I found the first file by accident one rainy afternoon while digging through Dad’s old laptop for some tax papers he needed. The folder was buried deep, labeled simply “private archives,” and inside sat dozens of audio files with dates stretching back five years. Curiosity got the better of me. I clicked the newest one, slipped on my headphones, and heard my stepbrother’s low, familiar voice begin to speak.
His words were filthy from the first sentence. He described a sister slipping into her brother’s bed at night, whispering how wet she already was, how she needed his cock stretching her open while their parents slept down the hall. The story was raw, detailed, and unmistakably about us. He even used our names. I should have stopped it right there, but my thighs pressed together on their own and heat flooded between my legs. I listened to the whole thirty-minute recording, fingers working under my skirt, coming hard when his voice described filling her up and holding her still while he pumped every drop inside.
After that I couldn’t stop. Every night I downloaded another file. Each one grew more explicit. He narrated scenes of me on my knees in the laundry room, sucking him while he gripped my hair and told me what a dirty little sister I was. He described bending me over the kitchen counter, yanking my panties aside, and fucking me quick and rough before anyone came home. The audios were so vivid I could almost feel his hands on me. I started wearing shorter shorts around the house, leaving my door cracked at night, hoping he would notice the way I looked at him.
One evening he caught me. I was in his room, headphones on, listening to the latest recording while my hand moved between my thighs. The door opened and there he was, frozen, watching me. My face burned but I didn’t stop. His voice still poured into my ears, describing exactly this moment, and I came with a soft, shaky moan while he stared.
He crossed the room without a word, pulled the headphones off, and replaced them with his mouth. The kiss was hungry and rough, all tongue and teeth. His hand shoved into my panties and found me soaked. “You’ve been listening to all of them,” he growled against my lips. I nodded, hips rocking against his fingers. He pushed two inside me and pumped slowly, thumb circling my clit until I was panting his name.
We didn’t make it to the bed. He bent me over his desk, yanked my shorts and panties down in one motion, and drove into me with one long thrust. It was exactly like the audios: deep, relentless, his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet while he fucked me hard enough to make the desk creak. I came twice before he pulled out and painted my ass with thick ropes of cum, just like he’d described in the last recording.
After that we recorded our own. Every night we left the laptop mic on while he took me in every position he’d ever narrated. I described how his cock felt stretching me open, how I loved the wet sounds our bodies made, how I wanted him to come deep inside me again and again. We sent the files to each other during the day so we could listen at work, getting worked up for the next round. The stories kept getting dirtier, more possessive, more tender in the afterglow when he held me and told me I was his favorite secret.
Months later we still add new recordings. Sometimes we play them back while we fuck, letting our own voices fill the room. The collection has grown into something neither of us can stop. Every time I press play I remember the first night I found them and how quickly the line between fantasy and reality disappeared. Now the only thing better than listening is knowing we’re making the next one together, and that the story is nowhere near finished.
