Skip to content If you asked me last summer whether I’d be fucking my girlfriend’s little sister, Flora, in her bedroom, I’d have said no, absolutely not, not even in the fun hypothetical way. But life is just one stack of bad bets after another, and mine started the day I met Flora.
Officially, I was Isla’s. We’d been together a month. She was the older sister, working as a waitress. They both lived with their mother, and Flora still slept in the room with glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling and a mirror covered in Polaroids of her and every friend she’d ever had. The first time I came over, Flora was sitting on the kitchen counter eating raw cookie dough out of a mug, bare feet knocking the cabinet doors, makeup perfect for a girl who wasn’t going anywhere. She was nineteen, barely five-four, with long, slightly wavy dark hair, dark brown eyes framed by thick lashes, and a heart-shaped face. A tiny beauty mark sat just above the left corner of her full, naturally pouting lips. Her skin was light olive, and she had a slim waist and softly rounded hips.
She said, “Isla says you’re in, like, computer science. That mean you can fix the Wi-Fi?” Which was the line of someone practiced at finding the next thing to keep a boy in her orbit. Even then, I caught her watching me when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I started noticing things. The way Flora found a reason to hover if I stopped by when Isla was still showering. The way she’d look me dead in the face while licking the rim of a glass, tongue ring catching the light. The way she talked just a little too loud, like she wanted the attention, wanted Isla to notice. I was supposed to keep my eyes on the big sister. I tried. But when you have two girls this pretty in the same house, gravity does its work.
I told myself I wasn’t interested. Flora was playful, the kind that takes exactly one “accident” to escalate. But she started giving me a hard time for wearing the same jeans two days in a row, called me “boyfriend in law,” made fun of the way I folded a pizza box. Little reminders that she was there, and that Isla had to share.
So when Isla called me on a Sunday and said, “Hey, the moving company flaked. Can you help Flora get the armchair out of her room? Mom’s working and she’s helpless,” my first thought was, This is how people fuck in porn. My second thought was, Fuck, I’m going to have to see Flora in those shorts again.
Isla worked the brunch shift at Veranda, so she’d be gone until two at least. I got to their house at eleven. Flora opened the door in a white crop tank so thin I could see the outline of her nipples, and black shorts that looked more like volleyball spandex. Her long dark hair was down, a little wild and wavy, her dark brown eyes ringed with smoky shadow, her full lips glossy. She said, “Isla sent you? You’re early,” with a look that made “early” sound like a kink.
“It’s literally eleven,” I said. My cock was twitching already. “You said the movers bailed?”
“Bailed. Apparently one of the movers hurt his back,” she said with an eye roll, then turned and led the way into the house. She was barefoot, ankles delicate, and I had to forcibly keep my eyes from scanning up her legs to where the shorts ended and the curve of her ass started.
The old armchair was in her bedroom, wedged at an angle by the window. The new one, a monstrous teal thing, was in the hallway, still wrapped in cardboard. Flora eyed it like she was waiting to see if I’d be as useless as the moving guys.
“It’s a little heavy,” she said. She was leaning against the wall, arms crossed under her boobs, pressing the tank top even tighter. “I’ll spot you, obviously.”
I tried to look professional about it. Got a grip on the old chair’s arms, braced my legs. “Spot me from where? The doorway?”
“Or underneath you, if you tip over. Depends how hot you look while you struggle.” She winked.
I grunted, half from effort and half because of the way she said it, and wrangled the chair out of the tight angle. Flora stepped in and grabbed one end, making a show of bending at the waist. The tank top slid up, exposing a few inches of smooth lower back and the top of her shorts. She kept her hand steady but let her body bump mine more than was strictly necessary. I’d never been more aware of another person’s warmth.
We navigated the hallway, which took some maneuvering, and got the old chair to the top of the stairs. Flora perched on the arm, her thighs pressing the faded fabric.
“Strong,” she said, giving me the slow up-and-down. “Isla always says you look more wiry than you actually are.”
“She say anything else?”
“Only that you have the softest hands, which is a lie. Your hands are basically made of rope.” She leaned closer, peering at my knuckles. “Do you climb or something?”
I shrugged. “Just gym.”
She made a humming noise and looked like she wanted to ask more, but then her phone buzzed. She thumbed a reply, smiling at whatever she read. Her nails were baby blue, a perfect manicure.
“Next,” she said, jerking her chin toward the stairs. “Can you take the old one downstairs?”
“Of course,” I said. The old one was easy. I carried it downstairs without breaking a sweat.
Once I put it down, she kissed my cheek. “Thank you … Do you mind unwrapping the new one? I’ll get us lemonade in the meantime. Unless you want something stronger?”
“Lemonade is good,” I said. I was already sweating a little, and the thought of alcohol at eleven a.m. made me queasy.
She padded to the kitchen, hips swinging. I headed up to her room and unboxed the new chair and unspooled the clingy plastic wrap. I set it by the window, checked my hands for splinters, and realized her drawer was open … filled with dildos, lube, butt plug and vibrators. My eyes widened. Isla had told me before that her sister Flora was a horny girl, but I didn’t expect an entire drawer filled with toys.
Flora came back with two tall glasses, ice cubes rattling. Her shirt had slipped sideways, exposing a thin strap of skin below her left breast. “You want a straw?” she asked, already sticking one in her own glass.
“I’m good,” I said.
She noticed what I was looking at and made a little fake shy face. “Whoops, ignore that.” But she didn’t even close it.
“I’ll try.”
She handed it to me and took a long sip of hers, then set it down and sprawled in the new chair, legs folded pretzel-style, shorts riding up higher on her thighs. I pulled out her desk chair and sat down across from her. “So,” she said. “Is Isla, like, your longest girlfriend?”
“Not really. I’ve dated a few people.”
“I can tell,” she said, her eyes sweeping over me.
“She said you’re doing communications at Cal Poly?”
“That’s the line. I’m taking the year off.” She traced a finger along the rim of her glass. “Not super motivated to jump right back in, you know? I like living here. Mom’s never home, I get to do whatever.”
She met my eyes, held them, and smiled in a way that felt like a test.
I shifted in her desk chair across from her. “You don’t get bored?”
“Maybe. Depends who’s around.” She reached for her lemonade, but her elbow knocked the glass over. It dumped straight onto her chest, a cold wet line from collarbone to belly.
She gasped and looked down. The fabric went see-through immediately. I saw both nipples, pale brown, perfect circles, pop through the white. For a second I forgot to move.
“Shit,” she said, but her voice was weirdly calm. “Could you … there’s a towel in the laundry room? Sorry, sorry.”
I stood, fighting not to stare. “I’ll get it.”
When I came back with the towel, Flora had peeled the shirt halfway up, exposing most of her chest, one arm across her tits, the other holding the wet hem.
“Thanks,” she said, and took the towel from me. She dabbed at her skin, then pressed it into my hand. Her touch was warm and lemonade-scented.
“You can just … if you want, you can dry,” she said. She didn’t move her arm, but she also didn’t pull away. I pressed the towel gently to her chest, moving in small careful circles. I could feel her heart hammering under the skin.
She made a soft sound like the edge of a moan.
Then she said, “You ever think about cheating?”
I laughed, not sure if she was serious. “No. You?”
She gave me a look. “I never get the chance.”
“Is your chest clean now?” I said.
“I think so,” she said, taking the towel and putting it on the arm. She rose to her feet. “Did you even try it yet? After all that muscle-flexing?” She patted the seat, the way you might call a dog, then patted it again, more pointedly. “C’mon. It’s practically begging for a grand opening.”
I lowered myself into the absurdly plush cushion. Flora’s eyes lit up. She clambered over and, with exactly zero hesitation, swung one leg over and planted herself in my lap. My first instinct was to laugh it off, some performance of awkward surprise, but then her weight settled warm and insistent against me, and I felt the outline of her body through my shorts. The whole situation went electric.
“Is it as comfy as advertised?” she asked, voice syrupy, head tipped down so her hair fell into her face.
“It’s basically a La-Z-Boy for sex perverts,” I said, and regretted it immediately.
But she just grinned, rabbit teeth and all, and gave her hips a little bounce that made my dick twitch in a way it hadn’t since I was fifteen. “Oh yeah?” Her hands found my shoulders, fingers digging in. “You always talk that way when a girl’s on top of you? Or is that just a me thing?”
“What are you doing, Flora?”
She made a big show of looking surprised. “What does it look like I’m doing?” Then she rocked her hips. “Just getting comfortable. Unless you want me to stop.”
I didn’t answer. My cock was half-hard and straining against my zipper, and from the way she shimmied and smirked, she could tell. The air between us felt too small for all the heat.
Flora leaned forward. “Okay, your turn,” she said. “You ever think about me?”
“It happens,” I said. My hand found her waist, not quite sure if it was pushing her away or pulling her in. She didn’t wait for an answer. She ground herself on me, getting me in the mood.
“Oh my god, you’re so easy,” she muttered. She rolled her hips again, firmer this time, and a gasp punched out of me before I could catch it. She laughed. “I can feel you, you know. Don’t worry. I like it.”
Part of me wanted to throw her off my lap; the other part wanted to bury my face in her chest and fuck her brains out. The second part was winning.
“Isla would—”
“She won’t,” Flora snapped, low and insistent. “She’s at work. She’ll be at work for hours, and besides, she’s not even, like, that into you.” She softened at my face. “I’m kidding. She is. But you don’t have to choose, you know. You can have both. We can share.”
She reached down and, through my shorts, squeezed my dick. I went rigid.
“Flora.”
“I’m just showing you the chair’s features.” Her hand pressed, then slid up under my shirt, tracing the line of my abs, then back down. She inched her face closer. “I want you to touch me,” she said. “You can, if you want.”
The polite half of me was long dead. I ran my palms up her flanks, skimming under the tank top, fingers grazing the warmth of her ribs. Flora shivered. When I got to the edge of her bra, she arched forward so her tits pressed into my chest. I could feel her nipples, hard, against me. My cock throbbed and she giggled, clearly delighted.
She pulled back, straddling me, and boiled the world down to her face and her mouth and the barely-there clothes holding her together. “You can do whatever you want. I promise I won’t tell.”
I should have stopped, but I didn’t. I ran my hands up, under her shirt, found the clasp of her bra and flicked it open. The cups slid aside, freeing both breasts. They were insane: full, soft, the kind of tits you brag to your friends about, pale with big areolas that darkened when she leaned in and let her hair fall aside. She lifted the shirt so I got a clear view.
“Do you like them?” she asked, not shy at all. Her nipples were huge, a soft pink-brown, and she cupped them in her hands, squeezing gently, rolling them toward my face.
I groaned. “They’re amazing!”
She took my hand and guided it to her chest, pressing my palm to her breast. It was hot and somehow heavier than I expected. I squeezed, thumb rolling over the nipple, and she exhaled hard, hips mashing into my erection.
She tugged her shorts to the side, exposing a strip of dark hair and then, lower, the delicate meat of her pussy, already slick. She captured my hand and drew it down her stomach. “Touch me,” she breathed.
I did. She moaned. I slid my fingers up and down her slit, feeling how wet she was, and she rocked to meet me.
After a minute, she sat back, untangling herself just long enough to turn around, straddling me reverse. The shorts came off completely. Her ass was perfectly round and smooth, soft enough that I wanted to bite it. She looked over her shoulder, hair messy, lips parted.
“Do you want to fuck me?”
I was so hard it hurt. I said, “Yes,” before I could think of anything else.
She laughed. “Okay … Well then, let’s fuck.”
I rose to my feet, grabbed her so she shrieked, and laid her down on her bed. She spread her legs, foot hooking behind my knee, and pulled me down to kiss her. Her lips tasted like lemonade and lip gloss. She sucked my tongue into her mouth and moaned, louder now, no shyness left.
I got my pants off and Flora laughed, fingers curling around my cock. She stroked me, never breaking eye contact.
“You’re so hard,” she said. “Were you thinking about this the whole time?”
“I’ve been thinking about it since I saw you.”
She grinned. “Me too … the cheating part just makes this even hotter.”
She guided me to her, rubbing my tip against her slit, getting it soaked. She was hot and slippery, already open for me. I pushed in, and she gasped and dug her nails into my back.
“Fuck,” she said. “You feel good.”
I lost control of myself then. The urge to take her, to make her moan again, was so intense it was almost a pain. I gripped her hips and thrust deep, the sound of her breath hitching every time I bottomed out.
She wrapped her legs around me, heels digging into my ass, meeting every thrust. I leaned in and sucked her nipple into my mouth, and she cried out, arching her back, fucking my face with her tits.
Her pussy clenched around me, slick and tight. I was already close, embarrassingly so, but I held out, wanting to see her lose it first.
She grabbed my face, pulled me up to look at her. “Fuck condom … Come in me raw,” she said, voice fierce. “I want you to.”
“You’re a bad girl.” I pumped harder, every movement raw and frantic. Flora held my head and kissed me, all tongue, almost biting.
Her pussy spasmed and she shivered, nails leaving red tracks on my shoulders. She bit my lip, hard as I kept pounding her.
I let go. The orgasm was blinding, white-hot, my whole body tensing as I filled her. She kept grinding against me, squeezing every last drop out, then went limp, hair splayed on the pillow.
I collapsed on top of her, both of us breathing hard. I felt her chest move under mine, heart still pounding.
After a minute, she laughed. “You can stay on me,” she said. “I like the weight.”
I stayed, sweat cooling on my back. The house was silent, except for the ticking of the old wall clock and our slowing breath.
“Promise not to tell her,” I said.
She giggled. “I can’t promise that.”
I gave her a look, and she burst out giggling again. “Why … wouldn’t it be fun to have a threesome?”
“You serious?” I asked her.
She kissed my chest. “Only time will tell.”
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