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Big Sister and Me
by Abe
Language: English
Categories: Fiction » Erotica » Men's Erotica
Content Rating: Extreme Contents
He was masturbating into her underwear night after night—rubbing himself against the soft lace of her favorite pink bra, spilling thick ropes of cum across the crotch of her pale-blue panties, then carefully folding them back into her drawer so she’d unknowingly wear his mark against her most intimate skin the next day. The secret thrill of seeing her walk around the house in those same stained pieces, hips swaying, ass cheeks shifting under shorts, kept him hard and aching for more.
One morning, she found the evidence: a crusty white stain glaring on the fabric she’d pulled from the laundry. She held the dirty panty up, eyes blazing, voice shaking with fury and something darker. “What the hell have you been doing in my room at night, Golu?” He stammered, face burning, expecting screams and parents. Instead, she threw the panties down, lips trembling, and hissed, “Never again—or I tell everyone.” Then she walked away. The house went cold. She left for Bangalore soon after. The fire seemed extinguished.
One year later, he followed her there, claiming college, heart hammering as he stepped into her small apartment. The forgotten hunger roared back the instant she hugged him—her full, warm breasts crushing softly against his chest through thin cotton. That night over a cold dinner, she asked the question that had haunted them both: “Why did you do those dirty things to my clothes?”
He confessed everything. She didn’t run. She didn’t cry. At 2 a.m., she knocked on his door in a crop top and shorts, sat on his bed, and whispered, “Do you still love me… like that?”
Before he could answer, she peeled the top off herself.
What followed was raw, messy surrender: her chocolate-smeared, pumpy breasts glistening under his tongue as she moaned his name coconut oil slicking her peach-shaped ass while she cried and begged “deeper” through tears tight, painful first times that left her bleeding and limping, yet hours later spreading wider for him again. Taxi rides with his fingers buried inside her dripping heat, her head on his shoulder, both pretending the world outside existed. Hotel rooms where she bent over red sex chairs, gripping handles, ass high, sobbing,g “don’t stop even if I cry” as he claimed every forbidden inch.
Separated by hostel walls, they survived on filthy video calls—her legs wide to the camera, fingers plunging in and out of her soaked pussy, breathy whispers of “this is what I do waiting for you”—until one silent night the longing became unbearable. He slipped past guards, risked expulsion, raced back to her door, ready to drown in the chemical love-juice of their taboo forever.
Because some fires don’t die. They only wait to burn hotter.