We fucked the night after the funeral. Mom was barely in the ground and the house still smelled like flowers and old perfume when my sister cornered me in the kitchen. She was twenty-three, I was twenty-five, both of us half-drunk on the cheap whiskey Dad kept in the pantry. She shoved me against the counter, yanked my belt open, and told me she’d been wet for weeks thinking about this.
“Shut up and fuck me like you mean it,” she growled, already hiking her black dress up over her hips. No panties. Just smooth, shaved pussy and that look in her eyes that said she wasn’t asking twice.
I spun her around, bent her over the sink, and drove in raw. She was soaked, tight, and loud as hell. Every thrust slapped skin on skin and made the dishes rattle. She kept moaning “brother” like it was the dirtiest word she knew, pushing back to take every inch. I grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, and pounded harder. She came first, legs shaking, cunt clamping down so hard I almost lost it. I pulled out at the last second and painted her ass with thick ropes, watching it drip down her thighs while she laughed, breathless.
We didn’t stop there. The next morning I woke up to her mouth on my cock under the covers. She sucked like she was starving, gagging herself on it, spit running down my balls. When I tried to warn her she just swallowed deeper until I flooded her throat. She crawled up, straddled my face, and ground her pussy on my tongue while she told me every filthy thought she’d had since we were teenagers.
That week the house became our fuck den. We screwed on the living-room couch with the curtains open, her riding me reverse so I could watch her ass bounce. She begged me to slap it red, to call her my little sister slut, to fill her up and not pull out. I did exactly that, pumping load after load into her while she came screaming. We fucked in Mom’s old bed, on the dining table, in the shower with her leg hooked over my shoulder. Every time was dirtier than the last.
She started keeping a notebook, scribbling down every position, every nasty thing we said. “For the stories,” she told me, grinning around my cock. “Homegrown shit. Real. No fake moans.” Some nights she read them back to me while I fucked her from behind, voice shaking every time I bottomed out. “Dear diary, my brother just came in my ass for the third time today…”
We never talked about stopping. The taboo only made it hotter. She’d text me at work: “Come home and wreck your sister’s holes.” I’d show up, bend her over whatever was closest, and take her hard and fast until she was a dripping mess. She loved when I talked about breeding her, about knocking up my own sister, and the way her pussy would flutter and squeeze told me she wasn’t faking it.
By the end of the month the notebook was full.
She posted the first one online under a fake name, raw and unedited, exactly how it happened. The comments blew up. People wanted more. So we gave them more. Every night we made new material, then she typed it up still leaking my cum. Sometimes she’d read the fresh post out loud while I ate her out, voice cracking when she got to the part where I made her squirt all over the kitchen floor.
We knew it was wrong. We didn’t care. The risk, the secrecy, the sheer filth of it kept us both addicted. She’d crawl into my bed at 3 a.m., whisper “one more time, big brother,” and we’d fuck slow and deep until the sun came up, bodies slick, sheets ruined, both of us too sore and satisfied to move.
Eventually she moved in for good. We stopped pretending the spare room was hers. Her stuff migrated to my closet, her toothbrush next to mine, and every morning started with her riding me until she got her first load of the day. The stories kept coming, each one filthier than the last, all of them true. People called them homegrown. We just called it Tuesday.
Years later the notebook turned into a whole folder on her laptop. Sometimes we still read the early entries out loud, laughing at how desperate we were, then end up recreating them anyway. The sex never cooled off. If anything it got nastier, more possessive, more ours. We were adults. We knew exactly what we were doing. And we never planned on stopping.
