My sister

The sex with Sravya settled into a rhythm he controlled even when he was not in the room. After he had fucked her the first few times and sent her back, she stopped treating our nights as separate from his. She would text me in the late afternoon—“He’s kept me longer. Come home ready”—and I would arrive to find her already loose and marked. One Thursday she was still in the dress she had worn to meet him. The skirt was creased high on her thighs. She pulled me inside without speaking, turned, and bent over the arm of the sofa. I entered her from behind and felt how open she was. She pushed back and said, voice low, “He finished in me an hour ago. I didn’t clean up. Fuck it deeper.” I did. She came with her face against the cushion, repeating that she could still feel both of us, that the second cock made the first one better. Afterwards she stayed bent, breathing hard, and told me our sex had never been this wet or this easy. “I don’t have to ask you to be rough anymore,” she said. “You already know. He taught you, and now he uses me so you remember.”

It happened more often. Some weeks he took her twice. He would message me the time and place; I would drop her or she would go alone. She returned satisfied in a way that showed in her walk and in the way she reached for me the moment the door closed. One night she climbed onto my lap still wearing his scent and rode me slowly while describing what he had done—how he had made her say my name while he was inside her, how he had asked whether I fucked her harder after she saw him. She came talking, then kept moving until I finished. “I love that he decides when,” she whispered against my mouth. “I love that you let him and then take whatever is left. Our bed feels fuller.” I held her hips and agreed without saying the rest: that the guiding voice I had come to need now also decided when my girlfriend was used, and that the knowledge made me harder every time she confirmed it.

Sravya grew more attached to the arrangement and, through it, to him. She began asking me, after sex, what he had said about her performance. I repeated the short approvals he allowed. She liked hearing them. She started keeping small details for him—how many times she had come with me, which sentence had made her shake—and she would tell me to pass them on. Our own sex improved because of the reports. She was wetter on ordinary evenings, quicker to offer her wrists or her mouth, more willing to repeat the lines he had first given me. She told me one morning, lying across my chest, “I feel looked after by both of you. He decides, you deliver, I get to be the one who takes it. I didn’t know I wanted a guiding figure until he became one.”

Then he began taking details about my sister from her.

It started without warning. Sravya came home from an afternoon with him and, while I was still inside her, said, “He asked about Ananya today.” I stopped moving. She tightened around me and continued, almost casually, “He wanted to know how old she is, whether she looks like you, if she has a boyfriend. I told him what I know. She turned twenty last month, she’s in the other city for college, she doesn’t have anyone serious. He listened the way he listens to me when I describe how you fuck me.” She rocked her hips once. “Don’t stop. I got wet telling him. He said family should be known properly.”

I finished because my body had already decided, but the cold line in my chest was immediate. Afterwards I asked why she had answered. She looked surprised. “He didn’t tell me not to. He just asked, the same way he asks what position you used last night. I thought you would want him to have the information. You let him have everything else.” She kissed my shoulder. “It made the sex better for me. Knowing he was curious about your sister while he was in me. Is that wrong?” I said I didn’t know. She accepted the answer and fell asleep with her hand on my stomach. I lay awake hearing the old stories he had told me months earlier—the friend’s sister, the open call, the hand on the head—and feeling them slide toward Ananya’s name.

He never asked me. The next report session he simply said, “Sravya gave me what she knows about Ananya. Twenty, studying away, no boyfriend. Useful. She becomes more open when she thinks she’s helping me understand your life.” I sat across from him and felt the same split I had felt the first time he asked about my sister: disturbance sharp enough to tighten my throat, and an unwanted heat low in my body because Sravya had been wet while she spoke. He continued, “Next time she sees me, I’ll ask one more thing. You don’t need to prepare her. She already likes giving me pieces.”

That night Sravya wanted me as soon as I entered the flat. She was on her knees before I closed the door, mouth open, and while she sucked me she looked up and said, “He asked if Ananya is shy or bold. I told him I think she’s quieter than me. He smiled. Then he fucked me harder.” I came in her mouth. She swallowed, stood, and turned so I could take her from behind against the wall. “I love that he wants to know her,” she said while I moved. “It feels like he’s collecting the whole picture. Our sex is better because of it. I’m satisfied in a way I wasn’t before he started guiding everything.” She came with her cheek against the plaster, repeating that she liked being the one who handed him the details I had never offered.

The pattern locked in. He took Ananya’s information from Sravya in small cuts—what she studied, whether she visited often, how she sounded on the phone—and Sravya gave it without checking with me. Each time she returned more attached to him and more eager for me. Our sex life sharpened further. She began describing, during the act, the exact questions he had asked about my sister and how wet she had become answering them. I fucked her through the sentences and she thanked me for not pulling away. “I love having him as the guiding figure,” she said one night, legs over my shoulders. “He decides what he needs to know, he uses me to get it, and then you use me after. I’m full. Don’t make him ask you first. This way is better.”

I still felt the old disturbance when Ananya’s face replaced the friend’s sister in my head, but it no longer stopped my body. Sravya’s feedback kept the loop alive: she was satisfied, she initiated more, she slept deeply, and she told me openly that she loved the arrangement in which he took what he wanted from her—including details about my sister—without my permission. I reported the new sentences. He nodded, scheduled the next meeting with her, and sent her back used and glowing. She climbed onto me the moment she returned and said, voice already breaking, “He asked whether Ananya would be curious the way I am. I told him I didn’t know. Then he made me come while I thought about it. Fuck me now so I can feel both again.” I did. She came harder than she had the week before and whispered that our sex had never been this complete. The guiding figure had expanded his reach. She loved it. I had not been asked, and the fact that I had not been asked was now part of what made her wet and part of what kept me hard. Neither of us had told him to stop collecting.