I never planned to tell anyone about what happened with my brother, but the memory still burns through me every night. We were both adults, me at twenty-four and him at twenty-six, living in the same house after Mom and Dad moved away. It started with small things, the way his eyes lingered when I walked around in just a tank top and panties on hot summer evenings. One night the power went out and we ended up on the couch together, sharing a blanket because the air conditioning had died too. His hand brushed my thigh by accident at first. Then it stayed there, fingers tracing slow circles that made my skin prickle with heat.
I should have pulled away, but instead I shifted closer. His breathing changed, deeper, and I felt him harden against my hip. Neither of us spoke for a long minute. Then his voice came low and rough. "We shouldn't." But his fingers kept moving, slipping under the thin cotton of my panties until they found how wet I already was. I gasped and opened my legs a little wider, giving him silent permission. He stroked me in long, deliberate drags, spreading my slickness up over my clit until my hips started rocking on their own.
When he finally pushed two fingers inside me, I moaned his name. It felt wrong and perfect at the same time. He curled them just right, hitting that spot that made my thighs shake. I reached down and wrapped my hand around his cock through his shorts, feeling how thick and heavy he was. We stayed like that for what felt like hours, touching each other in the dark, learning the sounds the other made when pleasure built too high.
Eventually he pulled his hand away and stood, pulling me with him. We didn't make it to the bedroom. He bent me over the arm of the couch, yanked my panties down, and sank into me in one long thrust. The stretch burned in the best way. He fucked me hard and steady, one hand gripping my hip, the other reaching around to rub my clit again. Every time he bottomed out I felt the slap of his balls against me and the deep, filthy sound of skin on skin. I came first, clenching around him so tight he groaned and followed right after, filling me until it leaked down my thighs.
After that night we couldn't stop.
Mornings before work turned into quickies against the kitchen counter, him lifting me onto the edge and pounding into me until the coffee got cold. Evenings we took our time in the shower, soaping each other up and then him pressing me face-first against the tile while he took me from behind. He liked when I talked dirty, telling him how much I loved my brother's cock, how no one else had ever made me come the way he did. He would answer by biting my shoulder and fucking me even harder.
One weekend we barely left the house. We tried every position we could think of. Me riding him on the living-room floor, grinding down until he hit so deep it almost hurt. Him on his knees between my legs for what felt like forever, licking and sucking until I was shaking and begging. We even tried it with me on all fours while he held my hair and told me exactly how tight my pussy felt around him. The taboo of it never faded; it only made everything sharper, hotter. Knowing we shared blood made every touch feel more intimate, more secret.
By Sunday night we were sore and sticky and completely addicted. We lay tangled in his bed, his come still inside me, and he traced patterns on my back with his fingertips. We didn't talk about the future or what this made us. We just breathed together in the quiet, already knowing we would do it all again the next day. The hunger never really went away. It just waited for the next time the door closed and it was only the two of us, free to lose ourselves in the one thing we were never supposed to want.
