Chapter 4: Mia lounges on the couch in just a t-shirt, spreading her legs lazily as Luke crawls between them, his tongue already lapping at her dripping pussy before she even gives permission. 'Such a good little cocksleeve for your sister,' she purrs, grinding against his eager face.
The apartment had become a different world. The silence that followed Chloe’s exit didn’t return; it was filled now with a thick, humming tension, a current that Luke felt in his teeth. Days bled into each other, formless and charged. He stopped going to classes. His textbooks gathered a fine layer of dust on the desk in his room, a room he now rarely entered. He lived on the couch, in the living room scent of her perfume and their sin.
He was hard all the time. It was a constant, aching presence, a low-grade fever. It woke him up, tenting the thin sheet he used. It throbbed while he stared blankly at the television. It leaked a steady, clear bead of pre-cum that stained his boxers, a permanent dampness that was both shameful and exciting. His body was no longer his own; it was a instrument she had tuned to a single, desperate note.
He waited for her. For the sound of her bedroom door opening, for the pad of her bare feet on the hardwood. His eyes would track her every movement, a predator turned supplicant.
This morning, she emerged in a simple white tank top and tiny black shorts that barely contained the generous swell of her ass. She moved to the kitchen, ignoring him, reaching for a coffee mug. The fabric stretched taut as she bent slightly.
A whimper escaped him before he could stop it. He slid off the couch onto his knees on the rug. The rough texture against his skin felt like a penance. “Mia,” he breathed, his voice rough with sleep and want.
She didn’t turn. She poured the coffee slowly, the rich aroma mixing with her own scent. “What is it, Luke?”
“Please.”
“Please what?” She took a sip, leaning back against the counter. She still hadn’t looked at him.
He crawled forward, the denim of his jeans rough on his knees. He stopped at her feet, his face level with her thighs. He could see the faint shadow of her pubic hair through the thin cotton of the shorts. The smell of her, sleep-warm and musky, flooded his senses. He nuzzled his face against her inner thigh, his hands coming up to grip the backs of her legs.
“Please let me taste you,” he mumbled into her skin, his words slurred with need. “I need to. I can’t think. I’m so fucking hard for you, Mia. It hurts.”
She set the mug down with a soft click. A hand came down and tangled in his hair, not gently. She pulled his head back, forcing him to look up at her. Her expression was cool, evaluating. “You’re that desperate? Just from watching me walk across the room?”
He nodded frantically, his cock throbbing in time with his pulse. “Yes. Always. I wake up like this. I go to sleep like this. It’s only for you. It’s only ever been for you.”
A slow smile touched her lips. It wasn’t kind. It was victorious. “My poor, hungry boy.” She released his hair and hooked her thumbs into the waistband of her shorts and underwear, pushing them down her hips in one motion. She didn’t step out of them; she let them puddle around her ankles, a trap for his devotion. “Go on, then. Eat.”
He didn’t need a second invitation. He lunged forward, his mouth finding her with a desperate, open-mouthed kiss. She was already wet, her folds slick and swollen. He groaned, the sound vibrating against her, and his tongue dove deep, seeking her flavor—bitter, salty, profoundly her. He worshipped her with a starving man’s fervor, his tongue lapping at her entrance before circling her clit with frantic, focused pressure.
“Oh, fuck,” she sighed, her head tipping back against the cabinet. One hand returned to his hair, guiding him, grinding his face harder against her. “Just like that. Use that pretty tongue. Show me how sorry you are for all that time you wasted.”
He was lost in her. The world narrowed to the feel of her under his mouth, the sounds she made, the way her thighs began to tremble against his ears. He sucked her clit into his mouth, flicking it with the tip of his tongue, and she cried out, her hips jerking forward.
“You’re a natural cunt-licker, you know that?” she gasped, her composure slipping into raw need. “All that innocence and you were born to eat your sister’s pussy. Deeper. Get your tongue inside me.”
He obeyed, spearing his tongue as deep as it would go, fucking her with it, his nose buried in her coarse curls. He was drooling, her wetness and his saliva coating his chin. He could feel her tightening around nothing, her body coiling toward a peak. He redoubled his efforts, slurping and sucking, a messy, obscene feast.
Her climax hit with a sharp, guttural cry. Her hand fisted in his hair, holding him locked against her as she rode his face, her hips bucking erratically. He drank her down, the sharp, electric taste of her release flooding his mouth. He didn’t stop, licking her through the shudders, gentler now, soothing the sensitive flesh until she pushed his head away with a weak groan.
He pulled back, breathing heavily, his face glistening. He looked up at her, his eyes wide and pleading, his erection straining painfully against his zipper.
She looked down at him, her chest rising and falling. She slowly pulled her shorts back up, leaving him kneeling in the aftermath. She picked up her coffee again. “Good boy,” she said, her voice regaining its casual control. “Now clean yourself up. You’re a mess.”
He didn’t move. He stared at the damp spot on her shorts, the evidence of what he’d done. “Mia… I need…”
“You need to learn patience,” she said, taking a sip. “The doorbell’s going to ring in about ten minutes. The internet technician is coming. You should put on some pants.”
She walked away, leaving him on his knees, painfully hard, his mouth still full of her taste. The humiliation was a hot coal in his gut, but it only made his need more acute. He was hers, utterly, and even her denial was a form of possession.
The technician, a pimply young man named Derek, arrived exactly on time. Luke, now wearing sweatpants, let him in, his body humming with unreleased tension. Mia had changed into jeans and a loose sweater, the picture of demure normalcy. She smiled politely at Derek, directing him to the router.
Luke stood awkwardly in the kitchen, listening to Mia make small talk. Her voice was light, friendly. Normal. It was a performance, and he was the only audience member who knew the script. He watched her lean over to point at a cable, the sweater draping forward. He knew what was underneath. He knew the taste, the feel. Derek’s eyes flickered to her chest, and a bolt of pure, irrational rage shot through Luke. He wanted to slam the kid’s head into the wall. Mine, the thought roared, unbidden. She’s mine.
The service call took twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of Luke standing there, his cock aching, jealousy curdling in his stomach as Mia laughed at something Derek said. When the door finally closed, the pleasant mask dropped from Mia’s face like a stone.
She turned to him, leaning against the wall. “You looked like you were going to murder that poor boy.”
“He was looking at you,” Luke growled, the sound foreign in his own throat.
“Of course he was. Men look. It’s what they do.” She pushed off the wall and walked toward him, her steps slow and deliberate. “But only one man gets to kneel for me. Only one man gets to taste me.” She stopped inches from him. “Show me how much it bothered you.”
He was on her in a second. His mouth crashed onto hers, his tongue forcing its way in, claiming her. It was nothing like the desperate worship of before; this was aggressive, possessive. He backed her against the refrigerator, his hands groping under her sweater, tearing at the clasp of her bra. He got it open, her heavy breasts spilling into his palms. He squeezed them roughly, pinching her nipples until she gasped into his mouth.
“Is this what you want?” he panted, his own ferocity surprising him. “You want me to be a fucking animal?”
“Yes,” she hissed, her eyes blazing. “Show me my brother isn’t a soft little boy. Show me what you really are.”
He spun her around, pushing her face against the cool stainless steel of the fridge. He yanked her jeans and underwear down to her knees in one violent jerk. He didn’t bother with foreplay. He freed his aching cock from his sweatpants, the head purple and leaking, and positioned himself at her entrance. She was wet—from his earlier attention, from this—and he slammed into her to the hilt in one brutal stroke.
She screamed, a sharp, satisfied sound that was swallowed by the metal. He fucked her like he was trying to punish her, to brand her, each thrust jarring her body against the appliance. The sounds were raw and loud: the slap of his pelvis against her ass, their ragged breathing, the faint rattle of bottles inside the fridge.
“You like that?” he grunted, one hand fisted in her hair, the other gripping her hip hard enough to bruise. “You like me claiming you? Huh? This is what you made me.”
“Harder!” she shrieked, pushing back against him. “God, yes! It’s what I made you! You’re mine!”
He was losing his mind. The jealousy, the weeks of confused desire, the absolute ownership she held over him—it all erupted. His orgasm built like a tsunami, terrifying in its intensity. He pistoned into her, his rhythm becoming frantic, sloppy.
“I’m gonna come inside you,” he warned, his voice a broken growl. “Gonna fill this greedy cunt up. Is that what you want? You want me to knock up my big sister?”
The filthy words sent her over the edge. She convulsed around him, her inner muscles clamping down on his cock in violent, rhythmic pulses. Her scream was muffled by her own arm. The sensation destroyed him. He shouted, his own release tearing through him, flooding her deep, his hips stuttering as he emptied everything he had into her.
He collapsed against her back, spent, his forehead slick with sweat against her sweater. They stayed like that, joined, panting, for a long minute. The only sound was their labored breathing echoing in the quiet kitchen.
Slowly, he pulled out. A trickle of his cum leaked down her inner thigh. She turned around, her face flushed, her eyes dark and sated. She looked at the evidence on her skin, then up at him. She reached out and wiped a bead of sweat from his temple.
“See?” she whispered, her voice hoarse. “No one else. Just us.”
He nodded, too wrecked to speak. He helped her pull her clothes up, his hands trembling. The fury had burned out, leaving only ashes and a deeper, more terrifying dependency. She kissed him softly, a tender contrast to the violence of moments before.
“Go shower,” she said. “I’ll make lunch.”
He obeyed, shuffling toward the bathroom. As he passed the living room, he saw his phone, still on the floor where he’d thrown it, the cracked screen dark. He thought of Chloe, of her texts that had gone unanswered, her calls sent straight to voicemail. That life seemed like a story he’d read once, about another person. The only reality was here, in this apartment, in the taste of her and the smell of their sex clinging to his skin. He was an addict, and his fix was his sister. And he had no desire whatsoever to get clean.