Laundry Day

You look around your room, trying and failing to get the image of your sister, spread naked on your bed, masturbating like a wild monkey, her lithe body practically quivers while she looks at you in your head and screams your name. You caught her like that once, and she wasn't screaming for you to come in, she was screaming for you to leave, embarrassed as fuck that her brother found her masturbating.

That was then, this is now.

You can see every detail as your mind keeps her on your bed, her body arching in pleasure, her toes curling, her hips thrusting her mound against her intruding fingers. You can hear the same sounds now as you did then, the sloppy, wet sounds of furious female masturbation while her fingers plunge into her pussy and then fly up her sex to her clit, rubbing the button, exposing it to air, and then diving back down her slit to her waiting hole where two fingers dive deep inside her.

Over and over and over again, her fingers getting wetter and wetter. When you saw her a year or so ago like this, her fingers were soaked, her thighs were soaked, and looking at the image of her on your bed now, she's the same, maybe wetter.

"Tom," she pants out, looking you in the eyes over the top of her jiggling-yet-firm tits, her tight pink nipples capping them as they move between her eyes and yours.

You're stroking your cock and you're about to cum when you hear her voice again, this time accompanied by a knock. You almost jump out of your skin and your mind clears enough to start looking for clothes again.

"Tom," she says softly through the door, but you swear you hear the sound from the bed. You turn and look again, and it's just your messy, unmade bed. You sigh, disappointed, your dick still an iron bar as you realize the only clean things you have to wear are loose fitting basketball shorts and a t-shirt. Everything else is bagged up to go to the laundry.

Fuck.