He almost laughs. "Never."
She lets out a shaky laugh, then lets her head flop back onto the pillow, breathing through her nose while her hands fidget with the edge of his shirt. There is a long, deep silence—one that feels less like the end of a conversation and more like the beginning of a life sentence.
"Um," she stammers.
"Um?" he stammers back.
"I, uh… I… y'know… play games online with my friends sometimes. So… I know some stuff."
He gives her a look as if he can't believe it, and yet at the same time, he can easily foresee what children these days get up to. "What kind of stuff do you know? You thought I peed in your mouth, for God's sake."
Ellie sighs with relief. "So it's not pee… what is it?"
"It's called 'cum.'"
"Cum?"
"Yeah."
"Oh…"
"Oh…?"
She pauses, unsure if she should say it. Then she finally comes out with it. "I don't hate it," she grumbles, blushing.
They share another laugh. Another kiss. It's only minutes later that Thomas fishes his cock out of his shorts again, and this time Ellie's eyes nearly bulge out of her head when she sees it happen.
"Penis!" she cries. "It's super huge!"
She squeals, delighted and appalled and scandalized, but can't look away from the long, veiny thing in his hand. He's flushed and trembling. For a second they just stare at each other, the air between them filled with the static of the unsayable.
She's first to break. "What does it do?" she wonders, voice high and airy, as if expecting it to perform a trick.
He nearly cackles. "You're looking at it," he says, stroking himself shamelessly while she gawks.
She leans in, fascinated. "Does it grow more?"
He grins. "Wanna try?"
She nods, eyes cartoon-wide, and sits up with her knees under her, a blue-lit bug on a pin. He can't believe it either, but he's not about to stop. He reaches for her hand and wraps it around himself, showing her how to squeeze, how to move up and down. She's tentative at first, then more confident.
"It's soft but not," she says, marveling. "Like a… like a meat balloon." She pokes at the purpled tip, then, daring, leans forward and licks it with the flat of her tongue.
His knees almost buckle. He groans, hands bracing on the bedframe. "Jesus, Ellie—"
"Am I doing it wrong?" she asks.
He shakes his head. "No. You're doing perfect. Just—slow down or I'll—"
But she's already figured out the rhythm, and she giggles, devilish, as she strokes him faster. He lets her, lets her take him to the edge and back, lets her explore the veins and ridges, the way the skin pulls tight and then loose again. It's so wrong that it feels like the most natural thing in the world.
He's moaning now, desperate, and she stops, delighted by her own power. "You're like a dog," she says, "all panty and gross."
He wants to tell her what she is—how she's a siren, a succubus, something exquisite and poisonous—but words are useless. Instead, he yanks her down atop him, and she squeals again, this time in shock as his cock brushes her inner thigh, hot and slick.
"Wait," she says, breathless. "That's not going to fit." There's awe and a little fear in her voice, a note of something that makes him want to protect her and ruin her in equal measure.
"It will," he promises, but even he's not sure. He's trembling, not from fear but from the tidal, sick need to put himself inside her, to lose himself in her forever. He wants to split her in half and then heal her with a kiss.
He doesn't force her. Not exactly. He just nudges her thighs apart, letting the tip slide against the thin blue swimsuit, leaving a wet streak on the lightning bolts. She looks down, mesmerized, and runs a finger through the mess.
"It's so slippery," she mutters.
"Yours is, too," he says, and she giggles but then goes silent as he traces a finger along the seam of her suit, finding the hot, damp patch that says more than either of them could. Even through the fabric, she's wet—he can see it, can feel it as he drags the tip of his cock up against the groove of her cunt, the thin nylon darkening where it soaks up their combined mess.
Ellie makes a sound—half shock, half laughter—and slaps his hand away, but not with any force. "That's not fair!" she protests, but she's watching, rapt, as he pushes the head of his cock right up to her, flattening the mound of blue spandex against her body. "It's gonna get everywhere. You're disgusting."
"Just a little," he says, and pins her wrists above her head with one hand. The other hand, bold now, reaches down to tug her suit aside. The move is awkward but charged—he's doing it blind, feeling for the edge, accidentally raking his knuckles across the soft, downy lips beneath before finally dragging the fabric out of the way. She gasps, hips twisting, but she doesn't tell him to stop.
For a second they both just stare—at her, at him, at the impossible intersection where their bodies nearly touch. Then Thomas dips his head, tongue out, and tastes her, just once, the salt and sugar and chlorinated girl. She yelps, arching up, and buckles against his mouth, her legs shuddering around his neck. It's clumsy and brief and nothing at all like sex, not yet, but it makes her eyes go wide and her voice crack into something new.
He's not gentle. He can't be. He wants her too much, and when he lines himself up again, hands shaking, the head of his cock finds the tiny, stubborn opening at her center. He rubs there, gentle at first, then harder, until the pink of her splits for him, glossy and wet and impossibly tight.
She groans, but it's not quite pain. Maybe not pain at all.
"Is it supposed to feel like that?" she asks, voice thin and breathy.
He nods, teeth gritted. "Yeah. You're doing perfect."
He pushes again, and this time the head pops inside—just barely, just the tip, but the way her whole body tenses makes it feel like the world locks, shearing his vision into stars. He nearly blacks out, the pain and pleasure so bound together he can't tell where one ends and the next begins. He expects her to scream, to shove him off, but instead her face sets in a grimace of effort, eyes screwed up so tight that tears squeeze from the corners.
He holds her by the hips, steadying both of them. "Ellie, it's okay—"
But she just shakes her head, jaw clenched, and he can't tell if she's saying no or just bracing herself to survive. He stays motionless, giving her a moment, giving himself a moment, but then she whispers, "You can keep going." It's so quiet he has to bend low to hear it.
He pushes forward, slow, feeling her stretch and give. It's not smooth at all; the resistance is absolute, as if she's splitting in half for him, and the sensation is so intense that he forgets how to breathe. He's halfway in, maybe less, when he bottoms out against a wall of wet heat and hears her gasp—a high, animal note of pain.
He stops again. "Ellie—"
"Just—do it," she says, and her voice breaks, and the tears are running steady now. "Please, Tommy, just do it fast. I can't—"
He nods, wipes her cheek with his thumb, and then he thrusts, hard, driving through the last barrier and sheathing himself to the hilt.
She screams, really screams, and tries to writhe away, but he holds her in place, sobbing apologies into her hair. "I'm sorry, oh god, Ellie, I'm so—!"
She's trembling under him, the pain flaring through her in waves, but she doesn't tell him to stop. If anything, she clings to him harder, nails raking his back, her sobs ragged and full-throated. He kisses her face, her eyelids, her collarbone, desperate to make it better but knowing he just can't.
"It hurts," she chokes out, voice warbling.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry." He strokes her hair, the side of her face, buries his own tears in the hollow of her neck. He stays inside, motionless, letting her adjust, feeling her heartbeat thudding through every inch of her.
The pain doesn't subside, not for a while. But eventually the sobbing ebbs, becomes a softer whimper, then a series of hiccupy breaths. She looks up at him, eyes rimmed with red, and tries for a smile. It's not convincing, but it's real.
"You can move," she says, voice trembling. "Just… slower?"
He nods, and starts to pull out, so slow it's agonizing. The sensation is a paradox—hotter, tighter, wetter than anything he's ever imagined, but also edged with the sick knowledge of what he's just done. He glances down and sees a smear of blood at the base of his cock, and the sight nearly undoes him. He wants to stop, to take it back entirely, but Ellie's hands are already on his hips, holding him there, guiding him—almost inviting.
Her voice is high and thin, but steady. "It's not so bad now," she manages. "It just feels... weird." She sniffs, the pain receding into something else, something she can't name and doesn't want to. "I think you can go," she whispers. "Just... don't be so... psycho, okay?"
He tries, God, he tries, but he's shaking so badly he can't keep to any rhythm at all. He rocks into her, every inch a triumph and a horror, the heat of her body a vice that milks him for every desperate ounce of pleasure. He's never felt so huge, or so monstrous. Never so lucky. Never so damned.
Each thrust is a lesson in contrast: her whimpering, then her gasping, then a slow, dawning moan that sounds not entirely like pain. He watches her face, sees the way her brows draw together, the way her lips part just before each little noise. It feels like a marriage of bodies, of childhoods, of every secret they've never told anyone, and it is as shameful as it is holy.
She begins to move with him, very small motions at first, just the clenching of her thighs or the way her hips tilt to meet his. Soon the pain, or whatever it was, is gone, replaced by the weird, insistent fullness of her brother inside her. She experiments with it, like she's testing a new muscle, and when she finds a rhythm that doesn't hurt, she almost smiles.
Her voice is wobbly, but she's proud. "I'm not crying anymore," she says, daring him to contradict her. "I'm… I'm a big girl…"
He almost cries for her, but instead he leans in and kisses her again, softer than before, kissing away the salt on her cheeks. He wants to say so much, wants to pour every apology and longing into her mouth, but she just shushes him, tongue darting to meet his.
"You're so dumb," she murmurs into his lips, as if it's the highest compliment.
He keeps his pace slow, grinding into her with a patience he never knew he was capable of. The friction is exquisite, the feeling of her wrapped around him an almost religious ecstasy. He wants to live here, in this moment, forever.
Ellie grunts, a silly animal sound and so herself, and for a second Thomas almost laughs, but then he's close—so close—his balls tightening, the tidal force of it coming so sudden and absolute he has to clench his teeth to keep from howling.
He tries to pull out, but she locks her ankles behind him, a move so shocking and primal it stuns him flat. "Don't," she whispers, and though he's not sure if it's a real word or just an accident of air, it's enough.
He slams into her, hips stuttering like a misfiring piston, and releases in a spasm that flays the world white.
The first pulse is a detonation in his brain, chasing out every thought, every atom of regret, until all that exists is the velvet vise of her body.
The second pulse is sharper, a gut-deep shudder that makes his hands clench her wrists so tight he leaves new crescents etched in her skin.
The third is like falling, tumbling through the abyss that's always yawned open between them—he freefalls, suspended by nothing but the clutch of her legs as they cinch him in, claws of a crab with no intention of letting go.
He isn't aware of anything else—not the stink of chlorine or the sun on his naked back or the frantic, arrhythmic thumping of the air conditioner in the next room. There's only the surge and retreat of his own climax, the way her body lashes around him with each new wave. He can feel her nails scoring trails down his spine, starbursts of pleasure-pain, and the sound she makes isn't a sob or a scream but some alien cry he's never heard before, equal parts victory and surrender. He feeds off it, loses himself in it, and finds himself desperately fucking this child, shallow and fast, as if he could physically sew the two of them together and make it so they never have to come back from this place.
Ellie holds him tighter with every thrust; her calves are iron bars locked at his waist, and her arms wrap around his neck with a strength that surprises him. She bites down on his earlobe, hard, and he yelps into her shoulder, the pain so sharp it actually calms him—focuses his mind, if only for a flicker. He hears her panting, mouth pressed hot against his hairline: "Don't stop. Don't you dare stop." The demand is savage, almost angry, and he relishes it because it gives him permission to keep going, to ignore the shame burbling in his gut, to bury all the words and warnings and crimes in the one act that feels like truth.
He empties himself inside her, not all at once but in convulsions, a stop-motion sequence of pleasure and horror. Each jet is an admission: he wants her, he needs her, he would burn the world down to have her like this, whimpering and full, for the rest of his life, even despite their familial ties and especially despite her being an underage girl he was defiling; polluting from the inside out with his nastiness.
He almost says it, almost blurts out that he loves her, but she's already pulling his head down, tongue laving sweat from his cheek, and the words die on his lips, replaced by gasps and grunts and the sticky sounds of bodies made animal.
She's shaking, too—he can feel it, the trembling of her thighs, the flutter under her ribs. But she doesn't go limp; she holds him in place, rocking back against him, using every last ounce of muscle to wring him out. "Keep it there," she snarls, and he does, amazed at her, at himself, at the fact that this is even happening. His sister. His baby fucking sister. And he's not sorry. Not even a little bit.
He's barely aware of the wet mess spilling out, or the slick heat pulsing between them; he's too busy trying to memorize the look on her face, the way her eyes squeeze shut, the joy-and-agony crease in her brow. She's so beautiful like this, transcendent in ways he never thought possible, her hair a frizzed-out halo and her arms tight enough to strangle him if she wanted. He thinks: If I die this way, I'll die happy. He thinks: I hope she never lets go.
When he finally stops shaking, he collapses onto her, burying his nose in her wild, messy hair. She's breathing hard, but not crying anymore, just staring up at the ceiling as if she could see through to the farthest possible sky.
It takes minutes—maybe hours—for Thomas to come back to himself, to register the slick heat pooling between them, the way their bodies have fused in a primordial mess. He tries to roll off, but she clings tighter, her hands locked hard behind his back. For a moment, it's almost like she's trying to squeeze the memory of him deeper, past the point of no return.
He knows what he's done. He knows it's unfixable, knows he's ruined everything, but the shame is so tangled with the pleasure that he can't even sort them out. He wants to apologize, wants to sob or maybe just disappear, but every time he opens his mouth, all that comes out is her name.
Ellie doesn't say anything. She just holds him tighter, and when she finally lets him go, it's with a gentle, almost resigned sigh. She glances down at their bodies, examines the sticky, glistening wreckage between her legs, and makes a face.
"Ew," she says, but her voice is softer, no bite at all. "It's white… and red… and everywhere…"
He wants to clean it up. He wants to clean her up. He grabs a t-shirt off the floor and tries to dab at the mess, but she slaps his hand away and does it herself, legs splayed wide, blood and cum painting the insides of her thighs like war paint. She looks at it for a long time, then wipes herself with the shirt and throws it over his head.
"Pervert," she says, but when he peeks out from under the shirt, she's smiling. "So gross… but… it was… kinda fun… even if it still hurts on the inside…"
They don't talk for a while. There's nothing to say, and everything to say, but mostly there's just the sound of their breathing, slow and uneven, as they lie together on the ruined bed. At some point, she dozes off curled against his chest, her hair a wild tangle in his armpit. He watches her sleep, fingers tracing the blue lightning bolt on her hip, and he smiles.
Despite all the ruination, and despite how horrible he'd been, he was happy. Happier now than ever before. He almost wishes he'd never left his sweet baby sister.
But perhaps now, they could make up for lost time…
Thenceforth, it becomes their not-so-little secret.
It starts with a glance, a scrape of bare thigh across his hand as she dives for the remote, a conspiratorial nudge behind the backs of their oblivious parents. It becomes a language, a code as old as siblings and as secret as sin: the way she lingers at his door, the way he leaves it ajar, the way their eyes meet over the breakfast table and hold that beat too long. It's not a game anymore, but a fact of nature, as unarguable and as urgent as gravity.
Thomas is the first to break the standoff. He's curled on his bed with a textbook, pretending to study for a job interview, when he hears the knock. Three quick taps, then silence. The door creaks open and Ellie slips inside, barefoot and wild-haired, holding an unopened can of orange soda.
"Don't tell Mom," she says, holding the can up as an offering. "She says it'll rot my bones or something."
He takes the can, not because he wants it but because she's offering, and that's all it takes. She closes the door with her foot, walks over to the bed, and sits—no, sprawls—against his side, pressing herself into his heat like a cat. She watches him for a second, her gaze tracing the line of his jaw, then the curve of his bicep, then the flat plane of his thigh. He knows what she's looking for, and he's already hardening under her stare.
She moves the textbook aside. "You're not even reading," she accuses.
"Am too," he lies, and she snorts. "You're gonna get behind."
She tugs at his waistband, eyes bright. "Not behind enough," she says, and before he can respond, she's under the covers, wriggling down until her head is in his lap. They don't talk about it anymore, don't hesitate or fumble or ask permission. She just reaches inside his shorts and pulls him out, already hard, already leaking.
She takes him in her mouth with a confidence that would have terrified him before, but now it's just another proof that this is real, that it's theirs. Her tongue is as wet and greedy as ever, swirling around the head, teasing the slit with a little flick that makes him groan and clutch the sheets.
He glances at the clock—2:14 a.m.—and wonders if this is what every night will be like, if the rest of his life will be measured not by days or years but by the number of times his sister can make him cum before sunrise.
He strokes her hair, careful not to tangle his fingers too tight. She moans around him, the vibration shooting up his spine, and then she pulls off, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.
"Did I do it right?" she asks, half-mocking and half-insecure.
He doesn't answer, just pulls her up and kisses her fiercely, tasting himself on her lips. She shudders, not from cold or fear but from the heat of the contact, the certainty of their shared depravity.
He wants to fuck her, right here and now, but she stops him, if only because she has something to show him. Something that explains the slight limp in her walk this time, and the way she squirms when he looks at her.
She doesn't say a word, just rolls over onto her belly and, with an awkward, comic flourish, hoists her ass into the air, letting the blanket slip down to reveal the cargo she's smuggled in: a plump, blue silicone plug, its base nestled right between her cheeks like a party trick gone too far.
He stares, heart in his throat, not sure whether to laugh or gasp or just reach out and touch it. Ellie glances back over her shoulder, face flushed and wild, the whites of her eyes huge and shining. There's pride there, and challenge, and something else—something shy, but fierce.
She makes a face, half-grin and half-wince. "Surprise," she whispers, as if it's a birthday present and not a neon missile up her own ass.
Thomas's jaw works, but no sound comes out. He wants to ask when, or how, or how often, but there's only the fact of her: this beautiful, impossible girl, on her knees in his bed, daring him to see her as she wants to be seen.
He licks his lips, suddenly aware of how dry his mouth is. "Where did you even get that?"
She shrugs, a little shy but not backing down. "Amazon. Said it was a fidget toy on the order. Mom thought it was for my anxiety." She snorts, then wiggles her hips, making the plug dance. "I wanted to be ready in case you ever, um… wanted that with me…"
He can't help it; the tension snaps and he laughs, not mean but amazed, and the sound makes her giggle in return. He can't believe his little sister is this lewd; this precocious. She was almost eleven years old, and here she was, trying anal toys like she was his pretty little porn star. Maybe, in a way, she was exactly that. Either way, children these days sure grow up fast.
"You're insane," he says, reaching out with a trembling hand, and she preens, arching her back and sticking her ass higher in the air.
"Go on," she teases, her voice a dare. "Touch it."
He does. His thumb presses gently to the base, and she shivers, the motion sending a ripple up her spine. The blue silicone is warm from her body, slick with whatever she's used to get it in there, and he can't believe how natural it looks on her—how perfectly obscene.
He traces a line around the base, watching the way her hole clenches and releases, the skin pink and tender. She's been practicing, he realizes, and the thought makes his cock throb with a pulse so hard it feels like a threat.
"Does it hurt?" he asks, voice rough.
Ellie shakes her head, hair wild. "Not if you're slow. Not if you use a lot of, um… jelly." She glances back, eyes hungry. "Do you want to? You'd b-better say yes, you dumb stupid pedophile~"
He thinks he might die if he says no, as evidenced by the way he flinches oh-so right when she calls him that word. It's a terrible truth that he spits from her lips like hot fire, and it turns him on unlike anything else to be as disgusting as this. As horrible as this.
Instead of answering, he crawls behind her, hands bracketing her hips, mouth falling to the small of her back. He kisses her spine, works his way down, trailing a line of spit and heat over every vertebra, until he's nose-deep in the triangle of her ass.
He breathes her in, the smell of sweat and girl and a faint, chemical tang from the plug itself. He circles the base with his tongue, savoring the way she shudders, hips rocking back into his face. He's never eaten ass before—never even considered it, really—but the moment he presses the flat of his tongue against the blue silicone and the puckered skin around it, something clicks in his brain. He's possessed by pure animal want, worshipping the plug like it's a holy relic, licking around the edge, teasing the seam where Ellie's body is stretched open, savoring the taste and the way she writhes under him.
She squeals, high and shocked, and slaps at the bedsheet, a drumroll of fingers against the mattress. "That tickles!" she huffs, but she doesn't tell him to stop. Far from it: she cranes her neck to watch him, hair falling in her eyes, cheeks flushed with the delirious pride of being wanted just like this.
He flicks his tongue around the plug, then—on a wild impulse—gives it a gentle twist. Ellie's whole body arches, a ripple of sensation shivering through her. She gasps, then bites down on her own wrist, as if to keep from shouting out loud. "That's so weird," she moans, but there's awe in it, almost reverence.
He wants to see her face. He wants to see how it wrecks her. So, he gets up on his knees, hands gripping her hips, and gives the base of the plug a careful tug. It slides out with a soft, obscene pop, glistening in the low light, and Ellie's ten-year-old hole puckers behind it, pink and impossibly inviting, as tight as she was underage. She makes a low, animal whine, and the sound nearly finishes him on the spot.
Thomas lines himself up, cock slick and desperate, and rubs the head against her, teasing the rim. Ellie trembles, arms buckling, face mashed into the pillow. She's scared, a little, but she doesn't back away. Instead, she looks over her shoulder and watches him, eyes wide and unblinking.
"I already jellied up," she tells him.
"You mean lube?" he finds himself asking.
"Um… yes!" She nods, beaming. "But I like calling it 'butt jelly.'"
Thomas rolls his eyes with a snort. "If it hurts, tell me," he says, and this time his voice is all care, all raw need and apology.
She nods, lips working around a silent yes.
He pushes, so slow it's almost a torture, the head of his cock splitting her open. The resistance is incredible, a stubborn ring of muscle that yields only a fraction at first. He coaxes, rocking his hips in
tiny increments, never forcing, just letting his weight and her own arousal do the work. Ellie grunts, a brittle, whimpering sound, but she doesn't flinch away; if anything, she bears down, bracing both hands against the sheets and biting her lower lip until the skin turns white.
He's barely an inch in when she gasps, "Oh my god, it's huge," and then giggles, wild and disbelieving, as if she can't believe what she's letting him do. The sound is half agony, half delight, and it eggs him on, makes him want to ruin her a little more with every stroke.
The next push slides another inch inside, and her whole body tenses, shoulders bunched, toes curled. He freezes, waits, feels her shiver breathe through her, and then she moans, "Keep going," in a voice so small and eager it nearly breaks him in half.
He does. He sinks deeper, the plug having done its work: her ring yields for him, greedy and clinging, and every new inch is a war between pain and pleasure. She cries out once, then again, then starts to laugh through her tears, a wild animal sound, as if the sensation has short-circuited her understanding of what her body even is.
When he's halfway in, Thomas pauses, his hands trembling around her hips, his cock throbbing with a pulse so fierce he worries she'll feel his heartbeat through her guts. He watches the way her hole strains around him, the way her back arches to accommodate, the way her breaths hitch and then slow. The sight is obscene, transcendent, and all his. He wants to keep her like this forever—split open, conquered, filled.
"You okay?" he manages, voice scraped raw.
Ellie nods, then shakes her head, then nods again. "Feels crazy," she gasps, then, "Feels good." She tries to move her hips, and when she does, the new angle swallows another inch, making them both groan.
He begins to move, slow and careful, but she's impatient, already pushing back, hungry for more. The rhythm is awkward at first, more a series of tentative jabs than a true thrust, but soon they find a groove—her muscles learning when to tense, when to surrender, and his body learning to read hers by instinct alone.
With every wet, slapping impact, the world outside the bed fades to white noise. The air is thick with the sound of flesh meeting flesh, the dogged, arrhythmic slap of his hips against her bare ass. Thomas watches himself vanish into her, the tight ring of her body stretched and slick, clinging with every retreat and swallowing him whole with every return. He'd never thought anything could feel this tight, this forbidden, this fucking perfect. It's like every shameful longing he'd ever had had been building to this single, endless pulse.
Ellie's face is mashed into the pillow, her cheek hot and smeared with tears, but even through the choked little sobs, she laughs—sometimes giggles, sometimes a warbling, animal squeal that makes her sound half feral. "You're k-killing me," she gasps at one point, hair stuck to her damp forehead. "You're g-gonna split m-me up the middle, nasty f-fucking pedophile!"
The phrase lands like a match in a gas leak: Thomas nearly comes right then, so stunned by the words—their daring, their raw truth, the fact that she'd say it and mean it and want him to know it—that he has to stop cold, body shaking, every nerve trembling at the edge.
But Ellie doesn't let him pause, not for long. She twists her neck and fixes him with a look that's all blue flame and tears, and then, with a whimper, pushes her ass back onto him, swallowing the last inch in a single, desperate lurch. The sensation is so sharp, so total, that Thomas forgets how to breathe for several heartbeats. He's in her, fully, his cock rooted in her guts, and the world telescopes down to the white-hot seam where their bodies are joined.
He starts to move again, slow at first, then faster, and with every thrust she learns the rhythm, learns how to ride the pain into pleasure, how to grind her hips just right, how to clench and release to milk him for every drop. She's a quick study, always has been, and soon she's matching his pace, slamming herself back with a violence that's almost scary.
PLAP!
"Ah—!"
PLAP!
"Oh, Tommy, yes…!"
PLAP!
"D-dirty, nasty, ugly pedophile~!"
Her moans grow ragged, each one a little louder, a little wilder, until she's not even trying to muffle them anymore—she's singing them, letting them fill the room, letting them claim every inch of space.
It's chaos, pure and perfect, but inside the chaos a new order forms: a communion of bodies, a sacrament of shame and need, a two-person universe where nothing is forbidden because everything is already lost. Thomas sinks himself into her, over and over, until the muscles in his legs shake and the sweat pours from his face and he can't tell where his skin ends and hers begins. He's never felt so present, so real, so destroyed and rebuilt all at once.
At some point, Ellie reaches down and rubs herself, finding the spot that makes her howl. She doesn't ask permission. She just claims it, the way she's claimed every inch of him. He can hear the furious drumroll of her fingers, the wet slap of her palm, and the sound sends a spike of pleasure up his spine so sharp he almost folds in half.
"I'm c-close," Thomas warns, huffing and puffing and ready to blow them both down. "I'm c-cumming, Ellie, sis, it feels too good, feels so fucking good, sis…!"
"Do it," she rasps, not stopping the blur of her hand. Her voice is wild now, high and wicked, every word a dare. "Do it, ah! In m-my ass, T-Tommy, I wanna, mmf, feel it! I w-want you to ruin meee!"
The words crack something inside him. He's slamming into her now, hips pistoning, no longer gentle, just a hungry animal taking what he needs. The air is thick with their stink, and with every thrust, the slap of skin on skin grows louder, wetter, more helplessly desperate. He can't believe how good it feels, the way her hole milks him, the flex and clutch, the way her whole body moves with his, small and perfect and impossibly brave.
Ellie's moans rise, ragged and unhinged, and then she claps a hand to her mouth, eyes squeezed shut, as her body buckles in climax.
For a fraction of a second, nothing changes. The world holds its breath, time suspends mid-thrust, and all Thomas can hear is the desperate, birdlike pant of his own lungs and the animal whimper in Ellie's throat, thick and wet and shivery. He means to slow down, to let her adjust, but her little asshole clamps down around him in the throes of climax—squeezing so hard it nearly forces him back out. He locks both hands around her hips, fingertips digging deep as though to leave proof of this moment, and he slams himself forward until he's rooted in her to the hilt.
She tenses, goes rigid, and then slams her own hips back to meet him, their bodies locked in an impossible struggle, both of them desperate for more but at the edge of what they can stand. The sensation of her clamping down, strong as a fist, tips him over the brink. Something primal takes the wheel, and Thomas buries his face in her lower back, open-mouthed and panting, as the orgasm explodes through his body.
It isn't the slow, syrupy climb of solo masturbation, or even the tight, awkward finish of a frantic blowjob. It's a sudden, white-hot eruption—raw nerve, glass splinter, a desperate flooding of all the years of wanting and not having. His cock throbs inside her and he feels the come rush out of him in thick, helpless jets, each one forcing a guttural groan from his chest. For a split second, he swears he blacks out, vision popping with stars, dizzy from blood pounding in his head and the molten clutch around his dick.
Ellie is shaking too. She claws at the bedding, nails raking channels in the sheets, and bites down on her own fist until the skin creaks. "I c-can feel it!" she gasps, the words a half-sob half-laugh, as if the idea of being filled up is both hilarious and scandalous. "It's s-so much! Oh my god, you really are a nasty pervert! Hah…"
She's not wrong. He's never come this hard in his life, and the forbidden reality of it—the filth of it—only makes him pulse harder, wanting to stuff her so full she never forgets the feeling. He thrusts hard one last time, grinding their hips together, causing Ellie to squeal, and unloads the last of himself in a series of quakes that leave his legs numb, his vision swimming, and his mind emptied of all thought except for the beautiful, unthinkable wrongness of what they've just done.
The aftershocks chase each other down his spine and into hers; he can feel her convulse around him, the ripple of her muscles milking every drop and refusing to let go. Ellie finally lets go of her fist and buries her face in the pillow, laughing and sobbing at once, lost in her own afterglow. "That's so fucking gross," she says, voice muffled, but she doesn't sound angry—more like she's giddy, high on transgression.
Thomas lets his breath out in a long, ragged sigh. Every part of him aches, from his clamped buttocks to the sore, sweet throb of his cock, now locked in a death grip inside her. He leans forward, blanketing her, his weight crushing her tiny frame into the mattress, and neither of them moves except to ride the echo of what just happened. The air is thick with the funk of sweat and sex, the stink of their shared sin, and he breathes it in, dizzy and triumphant and half-terrified.
He collapses, dizzy, forehead mashed into the small of her back, his cock still twitching inside her. The aftershocks roll through them both—her shudders, his gasps, the weird, gorgeous mess between their bodies. For a long time, neither of them moves, just ride the rolling crest of what they've done.
Finally, he pulls out, slow and careful, and stares in awe as his cum leaks from her, thick and white and already dribbling down her trembling thighs. She giggles, more from relief than anything, and flops onto her back, legs splayed and arms akimbo, totally undone.
"Holy shit," she says, and starts laughing, real laughter, wild and helpless. "I… hah… can't believe you really did it! You're… oooh… such a… hah… freak!"
Thomas tries to catch his breath, but he's grinning too, giddy and sick and high on everything that just happened. "You started it," he says, and it sounds so stupid that they both break down into a fit of giggles, rolling together on the ruined sheets.
The nights, plentiful they may be, are no longer measured in hours, minutes, or seconds spent apart. Rather, they're measured in how much time they spend together. How much time they spend making each other laugh. Making each other cry. And, of course, making each other cum.
As boyfriend and girlfriend, as brother and sister, and as the twerp and the pedophile.