A guest at a friend’s house does the unthinkable to their sister
The wind never stops here. I’ve been sleeping at Tyler’s for a week, killing time until the end of summer.
Tyler’s sister Claire is fifteen, She has her own room in the basement, separate entrance, small kitchenette, basically an apartment down there. She’s quiet, keeps to herself.
And gorgeous, blonde hair, blue eyes.
Tyler passed out early tonight, drunk on cheap beer. The house settled into that deep stillness that happens after midnight. I was still awake, restless, my skin feeling too tight.
I snuck to the basement door and listened, I could her steady even breathing, she was asleep.
I went down there. Her space smelled like vanilla candles and textbooks. Her laundry basket sat in the corner, half full. I found a pair of her pantiesz cotton, black, simple.
The basement door clicked shut behind me. I climbed the stairs two at a time, quiet, my heart still hammering from being down there surrounded by her things. Back in the guest room, I shut the door and lay on the futon in the dark, staring at the ceiling.
I lay back and pushed my sweatpants down, my cock already hard from anticipation. I pressed the panties against my face first, inhaling deep, that faint trace of her, the detergent smell mixed with something warmer, something that made my mouth water. I imagined them pulled tight against her pussy, the cotton seam riding up, her heat soaked into the fabric.
I wrapped the panties around my shaft, the soft cotton sliding against my skin. I held them with both hands and started stroking, slow at first, letting the friction build, feeling the lace trim scratch lightly against my balls. I spit into the cotton to wet it, kept pumping, my hips lifting off the futon to meet each stroke.
I thought about her wearing them tomorrow morning, sliding them up her legs, the cotton settling against her lips. She’d never know. She’d walk around with my cum pressed against her skin, soaking into her, mixing with her own heat. The thought made me grip tighter, stroke faster, my wrist aching from the friction.
My thighs tensed, my breath coming in ragged gasps. I pictured her face, those blue eyes, her mouth slightly open, and I fucked my fist harder, the panties bunching around my cock, wet now from my spit and precum.
I came with a strangled grunt, shooting thick and hot right into the gusset, soaking through the cotton where she’d worn them against her body. I kept stroking, slower, milking every drop out into the fabric, my hips bucking up until I was empty and sensitive and still I kept the panties wrapped around me, my cum cooling sticky against my skin.
I lay there for a minute, heart hammering, the house silent around me. Then I pulled my pants up, held the panties in my fist, heavy now, damp, ruined.
I crept downstairs barefoot. The basement was dark, her door cracked open, her breathing steady and slow. I slipped into her room, found her drawer, and laid the panties on top, folded neat, innocent looking, the wet spot hidden inside. She’d grab them tomorrow morning, half-asleep, pull them on without looking
I went back upstairs and lay back down
She was right below me. Soft in ways I couldn’t stop imagining. I pictured her coming home, stripping off her jeans, her shirt, standing in front of the mirror in just her bra. The black ones I’d held were probably in her drawer now, waiting for tomorrow morning when she’d slide them on unaware.
I wanted to see it. Actually see her.
My mind started working through it like a puzzle. The basement had those small windows near the ceiling, ground level from outside. If I went out back late enough, when the house was asleep, maybe I could crouch by one. But they were frosted glass, useless.
The shower. She showered down there every morning, I’d heard the pipes rumble through the walls. There was a gap in the door, maybe. Or a reflection in the mirror if the angle was right. I could go down to “grab a glass of water” from the kitchenette, time it right, catch her stepping out wrapped in a towel, the steam still clinging to her shoulders.
Or the laundry again. She’d mentioned putting clothes away. If I was down there when she was sorting through the basket, I could position myself on the stairs, looking down, catch a glimpse down her shirt while she bent over.
I rolled onto my side, hard and aching, hating myself and wanting it more because of that. The house was so quiet I could hear the furnace click on, could imagine her down there in her bed, sheets kicked off, wearing whatever she slept in. A tank top. Nothing underneath.
Tomorrow. I’d figure it out tomorrow. The waiting felt like a pressure behind my eyes, sweet and unbearable. I closed my eyes and saw her, clear as anything, stepping out of those black panties, looking right at me like she wanted me to watch.
These are stories either minor details changed to hide my identity
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