He was my stepbrother, and I had just let him pull down my underwear.
Past my legs, I could see his pants, falling down as my panties had. He stepped out of them, and then his cock, rock-hard, and huge like I remembered it, brushed my pussy lips. “Beg for my cock,” he said.
I had never been into this sort of thing but—fuck. I would’ve begged for anything if he told me to in that commanding voice. I had never understood the women who liked to be tied up and dominated, but now I did. It wasn’t about the act, at least not completely. It was about the person you did it with, too. “Please, please,” I said, getting turned on by the pleading in my own voice. “Please, Eli, please, I want your cock. Please, please, give me your cock. Fuck me, Eli. Fuck me, now.”
He must’ve planned for this, at least on some level, because I heard him bend down, reach into his pant pocket, go into his wallet and pull out a condom. Then I heard the low tearing sound as he ripped open the packet. He quickly put the condom on his cock, and then his cock was back on my lips, and then— I was so wet, he slid in without any struggle, though he was huge and I was tight. My pussy wanted him. It opened immediately. He gripped my ass cheeks with his strong hands and forced his cock deep inside of me, pounding my sweet spot. I kept thinking about how he was my stepbrother, about how this was wrong—damn wrong, disgusting to most people—and every time I thought about that, my pussy went tight and I came all over his cock. I came again and again, over and over, all the while thinking: This is my stepbrother. My stepbrother bent me over and spanked me. My stepbrother is fucking me. My stepbrother is pounding me harder than I have ever been pounded. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
When it was over (when the condom was in the bin, and Eli and I walked naked into the lounge and collapsed on the couch) I must’ve came at least fifty times. That sounds like a gross exaggeration, but it honestly felt like that many. My pussy was sore from all the orgasms. My clit ached. My lips were tired.
It seemed strange to me, lying there with him, that I had been pretending not to feel what I was feeling right now. I had been pretending that everything was fine, that I didn’t care about him, that I was just a stepsister and he was just a stepbrother. But as we lay there, not saying anything, just listening to each other’s breathing, I knew I couldn’t do that again. Not to him, and not to me.
We had crossed a line now that couldn’t be uncrossed. Before, we had been a wolf and a lion. We hadn’t known what we were doing. It was a forgivable accident. Now, we had known full well what we were doing. We had done it on purpose, because we wanted to. And if my heart quickened at the thought, if my palms sweated—if my body told me that later, when the ache of sex had worn off, I would regret this—I didn’t have to think about that right now. Right now, it was just me and Eli, and that was all.
No shame, I thought. No regret. No anxiety. Just a sexy man and the smell of our sex.
Eli
I really thought that this would be it, that after that sex, that night—after we fell asleep together on the couch—that the time for games was over. We could face up to what we felt, and what we felt was sudden and crazy and frightening, but most of all, it was real. But when I woke, the sunlight on my face, still naked, Jessica was gone. I got dressed quickly, pulling on my clothes from yesterday. It was strange to think that, as I pulled on my pants, Mom and Andrew were in Malta, enjoying their honeymoon, completely ignorant of what their children had just done. Maybe I should be ashamed when I say it excited me, but I am not.
I walked through the house and came to Jessica’s room. I thought then that she’d simply been uncomfortable on the couch and didn’t want to wake me. I expected her to call out when I knocked, if she was awake, or to not reply if she was asleep. What I didn’t expect was what happened.
I knocked on the door, and almost immediately her voice answered. “I can’t, Eli,” she said, but her voice didn’t sound like her own. It sounded mechanical, stilted, like she was doing a bad impression of herself. “I just can’t.”
“Jessica, you sound odd,” I said. Odd was an understatement, but I didn’t want to freak her out more than she clearly was. “Is something wrong?”
“You know what’s wrong!” she exclaimed, but still in that mechanical voice. She raised her voice, hinted at emotion, but there was always something lacking in it, something vital I couldn’t quite figure out. It was like what I heard was an echo of her voice, without real life in it.
“You regret last night,” I said, keeping my voice calm. It wasn’t particularly difficult to figure out, not in the light of the morning. She had enjoyed it when it was happening, but now she’d awoken next to me, looked at me (maybe looked down at me, for all I knew), and then retreated to her bedroom.