Try to stay chaste

You sense an immense sexual tension between you and your brother, ever since he arrived yesterday. Your body's hormones are not letting up, pushing your thoughts to him and how good it would feel to have him inside you.... NO! you must get a hold of yourself. You summon your resolve to not slip up and try to avoid any temptation that might doom you today.

The day starts innocently enough. After breakfast, where he kept stealing glances at your legs and you pretended not to notice how the shirt rode up, you both settle on the couch for more TV. You're still in just the oversized t-shirt and black G-string—nothing else, the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs, leaving your ass cheeks peeking out whenever you move. You curl up at one end, him at the other, a safe distance.

Your brother laughs at something on the screen, his arm stretched along the back of the couch, fingers inches from your shoulder. He looks so normal—strong, familiar, safe. Your eyes linger on his jawline, the way his t-shirt stretches over his chest, the casual sprawl of his legs. A forbidden thought slips in: What if I just scooted closer? Let my thigh brush his. See what happens. You bite your lip hard, forcing your gaze back to the TV. No. He's your brother. This is the curse messing with you. Fight it.

She's sitting so close, he thinks, trying to focus on the screen but failing. That shirt's riding up again—can see the curve of her ass, the string disappearing between those cheeks. Fuck, last night I almost… I almost came inside her. What the hell was I thinking? She's my sister—I meanbrother. I can't let that happen again. But god, she's killing me like this.

As the show plays on, you adjust your position to get more comfortable, uncrossing your legs and letting them fall open gradually—first just a little, then wider as you relax into the cushions, facing him directly on the couch. As a man this sitting position has never been a problem so it doesn't occurr to you that your situation has changed. The t-shirt bunches higher with the movement, riding up to expose the full expanse of your inner thighs, the thin black G-string pulled taut over your mound like a teasing veil. The lace is sheer enough in the soft light that the outline of your swollen, glistening lips is visible—puffy and parted slightly from the constant arousal, a dark damp spot blooming at the center where your wetness has soaked through. The angle gives him an increasingly clear glimpse: the subtle knob of your clit pressing against the fabric, a faint sheen of slickness on your skin where it escapes the edges, every small shift of your hips making the string shift to the side slightly, revealing a hint of your outer lips. You don't realize at first, lost in the TV show, thighs parting just a fraction more as you sigh contentedly—but then you catch his sharp intake of breath, his eyes locked there hungrily before he jerks them away. Heart racing, you snap your legs closed, cheeks flaming, but the damage is done; the air between you crackles thicker now. Oh god, did he see everything? How wet I am?

Lunch is ****. You heat up pizzas in the kitchen, bending to grab plates from the lower cabinet—and as you do so you flash your barely covered ass right at your brother sitting at the table behind you. Your brothers eyes almost pop out, the sight reminding him of his taboo deed last night. Last night I was inside her, thrusting… almost bred her. I can't think like that—she trusts me. But fuck, one more touch and I might lose it again.

The afternoon drags in a haze of **** normalcy: cards at the coffee table, where you kneel opposite him and fight not to lean forward too much, not to let your breasts sway into view. But during one hand, as you both reach for the deck in the middle, your arms cross—his forearm brushing the side of your breast through the thin t-shirt, the contact lingering a beat too long as his skin drags across your hardened nipple, sending a jolt of pleasure straight to your clit. You gasp sharply, pulling back, but not before feeling the heat of him, the accidental graze making your core clench hard, a bead of wetness escaping to dampen your inner thigh.

"Oops," you say with a **** giggle, but your voice is husky, face flushed, thighs squeezing together to hide the slickness.

He clears his throat, shifting on his knees—his sweatpants tenting obviously now, though you pretend not to notice, your eyes flicking down for a split second to the growing bulge before snapping away. Did I just feel her nipple? Hard and poking right into my arm… so perky, he thinks, cock twitching at the memory. She's gasping like that, flushed—turned on. If she knew I fucked her last night, pulled out just in time… she'd hate me. But god, her body's begging for it. Stay strong—don't give in.

By evening, you're exhausted from the internal war—resisting the pull to touch him, to flirt, to give in to the seduction your body screams for. Every accidental brush has left you throbbing, drenched, barely able to think straight, nipples aching from constant hardness, pussy lips swollen and slick against the string. You suggest an early night, retreating to your room alone, locking the door just in case. But as you lie there, hand hovering over your dripping core, the urges whisper louder: He's right down the hall. One more day. What harm in a little fun? You clench your fists and turn over...

You could keep your door locked, just to be safe. It's only one more night you have to endure. But then again, your brother can't really help you if your door is locked, can he? Or maybe there is another reason you dont want to admit to why you consider sleeping in your room, helpless and unprotected...