Stay on the bed and go again. The first orgasm barely took the edge off; use the memory of her voice and that “baby dick” remark to work yourself back to another feverish release

You don’t get up.

The sheet is still tangled around your thighs, your stomach and chest sticky from the first load. Her voice is still looping in your head—poor desperate baby dick—and the first orgasm barely took the edge off. If anything, the sting of the words has made the ache sharper.

You wrap your hand around your cock again. It’s still half-hard, sensitive, and smaller than you want it to be in your fist. The moment your fingers close around it the memory sharpens: the light, dismissive pats on your thigh, the sweet way she delivered the line, the sound of the door closing behind her.

You start stroking.

This time you let the images come deliberately. You picture her standing at the foot of the bed the way she had been—tank top stretched across her tits, the soft weight of them shifting when she laughed. You imagine the way the fabric would pull tight if she leaned forward. Your fist tightens and speeds up.

You drag the fantasy lower. Bare legs, smooth and strong, the same legs that had carried her out of the room without a second glance. You picture her turning, the curve of her ass in those short shorts, the way the material would cling if she bent to pick something up. Every mental flash of her body is paired with the same mocking voice:

Poor desperate baby dick.

Your cock throbs harder in your hand, fully hard now, the head already shiny again. You stroke faster, twisting over the tip the way that always pushes you close. The dual sensation—her body in your mind, her contempt in your ears—makes the pleasure feel meaner, hotter, more concentrated.

You see her tits again, the faint outline of nipples against the thin tank top. You see the long line of her thighs. You see the round, perfect shape of her ass as she walked away. And through all of it her voice keeps repeating the same cutting phrase, soft and almost affectionate, like she was stating a simple fact about the weather.

Poor desperate baby dick.

Your hips lift off the mattress. The wet sound of your fist working your cock fills the quiet room. Pre-cum runs over your fingers. You’re past the point of caring how it looks—short, flushed, desperate—because the combination of her body and her mockery is winding the second orgasm up tight and fast.

You last maybe another minute.

The climax hits harder than the first one. Your cock pulses in your fist, thick ropes of cum striping your stomach and chest again, some of it reaching as high as your collarbone. A broken, needy sound leaves your throat while you keep stroking through it, milking every spurt while the mental image of her tits, legs, and ass stays locked behind your eyes and her voice keeps calling your cock exactly what she decided it was.

When the last weak twitch fades you’re left panting, messier than before, the sheet stuck to your skin, the words baby dick still echoing like they belong there permanently.

Your phone is still on the nightstand. The house is still quiet downstairs. Your cock is soft and oversensitive in your sticky hand, and the second orgasm has done nothing to quiet the heat her parting line left behind.

You clean up just enough to function—wiping the worst of the cum off your stomach and chest with the sheet, pulling on boxers, jeans, and a T-shirt. The memory of finishing twice to her “baby dick” remark stays hot under your skin as you head downstairs.

Your sister is in the living room. The second she sees you she wrinkles her nose.

“Jesus Christ, you reek. Cum and BO. Did you even try to wipe off after whatever pathetic session you just had?” She waves a hand in front of her face. “Go shower. Now. You’re not sitting around the house smelling like a desperate little pervert.”

You don’t argue. You turn around and go back upstairs to the bathroom.

The shower starts decently warm, but the laundry she ran earlier has already used most of the hot water. Within two minutes the stream turns lukewarm, then outright cold. You finish washing under the icy spray, teeth gritted. By the time you shut the water off, the cold has done its work: your cock has shrunk dramatically, turtling until the head is almost hidden and your balls are pulled up tight and small against your body.

You step out onto the mat, dripping, and reach for a towel.

The bathroom door is wide open.

Your sister is standing in the hallway, phone in one hand, eyes locked straight between your legs. The moment she gets a clear look at the cold-shrunk result she bursts into helpless giggles.

“Oh my god. I knew it was small, but goddamn—I’ve seen bigger clits. And did your balls never drop?” She laughs harder, actually leaning against the wall for support. “That’s the most pathetic post-shower reveal I’ve ever witnessed. It looks like it tried to crawl back inside you and got stuck halfway.”

You’re naked, dripping, cock and balls reduced to a tiny, tight package by the cold water, while she stands there openly laughing and comparing you to a clit.