Get up

Without answering her question you reach down, grip the edge of the sheet, and pull it aside in one smooth motion. The fabric slides off your hips and pools at the foot of the bed. Cool air hits bare skin as you swing your legs over the side and stand.

You’re completely naked. Summer has left you lean and defined—shoulders, chest, the tight lines of your stomach. Your cock hangs heavy between your thighs, thicker and longer than most, already half-hard from the morning and the lingering tension of her standing there. It sways once as you straighten fully.

Your sister’s eyes drop and stay there.

A small, involuntary sound leaves her throat—half gasp, half sharp inhale. The laundry basket shifts in her grip. She doesn’t look away.

You keep your voice even. “Grab the clothes. I’ll handle the sheets.”

She doesn’t move at first. Her gaze remains fixed on your cock, watching the way it thickens a little more under the attention. Color rises in her cheeks, but she still doesn’t speak.

You take a step closer to the chair where the pile of laundry sits, close enough that she has to tilt her head slightly to keep staring. The air between you feels charged. Downstairs the house is still quiet; no one else is coming up the stairs.

“Laundry,” you repeat, a little firmer this time.

She blinks, finally tearing her eyes upward for a second before they drop right back down. “Jesus,” she mutters under her breath. The word is quiet, almost to herself. She forces herself to move, stepping past you toward the chair. As she bends to gather the jeans and shirts, her shoulder brushes lightly against your arm. She freezes for half a second, then continues, stuffing the clothes into the basket with less of her usual efficiency.

You stay standing, making no effort to cover yourself. The half-hard length of your cock is fully on display only a couple of feet from her face while she works. Every time she reaches for another item her eyes flick sideways again, lingering on the thick shaft and the way it continues to swell under her repeated stares.

She finishes with the pile and straightens, basket against her hip. This time she doesn’t bother pretending not to look. Her gaze tracks the slow, obvious twitch of your cock as blood fills it further.

“You’re just going to stand there like that?” she asks. The usual sarcasm is thinner than normal, edged with something else.

“I’m waiting for you to finish,” you answer. “Sheets are next.”

She swallows. For a moment it looks like she might say more—another comment, a joke, anything to reclaim the upper hand—but the words don’t come. Instead she turns toward the bed, still watching you from the corner of her eye as she reaches for the discarded sheet. The movement brings her closer again. You catch the faint scent of her shampoo and the quick, shallow way she’s breathing.

She gathers the sheet into a loose ball and drops it into the basket on top of the clothes. When she straightens this time her eyes go straight back to your cock, now almost fully hard and standing out from your body. The tip has begun to glisten faintly in the morning light.

Silence stretches. Outside a car door closes somewhere down the street. Inside the room the only sound is the soft creak of the floorboards under your feet and the quiet rush of her breathing.

She adjusts her grip on the basket. “I should… take this downstairs.”

She doesn’t leave.

You could let the moment end here—nod, step aside, and allow her to walk out with the laundry while the image of your naked body stays burned in her head. Or you could push a little further, keep her in the room, and see how long that stare lasts when you stop pretending this is still just about laundry.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, eyes still locked low.