again. Again. Each time, her throat constricted around me in peristaltic waves, milking my shaft with involuntary contractions. Her hands had moved to my hips, gripping the denim, holding herself in place.
"Mmmnnnph," she moaned, and the sound was buried deep in her throat, vibrating through the length of me.
I pulled her back just enough to let her breathe—a quick, desperate inhale—and then pushed her down again. My hips started moving on their own, small thrusts that drove me deeper into her esophagus, and she took it, took all of it, her eyes streaming tears that tracked through what was left of her mascara.
"Fuck, Wendy." My voice sounded strange to my own ears. Strained. "You're—your throat is—"
She pulled back with a wet schlorp, gasping. "I know. I know. Don't stop. Please don't stop. Use my throat, Alex." Her tongue swept over the head, lapping at the precum that had gathered there. "I want you to cum in it. I want to feel you pump right here—" She touched her throat, the hollow where my cock had been buried. "I want to hold it there while you fill me. Please."
The begging did something to me. Something that short-circuited whatever restraint I'd been maintaining.
I stood up.
The chair rolled back and hit the desk with a thud. Wendy stayed on her knees, looking up at me with wide, eager eyes, her mouth already open in anticipation. Her blouse had come untucked at some point during the proceedings. Her skirt was rucked up around her hips. She looked absolutely debauched, and absolutely beautiful.
"Hands behind your back," I said.
She complied instantly, clasping her wrists at the small of her back. The posture pushed her chest forward, made her look even more vulnerable. Even more mine.
I gripped her pigtails—both of them, one in each hand—and guided her mouth back onto my cock. The angle was different standing up. Deeper. I could feel the curve of her throat more acutely, the way my length bent slightly to follow the path of her esophagus.
"Stay still," I told her. "Just breathe when you can."
I started to fuck her throat.
Not gently. Not carefully. The way she'd been asking for—the way we both needed. I pulled her head forward as my hips thrust in, meeting in the middle, driving myself into that tight, wet heat over and over. The sounds were incredible: wet glrk-glrk-glrk every time I bottomed out, her gag reflex fluttering helplessly around me, the desperate hnnng of air being forced from her lungs.
"Taking it so good," I heard myself say, the words rough. "Such a good fucking throat, Wendy. Made for this. Made for me."
She moaned around me—a high, desperate mmnnnff—and I felt the vibration travel up my shaft, into my spine, into the base of my brain.
The orgasm built low in my gut, a pressure that had been accumulating for half an hour and was now demanding release. My thrusts grew shorter, faster, more erratic. I held her head in place, buried to the hilt, grinding against her face as my balls drew up tight.
"Swallow it," I managed. "Swallow every—fuck—"
The first pulse hit before I finished the sentence.
I came directly into her throat. No taste for her—the head of my cock was past her tongue, past her soft palate, buried in the tight channel of her esophagus where the cum spurted in hot, thick ropes directly into her. She felt it. I know she felt it. Her eyes widened, and she made a sound—a deep, satisfied nnnggghhh—as her throat worked to swallow around me, the muscles contracting in rhythmic waves that seemed to pull the semen deeper.
I kept thrusting through the orgasm, small jerks of my hips that pumped more into her. Five pulses. Six. Seven. Her throat continued swallowing, continued milking, and I could feel her tongue pressed flat against the underside of my shaft even though the head was past it—she was still trying to pleasure me, still focused on my experience even as she choked on my release.
When I finally pulled out, it was with a wet schlrrp that left her gasping, spit and residual cum smeared across her lips. She swallowed again—I watched her throat bob—and then smiled up at me with an expression of pure, exhausted satisfaction.
"Told you," she rasped, her voice absolutely destroyed. "Relaxing."
I helped her to her feet. Her knees were red from the carpet. Her mascara was a disaster. The blouse was completely untucked now, half the buttons undone, showing the edge of a lacy bra beneath.
"Bed," I said.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
She was already moving, backing toward the bed with that particular sway in her hips that was entirely intentional. She undid the rest of her blouse buttons as she walked, letting the fabric slide off her shoulders and puddle on the floor. The bra followed—a quick twist of the clasp and it fell away, revealing small, pert breasts with nipples already tight and dark against her pale skin.
"The skirt," I said.
She paused at the edge of the bed, fingers at the zipper. Her eyes met mine. She unzipped it slowly—deliberately slowly—and pushed the fabric down over her hips, letting it drop to her ankles. She stepped out of it wearing nothing but a pair of simple white cotton panties that somehow looked more obscene than anything lace or satin could have managed.
She was already turned away from me, reaching for the waistband, when I said, "Leave those. Get on the bed. Face down."
Her breath caught. A tiny, almost imperceptible hitch that made her shoulders tense.
Then she crawled onto the mattress on all fours.
The position did exactly what it was designed to do. Her back arched, her head lowered toward the pillows, and her ass lifted into the air like an offering. The white cotton stretched tight across her cheeks—that perky, impossible bubble butt that I'd spent years pretending not to notice. The fabric was thin enough to show the shadow of her cleft, the slight darkening where her body was warmest, wettest.
I climbed onto the bed behind her, still fully clothed, and ran my palm over the curve of her right cheek.
"Ah," she breathed, barely audible.
"You're soaked," I observed. The cotton was damp—not just damp, saturated. A dark patch had spread across the center of the fabric, and when I pressed my fingers against it, the moisture seeped through immediately. "More than usual."
"I know." Her voice was muffled by the pillows. "I'm—it's—ovulation, I think. I've been like this all day. Aching. Hot. I couldn't focus on anything except—"
"Except this?"
"Except you. Always you, Alex."
I hooked my fingers into the waistband of her panties and dragged them down over her thighs. They clung to her skin, peeling away with a wet sound, revealing the source of the moisture.
She was dripping. Her inner thighs were slick with it, the folds of her sex puffy and flushed a deep rose pink. The position opened her completely—the arch of her back presented everything to me, from the tight bud of her anus to the glistening entrance of her pussy. Her scent hit me then, that particular musk that seemed stronger than usual, heavier, more intoxicating.
"I need to be inside you," I told her, undoing my jeans again. My cock was already half-hard, recovering quickly from the orgasm. "Now."
"Yes," she moaned into the pillow. "Yes, please, brother, please—"
The word again. Brother. It landed in my chest and ignited something.
I positioned myself behind her, the head of my cock pressing against her entrance. She was so wet that it slipped in an inch without any resistance, the heat of her gripping me immediately, and I heard her gasp—a sharp, high "Ahh!" that cut through the quiet of the room.
"More," she begged. "Deeper. I need you deeper."
I pushed forward. Slowly. Deliberately. Letting her feel every inch as I stretched her open.
Her pussy was tight—tight enough that even with how slick she was, the fit required patience. The walls of her gripped me in a way that her throat had, but different. Softer. Hotter. The friction was exquisite: that raw, bare sensation of skin on skin with nothing between us, no barriers, no distance.
When I was fully seated inside her, my pelvis flush against her upturned ass, she let out a sound that was half-sob, half-moan. "Oh god. Oh god, you're so deep. I can feel you in my stomach, Alex, I swear I can—"
I started to move.
The rhythm was slow at first—long, deep strokes that pulled out almost completely before sliding back in. I watched myself disappear into her, watched the way her lips gripped my shaft, watched the slick shine of her arousal coating me every time I withdrew. The sounds were wet. Shlk. Shlk. Shlk. Each thrust pushed a little gasp from her throat, a little ah-ah-ah that matched my pace.
While I fucked her, I let my attention drift upward.
Her ass was mesmerizing. The way it bounced with each impact—a soft, jiggling recoil that traveled through both cheeks. The way it jiggled again when I pulled back, the flesh settling into place before the next thrust made it bounce anew. I reached out and cupped one cheek, squeezing hard, feeling the give of it under my fingers. Soft on the surface but firm underneath—young muscle, tight and toned.
"You have no idea," I said, my voice low, "how long I've wanted to do this."
"Wh-what?" Her voice was shaky, breathless.
"This." I squeezed again, harder, letting my fingers dig into the flesh. "Your ass. Watching it. Touching it. It's been driving me crazy for years."
She moaned—a long, shuddering sound—and pushed back against my hand. "It's yours. It's always been yours. Everything is yours."
I drew my hand back and brought it down in a sharp slap.
The sound was louder than I expected—a crisp crack that echoed in the room. The impact sent a visible ripple through her flesh, the skin flushing pink where my palm had landed. She cried out, a startled "Ah!" that was more surprise than pain, and her pussy clenched around me so hard I had to stop moving for a second.
"Again," she whispered. "Please, again."
I spanked her again. Harder this time, the blow landing across the fullest part of her cheek. The pink deepened to red in the shape of my hand. She pushed her ass back toward me, presenting it higher, showing me exactly what she wanted.
"You like that," I said. It wasn't a question.
"I love it. I love when you use me. When you mark me. I want to feel it tomorrow when I'm walking to class—" She gasped as another slap landed, this one lower, closer to the crease where thigh met ass. "—and know that you put it there."
I alternated cheeks, building a rhythm of thrusts and spanks that had her babbling incoherently into the pillows. Slap—thrust. Slap—thrust. Her ass was a deep pink now, almost red in places, the heat radiating from the skin. She was gripping me tighter with every impact, her pussy fluttering, her thighs trembling.
"Oh god," she gasped suddenly, her voice rising in pitch. "Oh god, oh god, I'm—Alex, I'm close, I'm so close—"
I stopped spanking her and grabbed her hips instead, fingers digging into the soft flesh, and started fucking her in earnest. No more slow, measured strokes. This was hard. Fast. The sound of our bodies meeting—wet, rhythmic splat-splat-splat —filled the room along with her rising cries.
"Please," she was chanting, the word half-formed, breaking apart into syllables. "Please please please please—"
"What do you need?"
"Fill me." Her head came up from the pillows, turning to look back at me over her shoulder. Her face was wrecked—tear tracks, smeared makeup, lips swollen from use. Her eyes were wild, glassy, desperate. "Please, brother, fill me. Cum inside me. I need it. I need your cum. Please, Alex, please—"
The begging was what did it. That and her eyes. That and the way her pussy was starting to spasm around me, the first tremors of an orgasm building.
"I'm ovulating," she gasped, her hips pushing back to meet my thrusts with frantic urgency. "I'm ovulating and I need you to fill me, I need it, please, please cum inside your little sister, breed me, fill me up, I want to feel it for days—"
Her voice broke on the last word. Her back arched impossibly deeper, her ass pressing against me, her whole body tightening like a drawn bow.
And then she came.
The orgasm hit her in waves—I could feel them. Her pussy clamped down around my shaft in rhythmic pulses, milking me with contractions so strong they almost hurt. Her head dropped back to the pillows, and she screamed—a muffled, desperate sound absorbed by the fabric as her entire body shuddered and shook. Her thighs slapped against mine. Her fingers clawed at the sheets, twisting them into knots.
"Ahh-ahh-ahhhhnnnn!" The moan dragged out of her, long and broken, rising and falling as the waves crashed through her. "Yes! Yes, yes, don't stop, don't stop, don't—"
I didn't stop. I kept thrusting through her orgasm, drawing it out, feeling her body try to pull me deeper with every contraction. She was so wet now—wetter than before, her release slicking both of us, dripping down her thighs, pooling on the sheets beneath us. Her ass continued to bounce with every thrust, the red marks of my hand still vivid against her flushed skin.
"Fill me," she moaned one more time, her voice barely audible, utterly wrecked. "Please, Alex. Please fill your sister. I need—"
I was close. So close. The pressure was building again at the base of my spine, coiling tight, ready to spring—
But I wasn't finished with her yet. Not nearly.
My grip on her hips tightened until I felt the give of flesh under my fingers, the soft heat of her skin against my palms. Wendy was still trembling from her orgasm—those residual aftershocks that made her inner walls flutter around me in irregular, involuntary pulses—but I wasn't done with her. Not even close.
I pulled out.
The sound was obscene. A wet schlorp that left her gasping, her pussy clenching around sudden emptiness, a thin strand of her arousal stretching from my cock to her entrance before snapping and dripping onto the sheets.
"Wh—" Her voice cracked, confused, desperate. "Alex? Why did you—"
My hands found her hips again. Different grip this time—one arm snaking around her waist, the other bracing against her shoulder—and I flipped her.
She landed on her back with a soft whump against the mattress, pigtails splaying across the pillows, her large eyes blinking up at me with that particular mix of surprise and immediate submission that she wore so well. Her chest was heaving. Her breasts—small and pert, nipples still tight and dark—rose and fell with each ragged breath. The pink flush from my handprints had spread from her ass to her inner thighs, her stomach, creeping up toward her collarbones like a rising tide.
"You thought I was finished?" I asked.
She shook her head, a tiny frantic motion. "No. No, I—I hoped you weren't."
I crawled over her, one knee pressing between her thighs, spreading them wider. Her legs fell open without resistance—welcoming, eager, the slick flesh of her sex glistening in the afternoon light filtering through the blinds. She was still dripping. The sheets beneath her were dark with moisture.
Her wrists were small enough that I could encircle both of them with one hand. I did exactly that, gathering them above her head, pinning them against the pillow. The position arched her back slightly, pushed her breasts upward, made her look even smaller beneath me, even more vulnerable.
"Brother..." The word came out breathy, barely audible, her ruined voice cracking on the second syllable.
"Shh." I positioned myself at her entrance, the head of my cock pressing against her soaked folds but not yet pushing in. "You've been doing all the talking. Now it's my turn."
She swallowed. Nodded. Her eyes never left mine.
I entered her in one slow, unrelenting thrust.
"Ahh— hahhh —" Her head tipped back, throat exposed, the long line of her neck going taut as I filled her. No gradual adjustment this time. Just the full length of me sinking into that tight, wet heat until my pelvis pressed against hers and I could feel the cervix against the tip of my cock.
"So deep," she whimpered. "So deep, so deep, I can't—I can feel you everywhere—"
I started moving. Not gentle. Not patient. The slow, measured rhythm I'd used before was gone, replaced by something harder, faster, more urgent. My hips drove forward with enough force to push her up the mattress, her body sliding against the sheets, her wrists straining against my grip. The headboard creaked. The sound of our bodies meeting—skin on skin, wet and rhythmic—filled the room like percussion.
Splat. Splat. Splat.
Each thrust punched a sound out of her. Not words—just sounds. High, breathy ah-ah-ah s that matched the tempo of my hips, that broke apart into staccato gasps when I drove particularly deep. Her legs wrapped around my waist, ankles crossing at the small of my back, pulling me closer, deeper, desperate for every inch I could give her.
"You're so fucking tight," I heard myself say, the words rough, almost growled. "Even after everything. Even after I've already been inside you. Still so goddamn tight."
"It's—ah!—it's because it's you," she managed, her voice hitching with each impact. "Only you. Always you. Nobody else could ever— nnhh —ever feel like this—"
I shifted my angle, adjusting my hips so that each thrust dragged against the front wall of her pussy, and her reaction was immediate. Her back arched off the bed. Her eyes went wide, pupils blown so large the brown of her irises was nearly gone.
"There! There, right there, please don't stop, please don't—"
I didn't stop. I fucked her harder, the rhythm becoming almost punishing, my grip on her wrists tightening until I could feel her pulse hammering against my palm. The sight of her beneath me—small, overwhelmed, utterly surrendered—was doing something to my brain chemistry. Something that made rational thought feel distant and irrelevant.
My free hand found her breast.
Small. Perfect. The nipple was a hard pebble against my palm, and when I rolled it between my thumb and forefinger, she cried out—a sharp, shocked "Ah!" that was half pleasure and half pain. I squeezed, kneading the soft flesh, feeling the weight of it in my hand, the way it yielded and then firmed under pressure.
"Your tits are perfect," I said, and meant it. "Small and tight and sensitive. I could play with them for hours."
"Please—" She didn't even know what she was begging for anymore. The word had become automatic, a reflex, spilling out of her with every exhale.
I lowered my mouth to the breast I wasn't touching and took the nipple between my lips.
The sound she made was inhuman. A keening, desperate whine that started low and climbed into something almost like a sob. Her hips bucked against mine, her pussy clenching so hard I had to stop moving for a moment, just to keep from losing myself right then.
" Mmmnnn —" The vibration of my groan traveled into her flesh. I sucked harder, drawing the nipple deep into my mouth, lashing it with my tongue. My teeth grazed the sensitive tip, and her whole body jerked.
"Alex—Alex, I'm going to—if you keep—"
I pulled off with a wet pop. "Not yet."
"Please—"
"Not. Yet."
Her frustration came out as a choked laugh, half-hysterical. "You're torturing me."
"I'm enjoying you." I shifted to her other breast, giving it the same attention—licking, sucking, teeth grazing just enough to make her gasp. "There's a difference."
My hand left her breast and slid down her body, tracing the curve of her ribs, the dip of her waist, the flare of her hip. Every inch of her was warm and damp with sweat, her skin flushed that deep pink that made her look almost feverish. When I reached the junction of her thighs, I pressed my thumb against her clit.
She screamed.
Not loud—it was muffled by the pillow she'd turned her face into—but it was definitely a scream. Her body convulsed, back arching, hips grinding against my hand, against my cock, against anything she could reach. The added stimulation pushed her right to the edge, and I felt her teeter there, felt the fluttering of her inner walls, the desperate tension coiling in every muscle.
"Not yet," I repeated, and removed my thumb.
" Fuck! " She almost snarled it, her head whipping around to glare at me with those tear-bright eyes. "Alex, please, I can't—I need—"
"I know what you need." I leaned down, my face hovering inches above hers, close enough to feel her ragged breath against my lips. "You need me to fill you. You need my cum. You need to feel it pumping into you, hot and thick, marking you from the inside."
"Yes," she sobbed. "Yes, yes, exactly that, please, brother, please—"
"Tell me again."
Her voice broke, but she didn't hesitate. "I need you to cum inside me. I need your seed. I'm ovulating, Alex, I can feel it—I'm so fertile right now, so ready, and I need you to breed me. Please. Please fill your little sister. Please put a baby in me. I want to carry your child. I want to be the mother of your—"
I kissed her.
Not gentle. Not tender. My mouth crashed against hers, swallowing the rest of her words, my tongue pushing past her lips to claim the inside of her mouth. She kissed back with equal ferocity, teeth clacking, tongues tangling, her breath hot and desperate in my lungs. It was messy. Sloppy. The kind of kiss that was more about consumption than affection.
When I pulled back, a string of saliva connected our lips, stretching thin before it broke.
"You want my baby," I said. It wasn't a question.
"I want your baby," she confirmed, her voice raw with conviction. "More than anything. More than—more than I've ever wanted anything in my entire life."
I started moving again, my hips resuming their rhythm. Hard. Deep. Each thrust driving her further up the mattress until the headboard was slamming against the wall in a steady, percussive beat. My hand kept her wrists pinned above her head. My mouth found her throat—not kissing, just pressing there, feeling the vibration of her moans through my lips, the rapid flutter of her pulse.
"You want me to knock you up," I said against her skin. "You want everyone to know. Want them to see you getting big with my child. Want them to know that your brother bred you."
"Yes— ah —yes, I want that, I want them to know, I want— nngh —I want to be yours completely, in every way, body and— hah —body and soul—"
I bit her neck. Not hard enough to break skin—just enough to make her gasp, to leave a mark, a small red impression of my teeth that would purple into a bruise by tomorrow.
"I can decide," I growled against her damp skin, my voice thick with possession. "Not your body's timing. Not your desperate begging. Me. When the time is right for you to carry my child, you will be pregant."
She trembled beneath me. "Alex—"
"I could flood your womb every morning and night," I continued, thrusting deep to emphasize my point. "Leave you dripping with my seed for weeks. But unless I say it's time, unless your body and life are truly ready..." I nipped at her collarbone. "That tight little pussy won't take what it's not prepared to receive."
Her breath hitched as understanding dawned - not rejection, but protection. "You... you'd wait until—"
"Until everything's perfect." My grip on her wrists softened just enough to stroke my thumb along her racing pulse. "Until carrying my child won't risk that precious body of yours and won't ruin your life. That's how I protect what's mine."
The moan that escaped her then was different - less desperate, more awed. Her hips arched up to meet my next thrust with renewed purpose. "Yours," she whispered. "Always yours to decide."
The knowledge seemed to break something loose in her. Some final restraint, some last barrier. She went limp beneath me, utterly surrendered, her legs falling open even wider, her hips tilting up to take me impossibly deeper.
"Then fill me anyway," she breathed. "Please. Even if it won't take. Even if it's just—just the feeling. I need it. I need your cum inside me, Alex. I don't care if it makes me pregnant or not—I mean, I do, I do care, I want it so badly—but right now I just need to feel you. Need to feel you pump into me. Need to feel you mark me. Please. Please, brother. Please fill your little sister's pussy."
The begging was unraveling something in my chest. Something dark and possessive and utterly consumed with the girl beneath me.
"You're going to cum again first," I said. "I'm going to make you cum so hard. And then— then —I'll fill you."
"Yes. Yes, okay, yes, please—"
My hand left her wrists.
She didn't move them. They stayed above her head, crossed at the wrists, pressed into the pillow like I'd tied them there. The obedience of it—the automatic, unquestioning submission—sent a pulse of heat through my spine.
I sat back slightly, changing the angle, and hooked both hands under her knees. I pushed them up and apart, spreading her wide, folding her nearly in half. The position opened her completely—her pussy stretched around my cock, her clit exposed, her whole body presented for my use.
"Touch yourself," I commanded.
Her hand flew to her clit like it was magnetized. Her fingers—small, quick, knowing exactly what she needed—began rubbing tight circles around the swollen bud. Her hips bucked. Her breathing went ragged.
"That's it. Make yourself cum on my cock."
" Ah—ah—ahnn —I'm close, I'm so close, please keep fucking me, please don't stop—"
I didn't stop. I fucked her through it, my pace brutal, the sound of our coupling a wet, percussive splat-splat-splat that seemed to shake the walls. Her fingers worked frantically at her clit, and I watched her climb—watched the tension gather in her stomach, her thighs, the way her toes curled and her back arched and her mouth opened in a silent scream.
"Now," I said. "Cum now, Wendy."
She shattered.
The orgasm hit her like a physical blow. Her whole body convulsed, back bowing off the mattress, a strangled cry tearing from her ruined throat. Her pussy clamped down around me with rhythmic, pulsing contractions that seemed to go on and on, milking my shaft with desperate intensity. Her fingers kept moving on her clit, drawing it out, extending the pleasure until she was sobbing with it, tears streaming down her temples into her hair.
" Ahh-ahh-ahhhhnnn! Yes! Yes, Alex, yes, don't stop, don't ever stop, oh god, oh fuck, I'm—I'm— "
The words dissolved into incoherent moans. Her body shook. Shuddered. Her inner walls rippled around me in waves that seemed to pull me deeper, and I felt my own orgasm building—that familiar pressure at the base of my spine, coiling tighter and tighter, ready to spring.
"Please," she gasped, still coming, still shuddering through the aftershocks. "Please, now, fill me now, I need it, I need your cum, please, brother, please—"
I drove into her one last time, burying myself to the hilt, and let go.
The first pulse hit hard—a hot, thick jet of semen that painted her inner walls. She cried out at the sensation, her hips grinding against mine, her pussy milking every drop. The second pulse followed immediately, then the third, the fourth, each one pumping more of my release deep into her body.
" Yes! Yes! I can feel it! I can feel you filling me! Oh god, it's so hot, it's so deep— "
I kept thrusting through the orgasm, small grinding motions that worked my cum deeper, spread it further. Her words had devolved into babbling—broken phrases about how good it felt, how full she was, how much she loved me, loved my cock, loved my cum, loved everything about me.
When the pulses finally stopped, I collapsed forward, bracing myself on my elbows so I wouldn't crush her. Our foreheads pressed together. Our breath mingled, hot and ragged. My cock was still inside her, still half-hard, plugging the flood I'd released.
"I love you," she whispered. Her voice was absolutely destroyed—barely more than a rasp. "I love you so much, Alex."
"I know." I pressed a kiss to her forehead. "I love you too."
We stayed like that for a long moment, tangled together, her body still fluttering with the last tremors of her orgasm. Then I slowly, carefully, pulled out.
The sight was exquisite.
My cum, thick and white, began to seep from her entrance almost immediately. It pooled on the sheets beneath her, mixed with her own release, a glistening testament to what we'd done. She was still spread open, her pussy gaped slightly from the stretch of me, the tender flesh flushed and slick.
"You're not getting pregnant today," I said, my voice quiet. "But that doesn't mean I won't keep filling you."
She smiled—a slow, exhausted, blissed-out smile that transformed her wrecked face into something beautiful. "Promise?"
"Promise."
I reached down and dragged my fingers through the mess between her thighs, collecting a mixture of my cum and her arousal. I brought them to her lips, and she sucked them clean without hesitation, her tongue lapping at my skin, her eyes never leaving mine.
The spreadsheet on my computer had gone dark, the screen timed out from inactivity. Outside, the afternoon sun had shifted, casting long shadows across the carpet. Somewhere in the house, I heard the distant sound of footsteps—someone else home, moving through the kitchen, completely unaware of what had just happened in this room.
Wendy curled against my side, her head resting on my chest, her pigtails tickling my skin.
"That was..." She trailed off, apparently unable to find words adequate to the task.
"Yeah," I agreed. "It was."
She laughed—a soft, breathy sound. "You're going to have to carry me to the shower. I don't think my legs work anymore."
"I'll carry you," I said. "In a minute."
We lay there in the cooling mess of our own making, her body warm against mine, her breathing gradually steadying into something like sleep. My hand found its way to her ass—still pink, still bearing the marks of my palm—and rested there, possessive.
"You meant what you said?" she murmured, her voice sleepy. "About filling me whenever I want?"
"I meant it."
"Every day?"
"If that's what you need."
She pressed a kiss to my chest, right over my heart. "What I need," she said, "is you. Just you. Always you."
I didn't answer with words. I just held her tighter, feeling the rise and fall of her breathing, the warmth of her skin, the impossible reality of my sister curled against me with my cum still dripping down her thighs.