The house has gone quiet.
Downstairs, I hear the murmur of Cindy's voice — she must be watching one of her baking shows, the ones Jake pretends to tolerate — and the clink of dishes being loaded into the dishwasher. The normal sounds of a normal marriage.
Lying in the guest bed, I stare at the ceiling, my body throbbing with the memory of what we did. Between my legs, Jake's cum has dried sticky against my thighs, a shameful badge mark. I touch my lips — swollen from his mouth — and my nipples — sore from his teeth — and I want to cry.
What kind of sister are you?
The thought is a knife twist. Cindy's face keeps appearing behind my eyelids — her smile when she brought me the water, her hand on my forehead, her blind trust. And how I used that trust. How I begged her husband to fill me while she was twenty feet away.
Tears leak down my temples, pooling in my ears. I pull the blanket higher, trying to disappear, trying to suffocate the heat that still pulses in my core despite the guilt.
Then —
The door handle turns.
The hinges whisper as it pushes open, and Jake slips inside, closing it behind him with a soft, deliberate click.
My heart stops.
He stands there in the semidarkness, still wearing the dress shirt from dinner, though it's untucked now, the top buttons undone. His hair is mussed — from fucking me, from my fingers gripping it — and his eyes are dark, unreadable pools.
"Get out," I hiss, scrambling upright, clutching the blanket to my chest like a shield. "Jake, no — she's right downstairs —"
He doesn't listen.
He crosses the room in three silent strides and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress dips under his weight, rolling me toward him. I scramble back, pressing against the headboard, my knees drawn up, but he catches my wrist.
"Relax," he murmurs, his voice velvet and dangerous. But then he does something unexpected — he pulls me into his arms.
His chest is hard, warm, smelling of sweat and sex and his cologne. His arms wrap around me, one hand coming up to stroke my hair. For a second, I'm confused by the tenderness, my body melts against him, seeking comfort from the very source of my guilt.
"Poor Jessica," he whispers into my hair, his lips brushing my temple. "All torn up inside, aren't you? You were begging so beautifully an hour ago — please, Jake, fuck me, breed me — and now you're trying to be a good girl again."
His hand slides down, under the blanket, finding my bare waist. It trails up, rough fingers grazing my ribcage, heading for my breast.
"No," I gasp, even as my nipple hardens against his palm. "No, we can't — Cindy — she trusts me — I'm her sister —"
"She's watching The Great British Bake Off," he murmurs against my neck, his teeth grazing my pulse. His fingers find my nipple, rolling it, pinching just hard enough to make me arch. "And you're up here, wet and warm and ready for me again. You want me to stop, Jessica? Really?"
His other hand snakes between my legs, finding my clit still swollen, still sensitive. He circles it with expert precision, and a moan tears from my throat before I can stop it.
"Please," I sob, pushing against his chest, but my hips rock into his hand, betraying me completely. "Jake, please… I can't… I'll ruin everything… she loves you… she loves me… please don't make me do this…"
The tears are real now, hot and messy. I'm crying because it feels too good. I'm crying because I want him to keep going and want him to leave and I'm split down the middle, breaking apart.
"Shh," he whispers, his hand stilling between my legs. He pulls back slightly, looking down at me. His face is unreadable in the dim light from the hallway crack. "You're right."
What?
"You're right," he repeats, his voice suddenly soft. Gentle. Nothing like the brutal commands from before. His hand withdraws from my pants, and he uses his thumb to wipe the tears from my cheek. "We can't do this to Cindy. She doesn't deserve that. You're a good sister, Jessica. You're a good girl."
"I… I don't understand," I whisper, staring at him, frozen, my pussy aching where his fingers left off.
"I got carried away," he says, his voice full of regret — or what sounds like regret. He tucks my hair behind my ear, his touch feather-light. "It's my fault. I shouldn't have taken advantage of you. You were just… so sweet. So willing. But you're right. This stops now."
He leans in, and I freeze, thinking he's going to kiss me, but instead his lips brush my eyelids — first one, then the other, tasting my tears.
"Get some rest," he whispers, standing up. He adjusts his shirt, smoothing it down, and looks at me with something like regret. "Forget this happened. I'll forget too. I'll be the perfect brother-in-law from now on. Promise."
He turns and walks out.
The door closes with a soft click, leaving me alone in the dark, my body on fire, my heart hammering, my pussy clenching around nothing.
He keeps his word.
The next morning, I come downstairs to find him reading the newspaper at the kitchen island, a cup of coffee in hand. He looks up when I enter, and his smile is polite. Distant. Brotherly.
"Morning, Jessica. Sleep okay?"
"Fine," I mumble, my face burning.
Cindy bustles over, handing me a plate of pancakes. "Jake made your favorite — blueberry. He insisted."
"Thanks," I whisper, not meeting his eyes.
"Anytime, kiddo," he says, his voice warm but detached. He doesn't look at my chest. He doesn't let his hand brush mine. He's the perfect gentleman, the perfect husband, the perfect brother-in-law.
And it's killing me.
Over the next week, it continues. He drives me back to campus — my suitcase in the trunk, Cindy waving goodbye — and during the drive, he asks about my classes, my major, my career goals. He talks about the stock market. He doesn't mention the window. He doesn't mention his cum inside me.
When he drops me off at my dorm, he helps me with my bags, pats my shoulder, and says, "Take care, Jessica."
Then he gets in his car and drives away.
And I realize — with a sickening lurch in my stomach — that he means it.
He's done.
The first night back in my dorm, I lie in my narrow twin bed, staring at the ceiling. My roommate, Chloe, is out at a party. The room is dark except for the glow of my laptop charger.
And all I can feel is the absence.
Him.
His weight on top of me.
The smell of sandalwood and sweat.
The brutal stretch of his cock splitting me open.
The way he growled in my ear — "Beg for it. Beg for my cum."
My thighs press together, squeezing, trying to recreate the pressure, the fullness. But there's nothing. My fingers trail down my stomach, under my pajama shorts, finding my clit — swollen, throbbing, desperate.
But when I touch myself, it's wrong. Too small. Too soft.
Close my eyes and try to remember.
The way he carried me, impaled on his cock, up the stairs.
The way his hands bruised my hips.
The sound of my own voice begging — "Breed me, Jake."
My fingers move faster, dipping into my wetness, but it's hollow. I can't reach the spot he hit. I can't recreate the stretch. My own touch feels like a ghost compared to the reality of him.
"Please," I whisper into the darkness, not even sure who I'm begging — him, or my own body to just forget.
But my body won't forget.
By Wednesday, I'm changing my underwear three times a day. The discharge is constant — thick, slippery, obscene. My panties are soaked through by noon, my clit rubbing painfully against the fabric with every step across campus.
"Girl, you are distracted," Chloe says Thursday night, snapping her fingers in front of my face. We're supposed to be studying for midterms, but I'm staring blankly at my textbook, my thighs pressed together under the library table. "Is it a guy? Did you meet someone over the weekend?"
"Sort of," I mumble, my face hot.
"Ooh, spill," she grins. "Is he cute?"
He's gorgeous. He's married to my sister. He fucked me against a window and then acted like it never happened.
"He's… complicated," I manage.
"Complicated usually means good in bed," Chloe winks. "Lucky bitch."
If only she knew.
That night, I lock the bathroom door — the shared dorm bathroom with its harsh fluorescent lights and smell of cheap shampoo — and sit on the toilet with my legs spread. I touch myself with both hands, one rubbing my clit, two fingers pumping into my pussy, trying to stretch myself, trying to find the angle.
But it's not enough.
My fingers are too small. Too short. They don't fill me. They don't own me.
Look at myself in the mirror — tear-streaked, flushed, desperate — and I hate what I see.
A girl who betrayed her sister.
A girl who can't stop wanting the man who ruined her.
A girl who would spread her legs again in a second if he just looked at me with that hunger once more.
Rub myself until I'm raw, until my clit is throbbing painfully, until I'm sobbing quietly into my palm to keep Chloe from hearing.
But I'm empty.
So empty.
And I know — with terrifying certainty — that no matter how many times I touch myself, no matter how many boys try to kiss me at parties, no matter how many showers I take —
I'll never feel clean.
I'll never feel full.
Not until he touches me again.
And he's made it clear.
He won't.