"We've done it now," she said seriously, the hint of a smile laced underneath her typical austere gaze. How was it that women always avoided the post-coital mental spiral? I'd like to say I mentally jotted that down to research later, but I was altogether consumed with the sight in front of me: clad in a big shirt and long socks, my step-sister Joanna, straddling my still-throbbing cock as it continued to leak warm cum inside her folds. I nodded absentmindedly in response, dazed, and laid back on my bed. Where to go from here?
To catch you up, you should know my mother remarried last year, which meant my senior year of high school had been somewhat complicated by the sudden appearance of Joanna, whose playful sarcasm and lanky appearance blended quite well with my own. I was a bit of a wallflower, so her company ended up being a blessing as we slowly got to know one another. We'd go to the movies, poke fun at some of the more popular people at school, and generally just walk about town when we weren't sidelined with senior projects. We were both eighteen, which meant our newlywed parents left us to our own devices pretty often. My mom was smitten with Joanna's dad, and frequent weekend trips away meant Joanna and I could sneak a beer or two and watch a violent film or two on the living room couch.
The part from before? Where she on top of me and leaking my cum? Well, nothing like that happened for the first nine months or so I knew her. We were friendly, but there was no obvious signs from her that I could tell that she was attracted to me. It wasn't as if I hadn't noticed her pert frame or fair skin—I will cop to having a dream or two about stroking her hair, for whatever reason, but there was no obvious sexual tension until the first cold weekend of the year. Our house's heat wasn't kicking in, and our parents were out of town again, so Joanna and I constructed a humongous pile of blankets and comforters on the family couch and tucked in to a classic horror marathon. If it sounds cliche, know that nothing even happened on that couch. We had a few nice films, snacked a bit, laughed at the copious amount of blood sprayed across the screen, and called it a night shortly after midnight. I was just about asleep that night when I heard Joanna knock.
"Hey, you up?" She sounded timid at first, but eventually got the nerve to ask if she could sleep in my bed as her room was often the coldest in the house. She was wearing pajama pants and a large shirt—her typical layabout getup, sleeping or otherwise—so I didn't see the harm. And, I kid you not, we slept peacefully and innocently, though I'll admit I scooted closer to her than my body temperature probably deemed necessary. It was only in the morning, when we had tumbled into a successful couple's spoon in our sleep, where things got complicated. My rigid erection against the back of her thighs was the kicker, however.
"Todd. Todd. Todd!" Her voice grew louder with every repetition until my eyes darted open. There was Joanna, gentle brown curls spread across the other pillow, pressed against me, wearing a crooked smile that could have meant any number of emotions with her. "Oh, christ" I think I uttered, embarrassed, once I realized the situation. She laughed it off, and I think my face discovered several shades of red that were hitherto undiscovered. The curious thing about it was that she kissed my cheek before she hopped off the bed, which had never happened before. We had never even flirted before, and now this? I tried to downplay it in my mind, but I can't deny the amount of work my hand got in response to that evening.
