Bang on the couch

You straddle his lap, the remote forgotten in your hand as the heat between you boils over. His grip on your hips is iron-tight, eyes dark with a storm of emotions—guilt, hunger, something feral. "What the fuck are you doing?" he growls again, his both hands clamping onto your hip, pulling you down hard against his throbbing erection. The thin barriers of his sweatpants and your soaked G-string do nothing to dull the sensation; you feel every inch of him, hot and rigid, grinding up into your core.

"I… I don't know," you gasp, but that's a lie. The curse has you in its thrall, your body moving on instinct, hips rocking against him in slow, teasing circles. The inner voice is gone now, silenced by the overwhelming need. But his words echo: "You have no idea what I almost did last night…" Puzzled, you pause mid-grind, frowning down at him. "What do you mean? Last night?"

He doesn't answer— instead, he surges up with a frustrated snarl, flipping you onto your back on the couch in one rough motion, his body pinning yours. The t-shirt rides up completely, exposing your breasts and the drenched G-string. He hovers over you, hands roaming possessively—gripping your thighs, spreading them wide, one palm pressing flat against your lower belly where your womb is pulsating overjoyed, awaiting the fertile seed of your brother.

No words, just action. He yanks the G-string aside roughly, the lace snapping against your skin, and lines himself up—his thick cockhead pressing insistently at your entrance, slick with pre-cum and your arousal. The first push is slow but relentless: the flared tip parting your swollen lips with a wet stretch, the veined shaft sliding in inch by throbbing inch, filling you completely in a way that's achingly familiar. The burn, the pressure, the deep invasion—it's exactly like last night's "hazy dream," the rhythmic pounding that left you sore and sticky outside. You gasp sharply, the pieces snapping together: "You… you were inside me last night," you whisper, shock widening your eyes as he bottoms out with a wet slap, hips flush against your ass. "You fucked me while I slept—did you cum inside me?!"

He freezes for a split second, buried deep, his cock twitching inside you at the accusation. Surprise flickers in his eyes—you pieced it together—but then frustration takes over. "No. But that's about to change, sister," he rasps, voice raw, pulling back only to slam in harder, the **** jolting your body. He takes it out on you, hips snapping with punishing rhythm, each stroke brutal and claiming, the couch creaking under the ****. "Gonna breed you properly this time. Fill that fertile womb, knock you up—make your belly swell with my kid, tits heavy with milk." The words pour out like venom, laced with dark obsession, his hand splaying over your lower belly as if feeling for the spot where his seed will take root. "You're so wet, so ready—your body's begging to be bred, hips like these made for carrying my child."

Regret crashes in like a tidal wave, fear overriding the haze of lust. Oh god, what have I done? Teasing him all day… I pushed him too far. If he cums inside, it's over—impregnated, stuck as a fertile woman forever, breeding like some animal. Panic surges; you push at his chest, twisting beneath him, legs kicking weakly as you try to dislodge him while your body betrays you, spreading your legs as far as you can. "Wait—stop! Pull out, please—we can't!" But he's too far gone, pinning you down harder, thrusts turning erratic and deeper, cock swelling thicker inside your clenching walls, aimed straight at your cervix like it's destined to flood your fertile depths.

His breaths come ragged, body trembling as the edge approaches. "Too late," he growls, slamming deep one last time, holding there as the first pulse builds...