I won't regret what happened

My sister isn’t some cover-girl beauty — fragile, almost boyish figure, no wide hips or voluptuous tits. But despite that, guys lose their minds over her. And I get it. Natural, no fakeness, none of those stupid coy affectations — just bold, sometimes downright vulgar. Her charisma burns right through you, making blood rush straight to your balls.

Her face is sculpted and unusual — sharp cheekbones, a thin nose, those jutting brow ridges with those razor-thin drawn-on eyebrows that make her look almost androgynous. And when it twists into a mocking smirk or stretches into a shameless laugh, it reveals something raw, almost feral. In those moments, she becomes disgusting. And I'd go insane, fantasizing about fucking her, pinning her against the wall and pounding her until that face finally contorted into something other than a smirk.

And the craziest thing is, I can't resist it. Even now, a year into my marriage to Natalie, I can't get her out of my head.

My wife and I live just a few blocks from my parents' old apartment, which now belongs to me and my sister. I drop by periodically to check on things — and every time, I'm greeted by her thongs hanging in the bathroom.

She's got an absurd number of them. All outrageously revealing—no lace or embellishments, just thin straps: black, nude, blood-red...

You'd think as her brother, I wouldn't care... but goddamn it, every time I walk in, I already know what's waiting on the towel rack. I've even started tracking how her taste changes.

My wife? Too vulgar for her. She's a "good girl" — modest, "wife material," though she's put on some weight lately ("big-boned," you know). Still, I once tried convincing her to buy something like that. She just rolled her eyes: "I don't wear trashy things," said it was "unhygienic — do you even know how the intestines work?"

Oh, I know. Just not thinking about intestines.

Still, it bruised my ego — like being denied the sight of women in sexy lingerie. Meanwhile, my sister freely gives that luxury to her endless parade of boyfriends.

I managed to suppress this resentment — for Natalie's sake, since she's my wife. Though my hard-on wasn't for her.

During my latest visit sister's apartment a plumber was checking the meters. Her bras and thongs still hung shamelessly in the bathroom — she couldn’t be bothered, as usual. The bed looked like it’d been fucked in —blanket half on the floor, pillows everywhere. She never makes it. We settled in the kitchen. She made coffee and lit one of her slim cigarettes — "Kiss". I smoked mine. It annoyed me how she multitasked, texting someone like always.

"How’s married life?" she asked lazily, her whole demeanor screaming: I bet your sex life’s sterile and polite.

It put me on edge.

I mentioned our weekend plans — a park visit. Then the conversation turned sexual, but in that usual joking way. We were on our third cigarette.

She had another new boyfriend, for fuck's sake...

"Maybe we could all hang out this weekend," she suddenly suggested.

"Sure," I said.

But then I snapped, watching her split attention between me and her phone:

"Texting your boyfriend?"

"No," she muttered. "Just сhoosing a tattoo parlor."

"Tattoo parlor?"

"I want to get my clitoris pierced."

My eyebrows shot up like invisible arms yanked them. My cock thickened in my pants.

"You want a piercing?" I asked.

"Yeah, look which one I picked."

She stood, a cigarette in one hand, phone in the other. Took a step toward me — then her phone rang. Without blinking, she turned and vanished into her room, leaving behind smoke and... tension.

My tongue wet my lips — my gaze darted, unanchored. I sprang up and followed. She stood with her back to me, phone still at her ear. Without thought — I grabbed her shoulders and slammed her over the chairback. It groaned under our weight. Her phone clattered to the floor. A gasp:

"Jesus, Jess — what the fuck —"

I yanked her sweatpants down. She jerked up — but my palm forced her back down. The chair creaked. She wasn't wearing a thong, just regular cotton shorts, which pissed me off.

"Why the fuck are you wearing this shit?!" I snarled, tearing them off so hard the shredded in my grip before I flung them aside. Unbuckled my jeans, kicked them off my ankles, spread my legs wide, and drove into her.

A ragged scream tore from her. I fucked her like a whore, fist in her hair. She moaned as the chair rocked violently. I wanted to fuck her so hard she'd compare every future man to me. So I hammered her ruthlessly— five minutes... ten... twenty... spanking her ass red. She was shamelessly moaning without holding back... Came inside her four times, kept pounding even after, until exhaustion collapsed me onto her back.

When I came to — drained and wrecked — I pulled up my pants and staggered to the kitchen. Smoked a cigarette, then went to buy Plan B. Returned to find the bathroom locked. Knocked. When she opened it, her usual arrogance was gone — just exhaustion, a towel on her head. She stared silently. I said:

"Emergency contraception. On the kitchen table. Understood?"

She shut the door without a word. And I left.