Challenge

You keep the sheet right where it is across your hips and meet her eyes with a slow, deliberate look.

“You’re the one asking the question,” you say, voice low. “If you’re that curious whether it’s grown or not… go ahead and check. Pull it down yourself.”

The challenge sits between you for a long second. Your sister’s eyebrows lift. Her fingers twitch once at her side, eyes dropping to the modest tent under the sheet. For a moment it looks like she might actually do it.

Then her expression shifts into something sharper, almost pitying.

She doesn’t reach for the fabric.

Instead she leans in just enough to give your thigh two light, dismissive pats through the sheet, the way someone might calm a nervous animal.

“Nah,” she says, almost sweetly. “Your boner already proves me right. Poor desperate baby dick.”

The words hit harder than anything she’s said so far. They cut clean and deep. Heat floods your face and chest at the same time. Your cock gives a helpless, traitorous throb under the sheet, swelling further like the insult itself is what it’s responding to. She sees the movement. A small, knowing smile curves her mouth.

“That’s what I thought.”

She straightens, picks up the laundry basket, and turns toward the door without another glance at your lap. “Enjoy your morning, baby dick. Try not to wear the sheet out.”

The door clicks shut behind her. Her footsteps fade down the stairs. The house goes quiet again.

You’re left alone on the bed, sheet still clutched across your hips, the echo of her voice repeating in your head. Poor desperate baby dick. The phrase loops, sharp and humiliating, and your cock only gets harder beneath the thin fabric. The more the words sink in, the more insistent the ache becomes. It’s as if the insult flipped a switch you didn’t know existed.

You last maybe thirty seconds before your hand slides under the sheet.

Your fingers wrap around a cock that feels smaller than it should in your own grip—hot, fully hard now, and already leaking at the tip. You stroke once, twice, and a low sound escapes your throat. The memory of her patting your thigh and delivering that line plays on repeat. Every pull of your fist makes the words hit harder, and every time they hit harder your cock throbs like it’s trying to prove something it can’t.

You shove the sheet down to your thighs so you can watch. The sight only makes it worse. Your cock stands up eager and flushed, but the visual matches the label she gave it too well. You stroke faster, thumb smearing the steady bead of precum over the head, hips lifting off the mattress. The wet sound of your fist working yourself fills the quiet room.

Poor desperate baby dick.

You bite your lower lip and pump harder, chasing the humiliation as much as the friction. Your free hand grips the sheet beside you. The orgasm builds fast and mean, coiling tight in your gut. When it hits, it hits hard—your cock pulses in your fist, thick ropes of cum striping your stomach and chest while a choked, needy sound leaves your mouth. You keep stroking through it, milking every spurt, the insult still echoing behind your eyes.

When the last weak twitch fades you’re left breathing hard, sticky, and somehow still half-hard. The room smells like sex. The laundry basket is gone. Your sister is downstairs somewhere, completely unaffected, while you’re up here with her words burned into your brain and cum cooling on your skin.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—another notification—but your hand is still wrapped loosely around your sensitive cock, and the only thing you can really focus on is how easily she left you like this.