19f, let my Gay stepbrother taste his first pussy and he breed me raw

I'd been home for three weeks, and I was losing my goddamn mind.

Not because of the small-town boredom that crept into my bones every time I visited. Not because my mom kept asking about my grades, her eyes filled with that hopeful, expectant look that made me want to scream. It was him. It was always him.

Liam walked through the kitchen in nothing but gray sweatpants, his hair still wet from the shower, and I forgot how to breathe. Water droplets trailed down his chest, catching in the light dusting of hair that led from his navel down into that elastic waistband. He didn't even look at me as he reached for the coffee pot, his back muscles shifting with the movement.

"Morning, squirt."

Squirt.

I was nineteen years old. I had a C-cup and an ass that made guys on campus walk into doors, their eyes practically glued to me as I passed. But to him, I was still the annoying little stepsister who showed up two years ago with too much luggage and too many questions about everything.

"Morning," I managed, watching him grab a protein bar from the pantry. His biceps flexed as he tore the wrapper open, and I felt that familiar heat pool low in my belly. I knew the exact shape of that back, had memorized every plane and shadow of his body from years of stolen glances and hungry looks.

He was so beautiful it made my teeth ache, made my hands clench into fists at my sides just to keep myself from reaching out and touching him.

The thing was, I wasn't supposed to want him.

He was my stepbrother. Our parents got married two years ago, and suddenly this tall, lean, sarcastic artist was in my life, sleeping three doors down, wandering around in his boxers at 2 AM when he couldn't sleep, his body a silhouette of pure perfection against the dim hallway light.

And he was gay.

Openly, proudly, unapologetically gay. He'd had boyfriends, brought guys home sometimes, and I'd have to sit in my room and listen to their low laughter through the thin walls, my teeth grinding with jealousy I refused to acknowledge. I'd seen him kiss a man on the porch, hands tangled in short hair, lips moving together in a way that made something twist violently in my chest.

Because if he was gay, he was safe. He'd never see me the way I wanted him to. I could want him all I wanted, and nothing would ever come of it.

That was the lie I told myself for two years.

It was a beautiful, comforting, utterly false lie.

It started small, the way these things always do.

I'd "accidentally" leave my door open when I changed, making sure to stand in just the right spot so that if he happened to walk past, he'd get an eyeful of me in my bra and panties. I'd stretch in front of him, arching my back in ways that made my tank top ride up to show the curve of my waist, the soft swell of my hips. I'd wear shorts so small they were practically underwear and bend over to pick things up, watching him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for any reaction.

At first, nothing. He'd roll his eyes, call me a weirdo, and go back to his sketchbook with an infuriating lack of interest.

But then I noticed things.

The way his eyes would linger a fraction of a second too long when I came out of the pool in my bikini, his gaze dragging over my body before he caught himself. The way his voice would get this tight little edge when I sat too close on the couch, my thigh pressing against his. The way he'd shift in his seat, adjusting his jeans, when I walked past in something revealing.

He wasn't as immune as he pretended to be.

I started pushing harder. Sitting on the arm of his chair, my thigh brushing his shoulder, close enough that I could feel the warmth radiating off his skin. Leaning over him to look at his sketches, letting my hair fall forward, my chest almost in his face, my nipples hardening against the thin fabric of my shirt. Casually stretching out on his bed while he played video games, my legs bare and spread just enough to show the curve of my thigh, my t-shirt riding up to expose my stomach.

He'd tense up. He'd swallow hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. He'd tell me to get lost, but his voice would crack just a little, and I'd see the bulge growing in his pants before he adjusted himself.

I knew then. I wasn't imagining it.

He wanted me.

He just wouldn't admit it.

The night it happened, our parents were gone for the weekend.

Mom and Mark had gone to a wedding three states away, some old college friend of Mark's who was getting married for the second time. They wouldn't be back until Sunday night. The house was ours. No rules. No witnesses. Just me and Liam and all the tension that had been building for months, crackling between us like electricity before a storm.

I made a decision.

Not a rational one. Not a careful one. The kind of decision that comes from the gut, from some deep, selfish place that doesn't care about consequences or propriety or the fact that we were supposed to be family.

I wanted him. I'd wanted him for so long it felt like a physical ache, a constant thrumming under my skin that never quite went away. And I was done waiting for him to make the first move. He was never going to. He'd convinced himself he was gay, that I was off-limits, that the way his body reacted to me was some kind of mistake. He'd pushed it down so deep he probably believed it himself.

So I'd show him. I'd make him feel it, and he couldn't deny that.

I put on my silk robe—the black one, short and clinging, with nothing underneath. I let it hang open just enough to show the swell of my breasts, the curve of my hip, the shadow between my thighs. I ran my fingers through my hair, fluffing it out, and walked out to the living room.

He was on the couch, sprawled out in sweatpants and nothing else, video game controller in his hand. The TV cast blue light across his chest, highlighting the sharp lines of his abs, the v-cut that disappeared into his waistband. His jaw was strong, his lips full and slightly parted in concentration, and I felt myself getting wet just looking at him.

I told him I was bored, my voice low and sultry in a way I'd practiced in the mirror, but he didn't even look up, just told me to go to bed. When I said I wasn't tired, I sat down next to him—too close, my knee brushing his thigh. He tensed but didn't pull away, and I felt a thrill of victory.

He finally glanced at me, and his eyes went wide at what I was wearing—or rather, what I wasn't wearing beneath the robe. I acted innocent, telling him they were just comfortable clothes, letting the robe fall open a little more. He protested, his voice rough, saying it was practically see-through, and I leaned closer, letting him smell my perfume as I told him it was only see-through around my chest. The robe had fallen open enough to show the underside of my breast, the soft curve where it swelled out from my ribs, my nipple just barely visible. His eyes fixed on it, and I watched his pupils dilate, watched his breath catch.

"Avery," he said, his voice gone rough and gravelly. "What are you doing?"

I tilted my head, giving him my most innocent look, telling him I was just hanging out with my stepbrother. He called bullshit, saying I needed to go put on real clothes.

"Make me."

The words hung in the air between us, charged and dangerous. I watched his jaw tighten, his hands clench around the controller until his knuckles went white.

"You don't know what you're asking for," he said quietly, and there was something in his voice that made my pulse race.

"Then tell me."

He shook his head, insisting this wasn't right—I was his stepsister, and he was gay. I reached out, trailing my fingers down his bare chest, feeling his muscles jump under my touch, and I told him I thought he was wrong. When he started to protest again, I asked him why he was hard, and his breath caught in a sharp intake of air that told me everything I needed to know. I looked down at his lap, and there it was—a thick bulge straining against the thin fabric of his sweatpants, long and hard and so obvious he couldn't hide it.

"Don't," he said, but his voice was weak, barely a whisper. "Don't do this."

I shifted closer, letting my robe fall completely open, telling him not to do what—not to make him feel good, not to give him what he clearly wanted. He tried to deny it, but I called him a liar and kissed him.

It wasn't gentle. It wasn't soft. It was hungry, demanding, the kind of kiss I'd been fantasizing about for months, years, forever. I pushed my tongue into his mouth and tasted him—coffee and something sweet, something that was just him, that made my head spin.

He froze for a second. A single heartbeat where he could have pushed me away, could have ended it right there.

He didn't.

He kissed me back.

His hand came up to my face, fingers tangling in my hair, and he groaned into my mouth. It was a broken sound, like he'd been holding it back for years, like the dam had finally broken. He pulled me closer, his other hand finding my waist, gripping me like he was afraid I'd disappear.

When we finally broke apart, we were both breathing hard, our foreheads pressed together.

"I'm gay," he said, but it sounded like a question, like he wasn't sure anymore.

I ground my hips against his, letting him feel exactly how much I wanted him, how wet I was for him, and asked him why he was kissing me like he was starving if he was really gay. When he stammered, unable to form words, I smiled slow and dangerous and told him I could help him figure out what he was.

I pushed him back against the couch and straddled his lap. He was so hard I could feel him pressing against me through the thin fabric of his sweatpants, thick and heavy. I rolled my hips, slow and deliberate, and watched his eyes flutter shut, his mouth falling open as a curse escaped his lips. I agreed, rocking against him, building a rhythm, letting myself enjoy the way his hands found my hips, gripping me like he couldn't decide whether to push me away or pull me closer. I could feel the heat of him through the fabric, could feel how much he wanted this.

Leaning down to whisper in his ear, I told him I'd been trying to get his attention for months and that he was really good at pretending. His breath hitched as he tried to deny it, but I kissed his neck, just below his jaw, feeling his pulse racing under my lips, and told him I'd watched him watch me when he thought I wasn't looking. I felt him get hard when I walked past, knew he wanted me and hated himself for it. When he tried to protest again, I dared him to tell me I was wrong.

He couldn't. I could feel it in the way his hands tightened on my hips, the way he thrust up against me involuntarily, his body betraying everything his mouth wouldn't say.

He insisted this was wrong, but his voice was trembling, and I told him wrong felt so good though, didn't it? He groaned, and I felt it in his whole body—the surrender, the giving in. He was done fighting, done pretending.

I pulled his shirt off, tossing it aside, and pressed my mouth to his chest. I kissed down his sternum, over his ribs, feeling his heart hammering under my lips. I traced the line of his abs with my tongue, tasting salt and skin, and he shuddered beneath me, gasping my name. I tugged at his waistband, pulling his sweatpants down, telling him to let me.

His cock sprang free—thick and hard, long and beautiful, leaking precum at the tip. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly, watching his face contort with pleasure as I murmured about how hard he was for me, how desperate. He admitted he'd never done this with a girl, and I smiled, telling him I was going to be his first.

I leaned down and took him in my mouth.

The sound he made was inhuman. A broken, gasping moan that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, raw and primal. His hands tangled in my hair, not pushing me away, but holding me there, pulling me deeper onto his cock. I took him as far as I could, letting my throat relax, feeling him hit the back of my throat. I bobbed my head, slow at first, then faster, using my hand on what I couldn't reach. I swirled my tongue around the head, tasting his precum, salty and addictive.

He was already warning me he was going to come, his hips thrusting up into my mouth, but I pulled off, grinning at him through swollen lips. I told him not yet—I wanted to feel him inside me. He stared at me, chest heaving, eyes dark with raw lust, and said I was going to kill him.

"Probably," I agreed, climbing off his lap, taking his hand, and leading him to my room.

I pushed him onto the bed and climbed on top of him. He watched me with wide eyes, almost reverent, as I positioned myself over his cock. I was so wet I could feel it dripping down my thighs, and when I pressed the head of him against my entrance, we both gasped. I held his gaze as I sank down onto him, and the feeling of him stretching me open inch by inch, filling me completely, was overwhelming. I'd imagined this so many times, but the reality was so much better—the fullness, the heat, the way he seemed to reach every part of me.

I started to move, slow at first, rolling my hips in lazy circles, letting him feel every inch of me. His eyes never left mine, and I could see the conflict there—the guilt warring with the desire, the confusion battling the pleasure. I told him to tell me he didn't want this, to tell me I was wrong, and I'd stop. He couldn't. His mouth opened, but no words came out—just a broken moan as I tightened around him. I demanded he tell me, bouncing harder now, my breasts swaying with the motion, my hair falling around us like a curtain. His hands found my ass, gripping me, guiding me, and he finally admitted he couldn't tell me that because he wanted this—he wanted me.

I leaned forward, pressing my chest against his, my lips to his ear, and told him to take what he wanted.

Something shifted in him. He flipped us over, pressing me into the mattress, and started thrusting into me with a desperation that made me gasp. He drove into me hard and deep, and I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him closer. He confessed he'd wanted me for so long, every time I walked past him in those tiny shorts, every time I stretched out in front of him, he wanted to—I urged him to do it, to take me, to make me his. And he did.

He fucked me hard, fast, deep, and I took everything he gave me. The sound of our bodies slapping together filled the room, wet and primal, and I'd never been more turned on in my life. His cock slid in and out of me, coated in my wetness, and I could feel myself getting close. He started to say he was going to come, but I told him not yet, tightening around him, wanting to cum with him. He groaned, burying his face in my neck, saying he couldn't—I felt too good. I commanded him to hold it, rolling my hips to meet his thrusts, telling him I was close, just a little longer. I could feel the tension building, the pleasure coiling tight in my core, and I was right there, on the edge.

"Now," I gasped. "Cum for me. Now."

He did. I felt him pulse inside me, hot and thick, and the feeling of him letting go pushed me over the edge. I came with a cry, my body clenching around him, wave after wave of pleasure crashing through me.

We collapsed together, both of us shaking, gasping for breath.

For a long moment, neither of us spoke. He was still inside me, softening, and I could feel the evidence of what we'd done leaking out around him. It was messy, and perfect, and I didn't want to move.

Liam lifted his head, meeting my eyes. There was so much there—confusion, wonder, something that looked almost like fear.

"I don't understand what just happened," he said.

I reached up, tracing the line of his jaw. "You don't have to understand. You just have to feel."

He leaned down, pressing his forehead to mine. "I've never felt anything like that. Ever."

"Me neither."

"I'm gay," he said, and this time it sounded like a confession, like he was admitting something terrible. "I've always known I was gay."

I smiled. "Maybe you're not as gay as you thought."

He laughed, a broken little sound. "Maybe I'm not."

We showered together. It started with me pulling him into the bathroom, turning on the water, and stepping under the spray. He followed me, still naked, still looking dazed and beautiful. I had him turn around, and I washed his back, running my hands over the muscles I'd been admiring for years. He leaned into my touch, groaning softly, calling me insane. I agreed, pressing my lips to his shoulder blade, feeling him shiver, and told him he liked it. He turned around, pulling me against him, and said he liked all of it—he liked me. I kissed him, soft and slow, telling him good, because I wasn't done with him.

The shower got more interesting after that. He pressed me against the tile, cold on my back, his body hot against my front. He kissed down my neck, my chest, taking one of my nipples into his mouth, and I arched against him. I warned him he was going to make me cum again, and he said that was the idea. He lifted me up, wrapping my legs around his waist, and guided himself inside me. I gasped at the fullness, the angle different but just as good. He told me he loved the way I felt, so wet and tight, and he couldn't believe he spent two years pretending he didn't want this. I kissed him and told him I always knew. The water streamed over us as he fucked me against the wall, slow and deep. I could feel every inch of him, could feel myself getting close again. I begged him not to stop, and he promised he never would, that he was never going to stop wanting me. He thrust harder, faster, and I felt myself shatter around him. I cried out his name, my body trembling, and the feeling of me clenching around him sent him over the edge too. We came together, and it was perfect.

We stumbled out of the shower, both of us exhausted, and fell into my bed. I curled up against his chest, tracing lazy patterns on his skin.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"I don't know." I tilted my head to look at him. "What do you want to happen?"

"You."

I smiled. "Good answer."

I drifted off to sleep in his arms, feeling safer and more content than I'd felt in years.

The next morning, I woke up to his arm around my waist and his morning wood pressing against my ass. I murmured sleepily if we were going again, and he kissed my shoulder, saying if I was offering, he was always offering. He rolled me onto my back, kissing down my body, and I spread my legs for him. He looked up at me, eyes dark with want, and asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted him to make me cum with his mouth. His smile was wicked as he told me my wish was his command. He ate me out like he'd been doing it his whole life, slow and reverent, his tongue tracing every fold, his fingers spreading me open. I came with a cry, my hands in his hair, and I was still shaking when he moved up to kiss me. I pulled him down on top of me, telling him now it was his turn, that I wanted to feel him again. He pushed inside me, and it was like coming home. I wrapped my legs around him, pulling him deeper, and watched his face as he moved inside me. I told him to look at me and not look away, and he didn't. His eyes were locked on mine as he fucked me, slow and deep and perfect. And when we came, it was together, our bodies moving in sync.

That was the first time. It wasn't the last.

Every night that weekend, I was in his bed or he was in mine. We couldn't keep our hands off each other. We fucked in the kitchen, on the couch, against the wall in the hallway. We explored each other's bodies like we were discovering a new country.

And when our parents came home, we went back to being "just stepsiblings" again. But the looks were different now. The touches lingered. And at night, when the house was dark, I'd sneak into his room and he'd hold me close.

"We can't keep doing this," he said one night, after we'd finished.

"I know." I kissed his chest. "But I don't want to stop."

"Neither do I."

"So we don't."

It was that simple. And that complicated.

It's been three months since that first night. We've gotten better at hiding it, but the need hasn't faded. If anything, it's grown. I want him constantly, obsessively, like a drug I can't get enough of.

END. \*If it gets enough upvote, I might share a second part\*

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