I never planned to fuck my brother. We grew up sharing everything—bunk beds, secrets, even the same girls in high school—but this was different. It started the weekend our parents left us the cabin for the first time as adults. I was twenty-three, he was twenty-five, both of us home from college and restless as hell.
The first night we got drunk on cheap whiskey and talked about the girls we’d banged. Then the talk turned to guys. I admitted I’d let a buddy suck me off once. Mark went quiet, then said, “Me too.” We stared at each other across the table, the fire popping in the grate. His eyes dropped to my crotch and stayed there.
“Show me,” he said, voice low and rough.
I stood up, unzipped, and pulled my cock out. It was already half-hard from the conversation. Mark licked his lips and dropped to his knees right there on the cabin floor. He took me in his mouth without another word, hot and wet and eager.
I grabbed his hair and fucked his throat while he moaned around my shaft. When I came he swallowed every drop and looked up at me with cum on his chin.
We didn’t talk about it the next morning. We just went about our day—fishing, chopping wood, pretending nothing happened. But that night, after the lights were out, Mark climbed into my bed naked. His body was bigger than mine, all hard muscle and thick thighs. He pushed my legs apart and buried his face between them, eating my ass like he’d been starving for it. I jerked my cock while he tongue-fucked me open, then he flipped me onto my stomach and shoved his dick inside me raw.
It hurt at first, but the burn turned into something filthy and perfect. He pounded me deep, calling me his little brother slut, telling me how tight I was. I came on the sheets without touching myself. After he filled me up he stayed inside, grinding slow until he got hard again. We fucked twice more that night, me riding him the second time, his hands gripping my hips while I bounced on his cock.
The rest of the weekend was nothing but sex. We jerked each other off in the shower, sixty-nined on the couch, and Mark bent me over the kitchen table after breakfast. He loved making me beg for it, loved hearing me say “Fuck your brother’s ass, Mark” while he railed me. By Sunday night I was sore, marked with hickeys and bite marks, and completely addicted.
We packed up the car in silence. Before we left he pulled me behind the cabin one last time, pushed me to my knees, and fed me his load. I swallowed it all, then stood up and kissed him hard, tasting myself on his tongue.
“Same time next month?” he asked.
I nodded. “Every month.”
We drove home separately, but I already knew I’d never look at my brother the same way again. And I didn’t want to.
