Chapter 13: The Sister's Corruption
The steam from the shower clung to the bathroom mirror, blurring Mark’s reflection into a ghost of a man. He leaned against the sink, the cold porcelain seeping through his thin t-shirt. The house was quiet, still. Too quiet. The silence echoed with the memory of Stacy’s vacant smile as she’d come home from that “team-building” party, smelling of sweat and sex and something sweetly chemical, chirping about what a great time she’d had.
He’d seen the videos on Mike’s phone. Brief, shaking clips of a conference table, of bodies moving in the dark. He’d watched them with a cold, sinking nausea that had since solidified into a hard, jealous knot in his gut. He’d created that. His beautiful, oblivious Stacy. A perfect toy. And now everyone at her office was playing with her.
The bathroom door clicked open behind him.
Sophia poked her head in, her chestnut hair tied in a messy bun, a few freckled strands sticking to her damp neck. “Oh, hey. Didn’t know you were in here.” Her hazel eyes, so much like Stacy’s but sharper, brighter, scanned his slumped posture. “You okay? You look like you lost a fight with a spreadsheet.”
Mark forced a smile. “Just tired. Long week.”
“Tell me about it.” She came fully into the narrow room, the door swinging shut behind her. She was wearing Stacy’s old college sweatpants and a tank top, no bra. He could see the faint outline of her small, pert breasts, the points of her nipples against the thin cotton. She leaned past him to grab a hairbrush from the counter, her arm brushing his. She smelled like citrus shampoo and youthful, clean sweat. “Stacy’s already conked out. Snoring like a chainsaw. You guys must have had a wild night last night.”
A wild night. His mind flashed to the video of Stacy on her knees, a man’s hands fisted in her hair. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “Something like that.”
Sophia began brushing her long hair, humming. It was a familiar, tuneless melody. It took Mark a second to place it. It was the underlying synth track from Stacy’s workout playlist. The carrier wave for all his careful, corrupt programming.
His breath caught in his throat. His cock, soft and useless a moment before, gave a traitorous twitch inside his boxers.
She’d been listening. She’d been in Stacy’s room, borrowing her clothes, using her speaker. She must have heard the playlist. How many times? How deeply had it seeped into her head, that innocent, eighteen-year-old mind?
“So,” Sophia said, setting the brush down and turning to face him, her expression open and friendly. “I’m gonna raid the kitchen. My stomach is trying to eat itself. Want me to bring you back something? A sandwich or, I dunno, some of those weird pickled eggs you like?”
His mouth was dry. The knot in his stomach tightened, heated, dripped down into his groin. She was looking at him, waiting for an answer. Her lips were slightly parted. Stacy’s sister. Younger. Fresher. Untouched by anyone at the office.
The words were in his mouth before his conscience could form a protest. They felt like stones, heavy and wrong, but the desire to push them out, to see, was overpowering. It was a scientific impulse, he told himself. A test.
He kept his voice low, a conspiratorial whisper in the steam-filled room. “@Something_Salty.”
The effect was instantaneous.
Sophia’s hazel eyes clouded over. The sparkle of curious intelligence winked out, replaced by a flat, docile sheen. The humming stopped. Her posture shifted, the casual lean becoming a poised, waiting stance. Her head tilted just slightly, a predator scenting prey.
A slow, sensual smile spread across her face, but it didn’t reach her dead eyes. “I know just the thing,” she breathed, her voice dropping an octave, losing its youthful chirp.
She didn’t move toward the door. She dropped to her knees right there on the cold, tile floor.
Mark’s heart hammered against his ribs. It worked. Holy fucking shit, it worked on her, too.
Her slender fingers, nails painted a chipped black, went to the waistband of his sweatpants. She hooked her thumbs in them and his boxers, yanking both down in one swift motion. His cock, already half-hard, sprang free into the cool, damp air.
“Sophia, wait—” he started, the feeble protest dying in his throat as she leaned forward.
She didn’t hesitate. There was no teasing flick of the tongue, no shy exploration. She opened her mouth and took him in, deep and fast, until the head of his dick bumped the back of her throat. A wet, tight heat enveloped him completely.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, his hands gripping the edge of the sink for support. The tiles were cold under his bare feet. The contrast of the chill on his skin and the inferno of her mouth was dizzying.
She pulled back, saliva stringing from her lips to his glistening shaft. She looked up at him, those vacant eyes somehow still holding a command. “You taste so good,” she murmured, her voice a husky parody of seduction. Then she dove back down, her head bobbing with a ruthless, practiced efficiency that was utterly alien on her. She used her tongue in tight, corkscrew motions around his head, then swallowed him whole again, her throat muscles fluttering wildly around him.
This was different from Stacy. Stacy’s programmed blowjobs were enthusiastic, submissive. Sophia’s was aggressive, hungry. She deep-throated him with a force that made his eyes water, her nose buried in his pubic hair. She gagged once, a wet, choking sound, but didn’t slow. She just took him deeper, her fingers digging into the flesh of his thighs hard enough to leave marks.
“Jesus, Sophia,” he panted, his head falling back. He watched the warped, foggy ceiling. His reflection in the mirror was just a pale, twisted shape. He was fucking her mouth. He was fucking Stacy’s little sister’s mouth. The thought, monstrous and thrilling, sent a jolt of pure, dark lightning through him. His hips began to move, pushing into that tight, wet warmth. He fucked her face in short, sharp thrusts.
She moaned around him, the vibration traveling straight up his spine. One of her hands left his thigh and snaked between her own legs, pressed against her sweatpants. She started rubbing herself there, a frantic, circular motion through the fabric. Her hips rocked in time with his thrusts.
He looked down. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face a mask of intense, blank concentration. Spit dripped from her chin, coating his balls. The sight was the most depraved, beautiful thing he’d ever seen. This vibrant, sharp-tongued girl reduced to a mindless cock-sucking machine, getting herself off on the act.
“You like that, you filthy little slut?” he growled, his control snapping. He fisted a hand in her messy bun, not guiding, but holding her still as he piston-fucked her throat. “You like the taste of your sister’s boyfriend’s dick?”
A choked, gurgling moan was her only answer. Her fingers worked faster against her clit.
He was getting close. The pressure coiled at the base of his spine, hot and urgent. He was going to come in her mouth. He was going to empty himself down her programmed, willing throat. He pulled her head back by her hair, his cock sliding from her lips with a lewd, wet pop. “Open,” he commanded, his voice ragged. “Show me.”
She opened her mouth obediently, panting, her tongue lolling out. Her lips were swollen, red, bruised-looking. “Please,” she whined, a thread of genuine, desperate need in the hollow voice. “I need it. Give it to me.”
He aimed his twitching cock at her open mouth and let go. The first jet hit her tongue, thick and pearly white. The second painted her cheek. The rest he pumped over her face, stripes of his come landing in her hair, on her closed eyelids, on the bridge of her nose. She stayed perfectly still, mouth open, taking it like a reward.
When he was spent, he slumped against the sink, breathing hard. Sophia knelt before him, his mess streaked across her freckled, innocent face. She slowly ran her tongue over her lips, collecting the spend there with a slow, deliberate swipe. She swallowed.
Then, the glassy sheen in her eyes flickered. She blinked. Rapidly. Her expression shifted from vacant compliance to bewildered confusion. She looked down at her own hand, still pressed between her legs. She snatched it away as if burned. She looked up at Mark, his softening cock still out, at the evidence splattered on her face.
Her own hand came up, touching her wet cheek. She smelled her fingers. Her eyes widened in horror, then… softened into a dazed, grateful fog.
“Wow,” she breathed, her voice returning to its normal, lighter register, though slightly hoarse. She stood up on shaky legs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing the come further. She gave a shaky, embarrassed little laugh. “I… I must have really been hungry, huh? Got a little carried away.” She looked at his spent cock, then back to his face, a faint blush coloring her throat. “Sorry. That was… intense. Thanks for, uh, sharing.”
She turned, as casually as if she’d just borrowed a pencil, and opened the bathroom door. “I’ll, um, go get that snack now. You want anything?”
She didn’t wait for an answer. She slipped out, closing the door softly behind her.
Mark stood there, exposed and trembling, listening to her footsteps pad down the hall toward the kitchen. The silence rushed back in, louder than before. The only sounds were the drip of the showerhead and the frantic beating of his own heart.
He looked at his reflection in the clearing mirror. The ghost had solidified. He saw the man who had just ejaculated on his girlfriend’s teenage sister’s face. He saw the architect of it.
A slow, sick warmth spread through him, overshadowing the shame. It wasn’t just nausea. It was power. It was a dark, intoxicating revelation.
He had two of them now.