Get up v2

You decide not to stay hidden under the sheet.

You throw the cover aside and hop out of bed with more energy than the situation really needs, feet hitting the floor a little too quickly. The sudden movement makes your cock bounce once between your thighs—soft, smaller than average, the head still half-tucked from sleep. Cool air hits every inch of bare skin as you stand there completely naked in front of her.

Your sister’s eyes drop immediately.

A short, surprised laugh escapes her before she can stop it. She covers her mouth with the back of one hand, but the giggle still slips through. Her gaze stays locked on your cock for a long, unblinking second.

“Oh my god,” she says, voice bright with amusement. “Did your penis even hit puberty yet, or are you just hoping to be a ‘late bloomer’?” She makes little air quotes with her free hand around the last two words, still staring.

Heat floods your face. You feel your cock twitch helplessly under the attention, shrinking a fraction further instead of growing. The casual cruelty in her tone lands harder because she delivers it so lightly, like she’s commenting on the weather.

You clear your throat and turn toward the chair, trying to act like nothing happened. “I’ll get the clothes,” you mutter, bending to gather the jeans and shirts yourself. The position only makes things worse—your soft cock and balls hang fully on display while you scoop up the laundry. You can feel her eyes on you the entire time.

She doesn’t look away. The soft sound of another quiet giggle reaches you as you drop the first armful into the basket she’s still holding.

“You’re actually just walking around like that,” she says, almost to herself. “I always wondered why you stayed under the covers so much. Makes sense now.”

You keep your head down and keep gathering clothes, cheeks burning. Every time you straighten or turn, her gaze tracks the small, soft length of your cock. It gives another weak twitch, as if it somehow hopes to impress her, but stays exactly as small as it is.

She shifts the basket to one hip and tilts her head, openly studying you now. “I mean, it’s kind of cute in a pathetic way. Like it gave up halfway.” Another soft laugh. “Does it even get hard, or does it just stay like that?”

The question hangs in the air. You’re still naked, still standing in the middle of your own room while she holds the laundry basket and stares at your cock without an ounce of shame. The door is still open behind her. Downstairs the house remains quiet. No one else has come up the stairs.

You finish stuffing the last T-shirt into the basket. Your hands feel clumsy. Your cock feels even smaller under the weight of her attention than it did a minute ago.

She makes no move to leave.

“Well?” she prompts, eyes still low. “You done, or are you going to keep showing it off?”

The words are teasing, almost playful, but there’s an edge underneath that says she knows exactly how this is landing. The morning light from the window leaves nothing to the imagination—every soft inch of you is on full display for her continued amusement.

You could try to end it here, grab something to cover yourself, and send her downstairs with the laundry. Or you could stay exactly as you are and let the humiliation stretch a little longer, waiting to see what else she’ll say while she has you naked and exposed.

She raises one eyebrow, waiting, the basket resting against her hip and her gaze still fixed between your legs.