I found the first tape buried in the back of Dad’s old desk drawer while clearing out the house after the divorce. It was unlabeled, just a plain cassette with a single word scribbled in Mom’s handwriting: “Ours.” Curiosity got the better of me that night. I dug out the ancient player from the attic, slipped the tape in, and hit play with the lights off.
Her voice came first, low and shaky. “He’s touching me again. Right now. While you’re at work.” Then Dad’s voice, rougher, closer to the mic. “Tell me how it feels when your brother fucks you, baby. Tell the tape.” Mom moaned, a wet sound following, and I realized I was listening to them recording themselves while she described what her own brother was doing to her in real time. The details were filthy. She talked about his cock stretching her, how she came harder with him than with Dad, how they’d started when she was eighteen and never stopped.
I should have stopped the tape. Instead I listened to the whole side, cock in my hand, stroking slow while Mom begged her brother to come inside her again. By the time it ended I was shaking, cum on my stomach, and already thinking about my own sister.
Lila was twenty-two, two years younger than me, living in the guest room while she finished school. We’d always been close, but not like that. Not until I started making my own tapes.
The first one I recorded alone. I sat on my bed with the same player, describing what I wanted to do to her. “She’s in the shower right now. I can hear the water. I want to walk in, push her against the tiles, and fuck her while she’s still soapy.” My voice sounded strange, hoarse. I said her name. I said what her tits would feel like in my hands. I came hard into a tissue and labeled the tape “Lila 1.”
I left it where she’d find it, on the kitchen counter under a stack of mail. Two days later it was gone. She never mentioned it at dinner, but her cheeks stayed pink the whole meal and she kept glancing at me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
The next night I recorded another one, this time with the door cracked so she could hear if she walked by. I described bending her over the couch, pulling her panties aside, sliding into her while she tried to stay quiet. I talked about how tight she’d be, how wet she’d get once she realized it was really happening. I heard the floorboard outside my room creak. I kept talking.
By the third tape she started leaving replies. I’d find them on my pillow when I got home from work, her voice on the cassette, breathy and nervous. “I listened to all of them. I touched myself the whole time. Is that what you want to hear?” Then, quieter: “I’m your sister. We shouldn’t.” But she kept recording. Her next message was just the sound of her fingers moving between her legs and my name whispered over and over.
We didn’t speak about it out loud for weeks. We circled each other in the house like the tapes were the only language we had. I’d come home to find a new cassette on my nightstand, Lila’s moans filling the room while I jerked off. She’d walk past my open door in nothing but a towel, knowing I was recording.
The night it finally happened, I left the recorder running on the dresser. Lila came into my room without knocking, wearing one of my old shirts and nothing else. She didn’t say a word. She climbed onto the bed, straddled me, and reached between us to pull my cock out. The mic picked up everything: the wet sound of her sinking down, the sharp gasp she made when I bottomed out, the creak of the bed as she started riding.
I grabbed her hips and fucked up into her, talking the way I did on the tapes. “This is what you wanted to hear, isn’t it? Your brother’s cock inside you.” She nodded, biting her lip, then leaned down so her mouth was right by the mic and moaned my name loud enough to be recorded. We came together, her clenching around me while I pumped her full, the tape still running.
Afterward she didn’t get off right away. She stayed seated on me, both of us catching our breath, and whispered, “Make another one tomorrow. I want to listen to us while you’re at work.” I nodded, already planning what I’d say on the next tape, what new filthy things I’d describe doing to my sister while the recorder caught every sound we made.
We kept making them. Some nights we’d play the old tapes back while we fucked, Mom’s voice and Lila’s voice overlapping, the room filled with the wet sounds of real incest layered over the recorded kind. The collection grew. We labeled them carefully: “First time,” “Shower,” “Couch at 3 a.m.,” “She let me come in her mouth.” Each one dirtier than the last, each one proof that we’d crossed the line and had no intention of going back.
The last tape we made together was the longest. Lila held the mic close while I took her from behind, describing exactly how her pussy looked stretched around me, how she pushed back for more, how she begged her brother to fill her again. When we finished she clicked the recorder off, kissed my shoulder, and said, “We should start a new series. Just the two of us.” I was already reaching for a fresh cassette.
