Stay covered but raise the stakes another way—invite her to be the one who pulls the sheet back if she’s so curious, turning the challenge back on her while you remain the one who doesn’t move first.

You keep the sheet right where it is, the thin fabric still draped across your hips, and meet your sister’s eyes with a slow, deliberate look.

“You’re the one who’s so curious,” you say, voice low and even. “If you really want to know whether it’s grown… pull the sheet back yourself.”

The challenge hangs in the quiet bedroom. Your sister’s eyebrows lift. For a second she just stares at you, weighing the dare. Then a small, wicked smile curves her mouth.

“Alright,” she says. “You asked for it.”

She steps closer to the bed, reaches down, and hooks her fingers under the edge of the sheet. With one smooth tug she drags the fabric all the way to your thighs, leaving you completely exposed.

Cool air hits your cock. It’s hard from the teasing—standing up flushed and eager—but the size is unmistakable. Modest. Smaller than average. The kind of erection that looks hopeful rather than impressive.

Your sister studies it for a long moment, head tilted.

“Hmmm,” she says at last, thoughtful rather than shocked. “You did grow a little… but your sad boner is still smaller than my boyfriend’s softy.”

The comparison lands clean and sharp. Heat floods your face. Your cock twitches under her gaze, a clear bead of precum forming at the tip as if the insult itself is what it’s responding to. She notices the reaction and gives a short, amused huff.

You force a crooked smile, refusing to look away.

“Must be a tragic boyfriend, then,” you answer, keeping the tone light and smart-assed. “If the soft version of him is the measuring stick you’re using, I almost feel bad for you. Almost.”

Her eyes flick up to your face, then right back down to your cock. The smile on her mouth widens.

“Cute comeback. Doesn’t make it any bigger, though.” She reaches out and gives the air just above your cock a little measuring gesture with her thumb and forefinger. “Still looks like it’s trying to hide in the hair. You ever think about waxing? Maybe if you got rid of all that, people could actually see what you’re working with instead of having to hunt for it.”

She doesn’t touch you. She just keeps standing there, sheet still bunched around your thighs, openly examining the modest erection while the suggestion of waxing settles between you. The bedroom is quiet except for the soft sound of your breathing and the occasional faint drip of precum onto your stomach.

Your sister shifts her weight, still studying your cock like she’s considering the logistics.

“I’m serious,” she continues, voice almost casual. “A full wax would at least make it look intentional. Right now it’s just… sad and a little lost in the bushes. You want me to book the appointment, or are you going to keep pretending this is an acceptable presentation?”

She’s not leaving. The sheet is still down. Your cock is still hard and on full display under the weight of her verdict and the new, very specific suggestion she’s just planted.

What do you do?

Fire back another smart-assed comment about her boyfriend while staying exactly as you are—exposed, hard, and refusing to cover up—just to see how far she’ll push the waxing idea.

Stay quiet for a moment, letting the “smaller than my boyfriend’s softy” line and the waxing suggestion sink in, and wait to see if she actually reaches for her phone to look up appointments.

Reach down and slowly cover yourself again with the sheet, trying to end the moment on your own terms even though the comparison and the waxing talk are already stuck in your head.