Skip to content There are two kinds of nights after your sister turns eighteen and decides she’s done pretending to be a normal girl about her orgasms.
There’s the nights you can still pretend she’s watching TikToks and that the buzz is just her old phone with the janky battery. Then there are the other nights. The ones where you lie in bed and the wall is paper, and what starts as a hum gets company: the slow build of her voice, the gasps that escalate into a mess of wet, loud, reckless. She’s not faking for an audience. She’s alone in her room, door shut, and it’s so fucking sincere it rattles the picture frame above your pillow.
That’s what got me tonight. I tried to block it out, or at least not follow it to the finish, but every minute made it harder. I lay with my back to the wall, headphones dead, covers at my waist and the shape of my cock obvious. I let myself touch. I counted the gaps in her breathing. I thought about how her mouth looked when she yelled at me that morning for finishing the milk. I thought about her lips, about her tongue. I tried not to think about her moaning like that with her legs thrown open, but it happened anyway. I got hard, and then got harder, and then realized I was stroking under the blanket in time with the high-pitched sound from the other side of the wall.
What kind of person comes to their own sister’s moans? I let go before it could finish. I bit down on my knuckles, held it in, and let the noise die down in her room. I lay there until I heard the door across the hall creak and the bathroom tap run. She always cleaned up right after, like she was scrubbing off the evidence. The shower at 11:30 PM. Classic Lila.
*****
The following day, It was noon before I went into the bathroom for my own shower, and that’s when I saw it: the thing she’d left on the edge of the tub, half under a balled-up washcloth. Pink plastic, the silicone still wet, the tip shiny and… I didn’t have words for it. It wasn’t subtle, wasn’t designed to look like a duck or a flower or anything. It was just a vibrator, used enough that the paint was chipped at the base. She’d left it right there, as if she’d gotten interrupted, as if she’d just set it down between orgasms.
I stared at it. I thought about touching it, then thought about what kind of degenerate does that, then picked it up anyway. It was heavier than I expected, and a little sticky in my palm. I held it at arm’s length and looked for a clean spot, then flicked it on. It buzzed so loud in the tile it made my molars rattle.
There was a little hair stuck to the seam where the head met the shaft. Blonde, not mine. I swallowed and set the toy back on the ledge. My hands were sweating. I ran the shower, made it scalding, tried to wash off the last five minutes.
But the smell of her was everywhere. Some combination of drugstore body wash, hotel soap, and something sweet and musky and taboo. The memory of it got me hard again, and I started masturbating. I shut my eyes and thought about what she’d sound like if I was the one making her moan. I was about to come, but then had to stop. I just couldn’t do it.
The rest of Saturday was an exercise in avoidance. She stayed in her room, blasting music through the walls. Around six Mom left for dinner at Aunt Mara’s, which meant the house was ours. I ordered a pizza and watched YouTube until the sun went down. I almost convinced myself it was just a regular night, that I could watch TV and pretend my sister wasn’t getting herself off in her bedroom like clockwork.
It happened at 9:03. The sound again, a low hum, just audible over the shitty speakers on my laptop. I closed it and pressed my head against the wall. She wasn’t holding back tonight. I could picture her on the bed, legs folded up, one hand under her shirt, the other working the old pink toy. The sounds started soft, then ramped, stuttered, stopped. I felt my heart in my throat, my cock twitching even though I told it not to. I didn’t even touch it. I just listened, biting down on my lip.
Then it stopped. Not the moaning, but the toy. The hum cut out in the middle of a gasp. Silence, a few beats of breathing, then: a crash, a muttered fuck. Her door opened, and her feet padded down the hall. My door.
She knocked.
I yanked my hand out of my pants and tried to get my breathing under control. “Yeah?”
“You got any double-As?”
It took me a second to realize she meant batteries. “Uh, maybe? What for?”
She opened my door and didn’t bother to hide. Five-four in bare feet. Dirty-gold blonde to her shoulders, darker at the roots, stuck to her neck like she’d been sweating on her pillow. Sharp face, small nose, that mean mouth, cold blue eyes, freckles across the bridge. Gold studs. Tank and sleep shorts, no bra. Full C-cups heavy in the thin cotton, nipples sharp. The shorts were riding up her ass. Narrow waist, hips, thighs that touched. Flushed, hair wild, she held the vibrator like a weapon.
“My toy died.”
I looked at her, then at the thing, then back at her. “I’m not your RadioShack,” I said, but my voice was hoarse.
She stepped into the room, waved it at me. “You’re the only person in this house who hoards batteries. C’mon.”
I reached into my nightstand and found a half-used pack. I held it out. She didn’t take it.
She said, “I know you heard.”
The back of my neck went hot. “Heard what?”
She smirked. “You have the worst poker face, Jack.”
I swallowed. “So? It’s not my fault you scream like you’re in a horror movie.”
She crossed her arms, toy wedged in the crook. “You’re a fucking perv.”
I wanted to say something mean, something to shut her down, but all I could do was stare at the wet shine at the tip of the vibrator. She followed my eyes. Her lips curled into a little sneer.
She said, “Give me the batteries and I’ll leave.”
I shook the pack, popped two out, held them in my palm. “Say please.”
She rolled her eyes, but there was a crack in her confidence. “Please.”
I tossed the batteries to her. She caught them one-handed, but her fingers slipped and one hit the floor. She bent down to pick it up, and when she straightened, she was closer than before. The tank top gapped. I could see the slope of her breasts, the valley in between. She caught me looking.
She said, quieter, “Is this what gets you off?”
I should have lied, or made a joke, or just said no. But she looked at me with those cold blue eyes and I knew she’d call me on it either way.
“Maybe,” I said.
She snorted, put the batteries in, and turned on the toy. It buzzed, stronger than before. She pressed it to her hip and made a face like she’d just taken a drag of a cigarette. “Want to watch?”
“No?”
She stuck out her tongue and blew me a raspberry. She went back to her bedroom, and left me harder than ever. It didn’t take me long to hear a bunch of frustrating moans and groans. I thought she was back at it, but apparently not. She came back before I could even start stroking myself. This time, she’d stuck the vibrator into her cleavage, her arms were crossed against her chest, and she gave me an annoyed look.
“It doesn’t work.”
“Is that my fault?”
“No, but you can help. Maybe you stuck the batteries in wrong.”
I rolled my eyes and decided to help her. She came closer, and she left me no choice but to reach for the vibrator from her cleavage. It was all sticky, warm and wet. She sat next to me and smelled like sex. “You’d popped the battery in wrong.”
I showed her and then pushed the button. When it started the vibrating, some of her juices spilled on my face, making her grin.
“Want to use it on me?” she asked with a devlish grin.
“No?”
“Why do you have a boner then?”
“I was just watching some stuff.”
“Yeah right, admit you think I’m hot.”
“You’re good looking, alright.”
“How about this, use this on me, and I’ll jerk you off.”
I should have said no. I said, “Fine.”
She shoved my laptop aside with her foot and dropped onto my bed. Tank still on. Shorts already halfway down. She hooked her thumbs and pushed them off. No underwear. Blonde strip on the mound, darker at the root. She planted her feet on my sheets and let her knees fall open.
I saw all of it. Outer lips pale and a little puffy from what she’d already done to herself. When they parted she was wet-pink, inner lips longer, darker rose, slick enough that my desk lamp caught it. Clit swollen, obvious, the hood pulled back from the toy dying on her. The smell hit when I sat down next to her hip: salt and skin and that musky scent, concentrated between her legs. I got so hard it hurt. The waistband of my shorts was a problem. I didn’t fix it yet.
“Don’t just stare,” she said. Her voice had a crack in it.
I turned the vibrator on. The buzz filled my room. I put the head against the inside of her thigh so she could flinch at the sound before the contact. Then I dragged it up and set it on her clit.
Her hips jumped. A sound came out of her that I already knew from the wall. I held it there, not pushing in, just grinding the buzzing head in slow circles. Honey welled up immediately, thin and shiny, running down toward her ass. It got on my knuckles.
“In,” she said.
I pressed the tip to her hole. She was tight and wet. The head stretched her, a small white-pink give around the silicone, and then it slipped. I worked it in an inch. Two. She made a punched-out noise and grabbed my comforter. I watched her pussy swallow it, lips spreading around the shaft, shiny, clinging when I pulled back an inch and fed it in again. Three inches, four. I didn’t try to bury the whole thing. The girth was doing enough. Every time I eased it deeper her hole stretched wider around it and stayed that way a second, swollen, before fluttering.
I turned it up. Her scent got thicker. Slick spilled over the base of the toy and down my hand, warm, more than I expected, dripping to my wrist. I kept my other hand on her thigh so she couldn’t slam her knees shut. She didn’t try. She pushed down onto it.
“Jack. Fuck.”
I used it on her the way the wall had taught me she liked. In until the stretch showed, out until only the head held her open, back in. Her pussy looked used now, puffy, darker, the inner lips sucked against the silicone. Honey kept coming. It coated my fingers. It spotted my sheets. I was so hard it was stupid, a dull ache behind the fabric, the kind that makes you stupid enough to do this to your sister on your own bed.
She came like she did through the wall, except I had to see it. Her stomach tightened. Her hole clenched so hard I felt the toy kick in my grip. She went loud, then bit it back, shaking, slick pulsing out around the vibrator and over my hand in a warm run. I kept it on her clit through it until she slapped at my wrist.
“Off. Off.”
I killed the switch and pulled it out slowly. She was open for a second after, pink, wet, twitching, a thread of her own mess connecting the toy to her. I set it on my nightstand like it was going to explode.
She was breathing like she’d run. Then she pushed herself up on an elbow, grabbed my shorts, and shoved them down just far enough. I sprang out, flushed, wet at the tip, hurting.
“Deal’s a deal,” she muttered.
“Right,” I said.
Her hand was still shiny with her juices. She wrapped it around me and the slide was instant, hot, slick, filthy. She stroked me with the same mess that had just come out of her, tight fist, twisting at the head. I had to plant a hand on the mattress. I looked at her tits shifting in the tank, at her open legs, at her swollen pussy still glistening on my bedspread, and I lasted maybe a minute.
“Lila,” I said, my toes curling.
“Yeah. I know. You’ll come,” she said with an eye roll.
I came over her fist and onto my own stomach in hard pulses, shaking. She worked me through it with that wet hand until I twitched and had to catch her wrist. “Okay, that’s enough,” I said, taking a deep breath.
Lila wiped her hand on my tee like I was a towel, pulled her shorts up, and didn’t look at me while she did it. She picked the vibrator up, killed a last buzz with her thumb, and held it against her hip.
At the door she stopped and looked at me. “Night, perv,” she said and then headed for her room.
Then she left me in my room with the smell of her still on my sheets and the wall finally quiet.
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