I never planned on fucking my little brother, but once we crossed that line there was no going back. We were both grown men—me at twenty-eight, him at twenty-four—living in the same shitty apartment after Mom died. Money was tight, beds were shared when the heat got cut off, and one drunk night everything changed.
It started with him walking out of the shower, towel barely hanging on his hips. Water ran down his chest, over the same hard abs I saw in the mirror every day. "Quit staring, big bro," he said with that cocky grin. But his cock was already half-hard under the towel, thick and veined just like mine.
I grabbed him by the back of the neck and shoved him against the wall. "You want me to look? Then show me." The towel dropped. His dick sprang up, heavy and leaking at the tip. I wrapped my fist around it and stroked once, slow and rough. He groaned and thrust into my hand.
"Fuck, that's it," I growled. "Been wanting to touch this cock since you turned eighteen." I dropped to my knees right there on the bathroom floor and swallowed him down. He tasted clean and salty, the head fat against my tongue. I sucked hard, taking him to the back of my throat while my hands gripped his ass, spreading him open.
He fucked my face like he'd been waiting years for it.
"Jesus, bro, your mouth feels so fucking good," he panted, hands fisting my hair. I pulled off long enough to spit on his balls and lick them, then stood up, spun him around, and bent him over the sink. His hole was tight and pink. I licked it once, then shoved two fingers in dry. He hissed but pushed back.
"Want my cock in this ass?" I asked, already unzipping.
"God yes. Fuck me like you mean it."
I spat on my dick and pushed in. No lube, just spit and raw need. His hole stretched around me, hot and squeezing tight. I bottomed out in one thrust and started pounding. The sound of skin slapping skin filled the room. Every time I drove in he moaned louder, begging for more.
"Harder, big brother. Wreck my fucking hole."
I did. I slammed into him until the sink creaked. My balls slapped against his. I reached around and jerked his cock in time with my thrusts. He came first, shooting thick ropes across the mirror. His ass clamped down so hard I followed right after, flooding him deep. Cum leaked out around my cock when I pulled out.
That was the first time. It didn't stop there.
Every night after that we fucked like animals. Morning wood turned into him riding me on the couch. Showers became mutual soaping that ended with me pinning him to the tiles and breeding him again. We didn't bother with condoms. I wanted my load inside him, marking him as mine. He begged for it, calling me "big brother" while I pumped him full.
One afternoon I came home from work and found him on our shared bed, legs spread, three fingers working his own hole. "Been waiting for you," he said. "Need that dick."
I stripped fast and climbed on. This time I took it slow at first, sliding in inch by inch while we kissed messy and deep. Then the pace picked up. I hooked his knees over my shoulders and hammered him until the headboard banged the wall. He came without touching his cock, shooting across his own stomach. I kept fucking through it, using his cum as extra slick, until I unloaded again.
We never talked about stopping. It was too good, too filthy. Family or not, his ass was made for my cock and we both knew it. Every load I pumped into him felt like claiming what was always supposed to be mine.
