22-11-2024, 05:02 PM
(This post was last modified: 22-11-2024, 05:19 PM by Naruto411. Edited 1 time in total. Edited 1 time in total.)
Warning if incest is not your cup skip to next post
You step out of your room, the soft rustle of your dress brushing against your thighs as you walk down the hallway. The warmth of the shower still lingers on your skin, mingling with the coolness of the air. Your hair is damp, framing your face in a way that draws attention to your lips, still slightly swollen from where you’d bitten them earlier.
As you enter the hall, you feel eyes on you. Or maybe you imagine it. The slut in your mind wakes, purring her little truths, the ones you’d rather not admit. "They’re looking," she whispers. "They always look. You know they can’t help it."
Your brother is slouched at the table, a glass of milk in hand, but his eyes flicker toward you the moment you step in. The slut in you chuckles. "See? Watch how he glances. His gaze lingers just a second too long on your chest. He thinks you don’t notice, but you do."
You catch him staring, his focus darting back to his drink awkwardly as if he can play it off. But you know better. Your dress hugs you in all the right places, the neckline just low enough to hint at the swell of your breasts. You could swear you see his throat bob as he gulps down the milk.
Your father sits nearby, the morning paper spread in front of him, but his attention shifts the moment you approach. "Remember," the slut reminds you, a low, teasing whisper in the back of your mind, "how he softens the moment you hug him? How his hands freeze when they brush against your chest, no matter how innocent it seems? And that time on his lap… oh, you felt it, didn’t you? The hardness pressing against you before you quickly got up. He didn’t say a word, but you know he remembers too."
You shake off the thought, moving toward the kitchen where your mom is bustling around, her movements quick and efficient as she makes breakfast. The smell of eggs and toast fills the air, and she greets you with a cheerful smile. She doesn’t notice the tension in the room, the way your brother steals another glance, or how your father seems overly focused on his coffee now.
“Sit down, honey,” your mom says, setting a plate on the counter. “You must be starving.”
You take a seat, acutely aware of the way your brother shifts in his chair, pretending not to look as you lean forward to grab a slice of toast. The slut in your head laughs again. "He’s imagining things," she says. "Just like always. You know how he is. The way his eyes always follow you, especially when you’re not wearing a bra. And today? That dress? You’re killing him."
You glance at him briefly, your eyes meeting his for a split second before he looks away, his face slightly flushed. He takes a long drink of milk, as though it’ll distract him. The slut in you sighs contentedly. "They can pretend all they want," she murmurs. "But you see everything. You feel everything. And it’s delicious, isn’t it?"
Your mother sets a cup of tea in front of you, oblivious to the undercurrent of the room. As you sip it, you feel the slut in your mind stirring again, imagining scenarios that are too wild to admit even to yourself. But the reality is enough for now—the unspoken tension, the stolen glances, the way you’re always aware of the power you hold without even trying.
You step out of your room, the soft rustle of your dress brushing against your thighs as you walk down the hallway. The warmth of the shower still lingers on your skin, mingling with the coolness of the air. Your hair is damp, framing your face in a way that draws attention to your lips, still slightly swollen from where you’d bitten them earlier.
As you enter the hall, you feel eyes on you. Or maybe you imagine it. The slut in your mind wakes, purring her little truths, the ones you’d rather not admit. "They’re looking," she whispers. "They always look. You know they can’t help it."
Your brother is slouched at the table, a glass of milk in hand, but his eyes flicker toward you the moment you step in. The slut in you chuckles. "See? Watch how he glances. His gaze lingers just a second too long on your chest. He thinks you don’t notice, but you do."
You catch him staring, his focus darting back to his drink awkwardly as if he can play it off. But you know better. Your dress hugs you in all the right places, the neckline just low enough to hint at the swell of your breasts. You could swear you see his throat bob as he gulps down the milk.
Your father sits nearby, the morning paper spread in front of him, but his attention shifts the moment you approach. "Remember," the slut reminds you, a low, teasing whisper in the back of your mind, "how he softens the moment you hug him? How his hands freeze when they brush against your chest, no matter how innocent it seems? And that time on his lap… oh, you felt it, didn’t you? The hardness pressing against you before you quickly got up. He didn’t say a word, but you know he remembers too."
You shake off the thought, moving toward the kitchen where your mom is bustling around, her movements quick and efficient as she makes breakfast. The smell of eggs and toast fills the air, and she greets you with a cheerful smile. She doesn’t notice the tension in the room, the way your brother steals another glance, or how your father seems overly focused on his coffee now.
“Sit down, honey,” your mom says, setting a plate on the counter. “You must be starving.”
You take a seat, acutely aware of the way your brother shifts in his chair, pretending not to look as you lean forward to grab a slice of toast. The slut in your head laughs again. "He’s imagining things," she says. "Just like always. You know how he is. The way his eyes always follow you, especially when you’re not wearing a bra. And today? That dress? You’re killing him."
You glance at him briefly, your eyes meeting his for a split second before he looks away, his face slightly flushed. He takes a long drink of milk, as though it’ll distract him. The slut in you sighs contentedly. "They can pretend all they want," she murmurs. "But you see everything. You feel everything. And it’s delicious, isn’t it?"
Your mother sets a cup of tea in front of you, oblivious to the undercurrent of the room. As you sip it, you feel the slut in your mind stirring again, imagining scenarios that are too wild to admit even to yourself. But the reality is enough for now—the unspoken tension, the stolen glances, the way you’re always aware of the power you hold without even trying.
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