Skip to content I always told myself I only wanted to look. That was the line in my head, rehearsed and underlined and sticky as a spilled drink. I’d just look, and then I could stop thinking about it. Just look, and I could go back to being the kind of girl who didn’t have to wedge her own brother’s name into her nighttime thoughts like a splinter.
The first time I heard the rumor was from Mason’s ex-girlfriend, in the middle of a summer backyard party with too much liquor and not enough self-control. I didn’t even register it was about Mason, my brother, until later, when the details started lining up like a crime scene reconstruction. There were no names, only a red-faced laugh, a hand gesture, a little sideways look at the ground. When I asked her to repeat herself she shook her head and said, “You’re lucky you’re blood. Trust me.” That should have been the end of it. I should have just filed it with the other trash stories people swapped at parties and never thought about it again.
But then I went home, and the next morning my brother came down in a towel that hung too low, and the story started to rethread itself. I tried not to notice how he always wore gym shorts in the house, always loose sweats that hid something. I tried not to think about the time I walked in on him peeing and caught a side glimpse of something that didn’t look real.
I was nineteen and I already hated what I was turning into. I wasn’t stupid or self-destructive, but some nights my brain would run a loop of what I’d seen and what I thought I’d seen and what his ex-girlfriend might have meant, and my body would run out of willpower before my thoughts did. I knew it was disgusting. I knew that even in the seediest porn, the kind that pretended to be about step-anything, people like me were supposed to stop themselves before it got real. There were boundaries. I wanted to know exactly where mine were, just so I could stop edging around them and get on with my life.
So tonight, after everyone went to sleep, I told myself I would just look. The house was old and the doors all creaked, but I’d lived here long enough to know which boards to step over. My bare feet made no noise on the hallway runner. I wore an old t-shirt of Mason’s, stretched out at the neck. The hem hit my mid-thigh. I wasn’t wearing anything underneath. I told myself it was about stealth. Less fabric, less noise. Not because it made me feel more like the kind of girl who snuck into her brother’s room in the dark.
The door to Mason’s room was open a couple inches. He always slept hot. I waited, just for a moment, to see if I could hear him breathing. I could. The light from the street lamp made a fuzzy band on the carpet and painted the foot of his bed in a dull, colorless stripe. I could see the tangle of sheets and the huge outline of his leg, thigh like a log under the blanket.
He was on his back, sprawled in a position that looked painful but always seemed to work for him. One arm up, the other hanging off the edge, his hand twitching every few seconds. The covers were pushed down to his hips, and the blue plaid boxers he wore were half off, twisted like he’d fought a bear in his sleep. Above the waistband, a strip of skin and a line of hair up the middle. I swallowed, and my mouth tasted metallic.
I should have left. I should have quit while I was ahead and gone back to bed and found a new problem to obsess over. But I stepped closer. I could see the shape of him, the way his boxers made a tent, and there was no way to mistake it for anything but what it was. The rumor was an understatement. He was sleeping with a full-on erection, like some cartoon exaggeration, a veined outline straining against the thin cotton. I felt a wave of heat start at my knees and crawl up, settling between my legs and turning the inside of my thighs sticky. My body knew this was wrong. My body did not care.
I let myself look for three long seconds. Then five. Then ten. I kept waiting for a voice in my head to say, okay, you’ve seen enough, go back to your room. The voice said nothing. The voice was silent.
My feet moved again. The base of him had slipped out of the boxers, the rest forced up by the elastic. He must have been hard for a while, or maybe it was just how he was. My mind tried to tally up how it would even fit in a pussy, but math wasn’t my strong suit. My strong suit was wanting things I wasn’t allowed to have.
I reached out. I’d never touched a dick outside of porn and fumbled high school experiences, never held something this heavy and this wrong. The skin was hot and soft, and even though I barely brushed him, his whole body shifted. The tip poked up through the boxers, slick with something clear, and I almost pulled back.
But I didn’t. I pinched the elastic and peeled it down, inch by inch, until he was free. The room felt colder. My ears roared with blood.
He was, fuck, he was massive. Not just long, but thick. It curved upward, proud and stupid, a cock that belonged to a different kind of person. The head was fat and blushed a dark, angry red, and the slit gleamed. My hand hovered above it, not quite touching, just registering the reality of the rumor.
My knees dug into the carpet. I breathed slow, so I wouldn’t pass out. This was the line. This was where normal girls went back to their rooms and pretended it never happened.
Instead, I leaned in. It didn’t smell like anything bad. Just skin and sleep and heat. I licked my lips, and the motion made my shirt slide up, baring more of my thighs. The urge to rub them together was overwhelming. I brought my hand down and wrapped it around the base, just to feel the girth, and my thumb and fingers didn’t meet.
Mason shifted again, made a groan so low I felt it in my own belly. He didn’t wake. I squeezed gently, watching the head pulse and leak more precum. It was obscene. It was all I’d ever wanted and more than I could ever admit.
I started to stroke him, testing the reaction. His hips flexed and the tip glistened. He kept breathing, kept sleeping. The tension in the room ratcheted up with every slide of my hand. I wanted to taste it. I wanted to know if the stories were just about size or if there was something more, something dangerous or forbidden or perfect.
I bent forward and put my mouth over the head, just the tip, just to see how it felt. It filled my lips and pressed against the roof of my mouth. I sucked, careful to keep my teeth back, careful not to make a sound. The taste was clean and a little salty, and my tongue wanted to chase the slick everywhere.
He jerked, but not enough to wake. I froze again. His hand flopped over, fingers curling, but his eyes stayed closed. I started bobbing my head, letting more of him in, then pulling off. There was no way I could get it all, not unless I practiced. I felt a sick pride at the idea.
The more I sucked, the wetter I got. My thighs squeezed together, and I rocked back and forth on my knees. I was so scared of waking him, of getting caught with his cock in my mouth and no possible excuse. But the thrill of almost getting caught made it impossible to stop.
I used both hands, working the shaft, my lips wrapped tight around the head. The veins on the underside pulsed under my tongue. I felt him getting harder, really harder, the head swelling and straining. His hips bucked and a drop of precum hit my palate. I swallowed, greedy.
He started to make noises, little grunts and sighs, like he was having a good dream. Maybe he was. Maybe it was about me. I pictured that and nearly came from the thought alone. I sped up, bobbing faster, twisting my hand. I wondered if I could make him finish without waking him, if I could carry the secret back to my room and have it forever.
His breathing changed. Faster, shallower. His abs tensed and his legs spread wider. The cock in my mouth throbbed and I braced myself, because I’d seen enough videos to know what was next.
He came with a grunt that sounded almost like my name, but not quite. Hot spurts filled my mouth, way more than I expected, and I had to swallow fast not to choke. I kept sucking, wanting to empty him, wanting to make sure he didn’t wake to a mess. I swallowed again, then licked the head clean, careful not to make a sound.
Mason’s body went slack. His arm dropped and he rolled his head away, sighing. His cock softened a little but didn’t go fully down. I let go, gently pulled up his boxers, and wiped my mouth on the inside of my wrist. My pulse was a fire alarm in my skull.
I slipped out of his room and closed the door behind me. I went back to my room and lay down. I replayed every second. I touched myself under the shirt, and when I came I bit the pillow so hard it left marks on my face. I fell asleep thinking about the taste of him, the weight of him, the way the rumor had never done justice to the real thing.
In the morning, Mason was already gone. There was no evidence, no weird looks, nothing to say what I’d done. But every time I thought “just look” I wanted to laugh. There was no going back now, not for me.
I started counting the nights until I ran out of willpower again.
Enjoyed this story?
Browse the books → Incest Books
Get 50% off your first order.
Use code: FIRSTREAD
Or if you want to read similar stories → Brother sister incest stories