Could you mind to do another stepbrother Paul lahote?
Summary: You are obsessed with your Step Brother Paul and want him.
Warnings: Masturbation, cum kink, stepcest.
The routine had started by accident.
You'd left your panties in the bathroom again—not on purpose, not that first time. Just a careless mistake. A scrap of black lace with a soaked-through crotch because you'd spent the entire morning hyper-aware of Paul doing push-ups in the living room, his muscles flexing, sweat rolling down the lines of his abs, and you'd been dripping. The cotton panel had been ruined, slick and creamy with your arousal, and you'd forgotten them on the counter beside the sink.
When you'd come back for them hours later, they'd been folded neatly. Still damp, but different now. Heavier. The crotch was soaked in something that wasn't your slick—something thicker, pearl-white, potent.
His cum.
You'd stood in the bathroom holding those panties, heart pounding, and brought them to your nose. The smell hit you like a drug—sharp and salty and undeniably male, mixed with the faint trace of your own scent. Your thighs had squeezed together, your cunt clenching around nothing, and before you could think better of it, you'd dragged your tongue across the fabric.
The taste had ruined you. Hot, slightly bitter, overwhelmingly him. You'd licked those panties clean, moaning around the fabric, your free hand shoved between your legs, and came harder than you ever had in your life.
And then you'd started leaving them on purpose.
Every morning the same game. You'd pick the most obscene pair in your drawer—fabric that existed more as suggestion than function—and wear them around the house until they were ruined with your slick.
Today's selection: a cherry-red lace thong so sheer it hid absolutely nothing. The crotch was a narrow strip of fabric that rode directly between your lips, and every step reminded you it was there. You'd been wearing it for three hours now, moving through the house in your tiny sleep shorts and a cropped tank with no bra, and the fabric was drenched.
Paul was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a glass of water, shirtless because he was always fucking shirtless. His sweatpants hung low enough that you could see the V of muscle cutting into his hips, the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband. He didn't look up when you walked in.
You made sure he felt you, though. Opened the fridge unnecessarily slowly, bending at the waist, the hem of your shorts riding up to flash the red lace. Shifted your weight to your other foot, hips cocking. Reached for something on a high shelf you didn't even want.
"Trying too hard."
His voice was flat, unimpressed. You glanced over your shoulder. He still hadn't looked up from his water.
"I don't know what you're talking about." You pulled a bottle of juice from the fridge and hopped onto the counter across from him, legs crossed, elbows on your knees. The position made your shorts ride up even further. "I'm just getting breakfast."
"You're just being a tease." He finally raised his eyes, and they swept over you—slow, deliberate, appraising. "Same show every day. Boring."
Boring. The word hit like a slap, and something hot and defiant flared in your chest. You uncrossed your legs, let your knees fall open just enough to give him a view of the soaked red lace clinging to your pussy. "If it's so boring, why do you keep leaving me presents?"
His jaw tightened. Just barely. You wouldn't have caught it if you hadn't been studying his face like it was your goddamn job.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"No?" You hopped off the counter, juice in hand, and sauntered past him—close enough that your bare arm brushed his, close enough to feel the insane heat radiating off his skin. You paused beside him, lips brushing his ear. "Then who filled my panties with cum yesterday? Because there was a lot." You let the word drag. "Someone's been working hard."
His hand shot out and gripped your wrist. Not rough—controlled. His fingers wrapped around your pulse point easily, and you felt your heartbeat kick up beneath his grip.
"Maybe you shouldn't leave your dirty fucking panties lying around," he said, voice dropping to a register that vibrated through your bones. "Anything could happen to them."
"Maybe I leave them around on purpose." You pulled your wrist free, took a long sip of juice, and licked your lips. "Maybe I like what happens to them."
You walked away before he could respond, putting an extra swing in your hips, and you heard him exhale sharply behind you. The sound shot straight between your legs.
By afternoon, the red thong was unwearable.
You'd spent the day in a state of low, simmering arousal—winding Paul up, letting him wind you up right back. He'd brushed past you in the hallway, his hand settling on your lower back for just a second, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your shorts. He'd called you princess in that mocking tone that made your teeth grit and your cunt throb. At one point he'd stretched out on the couch right next to you, arm draped behind your head, and you could smell him—sweat and pine and something underneath that was just him—and your nipples had gone so hard they ached.
Now you peeled the thong off in the bathroom, and the crotch was absolutely destroyed. Creamy slick coated the lace, your arousal smeared across the fabric in a thick wet stripe. You held them up, examined your work, and smiled.
Then you folded them neatly and left them on the sink.
You left the bathroom. Went to your room. Put on fresh panties—a tiny pink g-string that was basically floss—and a white tank top with nothing underneath. Then you waited.
You didn't have to wait long.
Through the wall, you heard the bathroom door open and close. Heard the lock click. Then nothing for a long time—long enough that you squirmed on your bed, pressing your thighs together, imagining what he was doing in there. Was he hard already? Had he brought your panties to his face? Was his cock out, thick and heavy in his fist, the head slick with precum as he worked himself—
A sound. Low, bitten-off. A groan that bled through the drywall.
Your hand slid into your panties before you could stop yourself, fingers dragging through your slick folds, and you bit your lip to keep quiet. Listen to him. Another groan, longer this time, and the faint wet sound of skin on skin that made your cunt clench around nothing.
When you heard him come—sharp, bitten-off curse, then silence—you came too, fingers working your clit in tight circles, your orgasm washing through you in hot, shuddering waves.
You waited a full ten minutes before going back for them.
The bathroom was empty. The door unlocked.
Your panties sat on the sink, exactly where you'd left them. But the crotch—god, the crotch. It was flooded. Thick, pearly cum soaked through the lace, pooling in the fabric, some of it already cooling to a translucent smear while the center was still warm and viscous. He'd completely wrecked them. The load was massive—more than yesterday, more than last week—and you could smell it from the doorway.
Your mouth watered instantly.
You locked the bathroom door and sat on the closed toilet lid, holding your prize. Your tongue traced your bottom lip. The scent alone was intoxicating—sharp and salty and undeniably his, layered over the musk of your own arousal. Your own slick and his cum, mixed together in the ruined lace.
The first lick made you shiver.
Your tongue dragged slow through the heaviest patch, gathering a thick stripe of his cum, and the taste bloomed across your palate. Hot. Rich. Overwhelmingly male. You moaned softly, pressing your thighs together, your fresh g-string soaking through instantly. Your tongue worked the fabric methodically—lapping at the lace, sucking the cum from the mesh, chasing every drop. You sucked the crotch of the panties into your mouth, tonguing the fabric clean, and the combination of his taste and the obscene act of it had you dizzy.
You were so focused you didn't hear the door open.
"Knew it."
You froze, panties pressed against your mouth, tongue still out, his cum shining on your lips and chin. Paul stood in the doorway, arms crossed, shoulder leaned against the frame. He wasn't surprised. He wasn't shocked.
He looked satisfied.
"Fuck—" You dropped the panties, tried to stand, face burning. "I was just—"
"Just licking my cum out of your panties like the desperate little slut you are?" He pushed off the doorframe and stepped into the bathroom, kicking the door shut behind him. The lock clicked. "Yeah. I see what you were just doing."
Your heart hammered. Your chin was still wet with his cum. "How long have you—"
"Known?" He closed the distance between you in two strides, and suddenly he was right there—massive, radiating heat, the bulge in his sweatpants already thickening. "Since the beginning, princess. Every pair you left for me, dripping with your pussy juice? You think I didn't know exactly what you'd do with them after?"
Your stomach flipped. "You planned this?"
"I've been edging for hours before you left them." His hand came up, thumb swiping across your chin, gathering the cum that had smeared there. He brought it to his lips, tasted it, eyes never leaving yours. "Making sure you had a real fucking load to clean up. And every time, I'd stand outside the door and listen to you moan while you licked it up like a starving little thing."
Oh god. He'd heard you. Every time. Every desperate, whimpering, cum-drunk sound you'd made.
Your face burned, but something else burned hotter—defiance, bratty resistance, the refusal to give him the satisfaction of seeing you flustered even while your cunt throbbed. You lifted your chin.
"So what if you did?" You grabbed the panties off the floor, held them up—the crotch still damp, still carrying his scent. "You're the one who jerked off into your stepsister's underwear. That's pretty fucking pathetic, Paul."
Something dark flickered in his eyes. His jaw clenched.
"Say that again."
"Pathetic." You enunciated it slowly, cruelly, even as your pulse hammered in your throat. "You couldn't just talk to me like a normal person. You had to leave cum in my panties and hope I'd—what? Fall to my knees? Beg for it?" You laughed, high and sharp. "Seems like I'm not the desperate one here."
He moved before you could react.
His hand fisted your hair and yanked your head back, and the gasp that tore from your throat was somewhere between pain and arousal. His mouth hovered over yours, close enough to taste his breath, and his free hand grabbed your hip, fingers digging into the bare skin between your tank top and your shorts.
"You want to run that mouth?" His voice was low, dangerous, vibrating against your lips. "Fine. But you're gonna back up every word." His grip tightened in your hair, pulling a whimper from you. "You wanted this cock? You've been begging for it with every pair of panties, every dirty little show? Now you're gonna take it."
"Make me."
The words came out before you could stop them—pure brat, pure challenge. Paul's eyes narrowed, and something almost feral crossed his face.
He released you so fast you stumbled. Then he grabbed your arm and dragged you out of the bathroom, down the hall, into his bedroom. The door slammed. You barely had time to register the messy bed, the clothes on the floor, before he threw you onto the mattress and was on top of you.
His hands yanked your tank top up, exposing your tits, and his mouth found your nipple without preamble—teeth grazing, tongue swirling, sucking hard enough to make you cry out. You bit your lip to stifle the sound, refusing to give him the satisfaction, and he bit down in response.
"Ah—fuck—"
"That's more like it." He pulled back just long enough to strip his shirt off, and then his hands were on your shorts, yanking them down your legs along with the pink g-string. He tossed them aside and settled between your thighs, spreading you open with his shoulders. "Gonna ruin this mouth of yours."
"Big talk," you managed, even as your chest heaved. "You're all—oh—"
His tongue found your cunt and your sarcastic remark died in your throat. He was relentless—hot, wet, hungry—dragging through your folds, circling your clit, then stabbing inside you. You grabbed his hair, tried to push him away out of pure stubbornness, but he grabbed your wrists and pinned them to the mattress with one hand.
"Don't even try it." His voice vibrated against your clit. "You're gonna lie there and take it."
His mouth closed around your clit and sucked, two thick fingers pushing inside you, and your back arched off the bed. The orgasm built fast—too fast—and you fought it, fought it, because giving in felt like losing.
"Don't—" You gasped. "I'm not gonna—not for you—"
"Cum for me." He curled his fingers, found that spot, and pressed. "Now."
Your body betrayed you. The orgasm crashed through you like a wave, your cunt clenching around his fingers, a broken moan ripping from your throat. You came on his face and hated how good it felt, how completely he'd dismantled you.
He pulled back, chin shining, mouth curved in a smirk that made you want to slap him. Or kiss him. Or both.
"That's one." He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Now let's see how many more I can get out of you."
He stood, pushed his sweatpants down, and his cock sprang free.
Jesus Christ.
You'd seen the outline. Felt it pressed against you. But seeing it in the flesh was something else entirely. Thick as your wrist, long enough that the heavy head hung past his navel, mapped with thick veins that pulsed with his heartbeat. The head was fat and blunt, flushed dark, already leaking precum in a clear string. His balls hung heavy beneath it, full and tight, and you thought about the loads he'd been leaving in your panties and your cunt clenched.
You refused to look impressed. "I've seen bigger."
It was a bald-faced lie and you both knew it.
Paul laughed—low and dark and dangerous. "No, you haven't." He wrapped his hand around his shaft, stroked once, and a thick bead of precum welled at the tip. "But you're about to feel it."
He climbed back over you, notched the head at your entrance, and stopped. Just held it there, the fat tip resting against your slick opening, not pushing in.
"What do you say?"
"Go fuck yourself."
He pushed in an inch. Just an inch, and your walls stretched around him, and your eyes nearly rolled back. You clenched your jaw, fighting every instinct to beg.
"Try again." He pulled back, pushed in two inches this time. The stretch was maddening—your cunt gripping him, trying to suck him deeper. "Ask nicely."
"I don't beg."
"Everyone begs." He pulled almost all the way out, left just the tip inside, and held there. Your hips twitched involuntarily, chasing him, and he smiled. "See? Your body's already begging. Your mouth just needs to catch up."
You held out for thirty seconds. Forty. Your cunt was clenching around nothing but the tip, your clit throbbing, your whole body screaming for more. Paul didn't move, didn't waver, just held himself there with infuriating control.
"Fine," you spat. "Fine. Fuck me. Just—god—please—"
The word broke something in him.
He slammed forward, burying himself to the root in one brutal thrust, and the scream that tore from your throat was raw and broken and real. He was huge—your cunt stretched obscenely around his girth, your walls clenching and fluttering, trying to accommodate the impossible thickness of him.
"Fuck—" His head dropped to your shoulder, breath hot and ragged against your skin. "Tightest pussy I've ever—god—"
"Don't stop." The bratty edge was gone from your voice, replaced by raw need. Your legs wrapped around his hips, heels digging into his ass, pulling him deeper. "Paul, don't stop—"
He didn't.
The pace he set was brutal—deep, hard strokes that shoved you up the mattress, that made your tits bounce with every thrust, that punched desperate sounds from your chest. His hands gripped your hips hard enough to bruise, yanking you onto his cock with each snap, and the wet, obscene sound of your cunt taking him filled the room.
"Take it." He growled, driving into you. "This is what you wanted, isn't it? Wanted me to fuck the attitude right out of you?"
"Doesn't—ah—doesn't count if you're—" You gasped as he hit your cervix, stars bursting behind your eyes. "If you're not doing it harder."
His eyes flashed. Something dangerous, something primal. He grabbed both your wrists, pinned them above your head, and fucked into you with a ferocity that made the bed frame crack against the wall. Each thrust was a statement, a punishment, a claiming. You couldn't talk anymore—couldn't think, couldn't breathe—just took it, took every inch, your cunt gripping him like it was made for him.
Your second orgasm built like a storm, pressure coiling low and tight, and you fought it again on principle.
"Going to cum on my cock?" His thumb found your clit, rubbing tight, merciless circles. "Going to give it to me?"
"No—" You were crying now, overwhelmed, pleasure cresting through you in devastating waves. "I won't—I'm not—"
"Cum." He thrust deep, ground against your clit, and bit down on your neck.
You shattered. The orgasm ripped through you so hard your vision went white, your cunt clamping down on his cock in rhythmic pulses, your whole body seizing. You heard yourself screaming his name, distantly, like it was someone else's voice.
Paul's rhythm stuttered. His cock swelled even thicker inside you—heavier, hotter—and his thrusts went erratic, desperate.
"Fuck—gonna fill you up—" His voice was wrecked, broken, barely human. "Gonna—fuck—"
He slammed forward one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and his whole body went rigid. You felt it—the first scalding hot rope of cum painting your insides, thicker than anything you'd imagined, pulse after pulse flooding your cunt. He was still cumming—five, six, seven ropes, his cock jerking inside you, and the heat of it triggered another smaller orgasm that made you whimper.
And then you saw his eyes.
Wide open. Fixed on your face. Glowing—a bright, molten gold that burned from within, inhuman and feral. Not brown. Not anything you'd ever seen on a person. His pupils had contracted to sharp slits, and his canines—when his lips parted on a groan—looked longer than they should have been.
Your breath caught.
He was still cumming. Still pulsing inside you, his hips jerking involuntarily, and those golden eyes didn't fade. They blazed. You stared up at him, your cunt still milking his cock, your heart hammering against your ribs, and for a long, suspended moment, neither of you moved.
Then Paul blinked. The gold faded, bleeding back to brown like ink dissolving in water. His jaw clenched, and something that might have been alarm flickered across his face before he shuttered it.
He pulled out slowly, and you felt his cum flood out of you—hot, thick, leaking down your thighs in a white trail. He rolled off you, chest heaving, and lay on his back staring at the ceiling.
The silence stretched.
You didn't ask. The question sat on your tongue—what the fuck was that—but you swallowed it. Something in his posture, in the rigid line of his shoulders, told you not to. That door was closed.
Instead, you lay there with his cum leaking out of your well-fucked cunt, staring at the ceiling, and thought about golden eyes.
After a long moment, Paul spoke. "Same time tomorrow?"
You turned your head. He was already looking at you, expression neutral, like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Like his eyes hadn't just glowed.
You smirked, letting the brat creep back into your voice. "Only if you leave me a full load in my panties first."
