Bunk Beds
"When the families merge, there's only one spare bedroom. She gets the top bunk. The touches start accidental. They don't stay that way."
The wedding happens in June.
By July, I'm sharing a room with my stepsister.
"It's temporary," Mom promises. "Just until we finish the basement."
The basement has been "almost finished" for three years. I'm not holding my breath.
Her name is Brooke.
She's twenty, same as me. Transferring to my college in the fall. Built like her mother—which is to say, built like a goddamn fantasy.
Brooke is maybe five-four and easily two-twenty. Thick everywhere. Her breasts strain against every top she wears. Her ass fills her jeans until the seams cry for mercy. Her belly is soft and round, her thighs massive, her hips wide enough to stop traffic.
She takes the top bunk because "heat rises and I run cold."
I take the bottom bunk and try not to think about what's directly above me.
Week One
It starts with sounds.
The creak of the mattress when she shifts. The soft sigh she makes in her sleep. The rustle of sheets when she turns over.
I lie awake listening. Telling myself it's just adjustment. New house, new sounds.
Then I hear something else.
A different kind of rustle. A different kind of breathing. Faster. Rhythmic.
She's touching herself.
The mattress creaks softly, steadily. I hear a muffled moan, bitten off. The creak speeds up.
I'm hard instantly.
I don't move. Don't breathe. Just listen as my stepsister masturbates three feet above my head, the old bunk bed shaking with her efforts.
When she comes, she whispers something I can't quite hear.
I jerk off after she falls asleep.
Week Two
It happens again.
Every night. Around midnight. The same sounds—the creak, the breathing, the muffled moans.
I start to anticipate it. Start to wait for it. Start to time my own release to match hers.
On Friday night, she climbs down to use the bathroom.
She doesn't know I'm awake. Doesn't know I'm watching.
She's wearing a tank top that barely contains her breasts and tiny shorts that ride up between her thick thighs. Her nipples are hard. Her face is flushed.
She catches me looking.
"Sorry," she whispers. "Did I wake you?"
"No."
She stands there for a moment. The moonlight catches her body—all those curves, all that flesh.
"Okay. Good night."
She goes to the bathroom. When she comes back, she climbs up to her bunk without looking at me.
That night, she's louder. Like she wants me to hear.
Week Three
"Can I ask you something weird?"
We're in the room, both pretending to study. Parents are downstairs watching TV.
"Sure."
"Do you hear me? At night?"
I freeze. "What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." She's not looking at me. Her cheeks are red. "I try to be quiet, but the bed..."
"Yeah. I hear you."
Silence stretches.
"Does it bother you?"
"No."
"Does it... do anything else?"
I don't answer. My silence is answer enough.
She climbs down from the top bunk. Stands in front of me. Her body is inches from mine—all that softness, all that warmth.
"I hear you too," she says. "After I finish. You're not as quiet as you think."
"Brooke—"
"I've been thinking about it. About what you're thinking about when you do it." She bites her lip. "Is it me?"
"We're stepsiblings."
"That's not an answer."
"Yes. It's you."
She exhales. Relief. Hunger.
"Show me."
I pull her onto my lap.
She straddles me on the bottom bunk, barely enough room for her body. Her weight presses me into the mattress. Her breasts are in my face.
"I've wanted this since I moved in," she confesses. "Wanted to climb down here, climb on top of you, make you—"
I kiss her.
She moans into my mouth, grinding against me. I'm hard, and she feels it—rolls her hips, presses down, creates friction that makes us both gasp.
"We can't fuck," she breathes. "Not tonight. Parents are downstairs."
"Then what—"
"I want to touch you. I want you to touch me." She reaches between us, finds my cock through my shorts. "I want to feel what I've been listening to."
She frees me. Strokes me. Her hand is soft, her grip perfect.
I slide my hand into her shorts. Find her soaked.
"Fuck," I groan. "You're dripping."
"Been like this all week. Listening to you. Wanting this."
We stroke each other in the dark—her hand on my cock, my fingers in her cunt. It's silent except for our breathing, the wet sounds of her arousal, the creak of the bottom bunk.
"Gonna come," she whispers.
"Me too."
We come together—her clenching around my fingers, me spilling over her hand. She buries her face in my neck to muffle her moan.
After, she climbs back to the top bunk.
"Tomorrow night," she says. "More."
Week Four
We develop a system.
Footsteps on the stairs: stop. Voices in the hall: freeze. Door opening: pretend to sleep.
But when the house is quiet, she climbs down.
She sucks me off on Tuesday, kneeling on the floor between my legs.
I eat her out on Wednesday, her thighs clamped around my head.
Thursday, she rides my face until she comes twice.
Friday, she strokes me with her breasts—those massive, soft breasts—until I come all over them.
"We still haven't fucked," she says Saturday morning. "Not really."
"I know."
"Tonight. Parents are going to dinner and a movie. We'll have hours."
"Are you sure?"
She climbs onto my lap. Kisses me deep.
"I've been sure since night one."
Saturday Night
The front door closes at 7:00.
By 7:05, Brooke is naked on my bed.
She's everything I imagined and more. Her breasts spread and flatten against her chest, nipples hard and dark. Her belly is a soft pillow. Her pussy is shaved bare, pink and glistening.
"I need you inside me," she says. "No more waiting. No more being quiet."
I strip. Her eyes go wide when she sees my cock—fully hard, aching for her.
"Fuck, you're big."
"Is that a problem?"
"It's the opposite of a problem." She spreads her legs. "Come here."
I settle between her thighs. The head of my cock presses against her entrance.
"Ready?"
"I've been ready for a month."
I push inside.
She's tight.
Wet and hot and gripping me like she never wants to let go. I sink into her inch by inch, watching her face—the way her mouth falls open, the way her eyes roll back.
"Oh fuck—you feel—fuck—"
I bottom out. Hold still. Let her adjust.
"Move," she begs. "Please—"
I move.
I fuck my stepsister on the bottom bunk while our parents are at dinner. The bed creaks and groans, the headboard banging against the wall. She's loud—finally, gloriously loud—moaning and screaming and saying my name.
"Harder—god, yes—fuck me harder—"
I grab her hips—so much flesh, so much softness—and pound into her. Her massive breasts bounce with every thrust. Her belly ripples. She looks wrecked, ruined, perfect.
"I'm gonna come—"
"Do it. Come on your stepbrother's cock."
She shatters.
Her cunt clamps down on me, milking me. She screams so loud the neighbors probably hear. I can't hold back—I bury myself deep and fill her up.
We fuck twice more before our parents get home.
On the bed. In the shower. On the floor.
By the time we hear the car in the driveway, we're both exhausted.
"Back to the bunk beds," she says, grinning.
"For now."
She climbs up to the top bunk. I take my place on the bottom.
Mom pokes her head in. "You two doing okay?"
"Fine," we say in unison.
She doesn't notice the smell of sex. Doesn't see the discarded condom wrapper kicked under the bed. Doesn't know her daughter is leaking her son's cum.
"Good night, you two."
"Night, Mom."
The door closes.
Silence.
Then, from above: "Same time tomorrow?"
I smile in the dark.
"Every night."
Six Months Later
The basement is finally finished.
I get the new room. Brooke keeps the old one.
But every night, around midnight, she slips downstairs.
We're not quiet anymore.
We don't have to be.
"Best roommate I ever had," she says afterward, sprawled across my new queen bed.
"We're not roommates anymore."
"No." She climbs on top of me, sinks down onto my hardening cock. "We're so much more."
We are.
And I wouldn't have it any other way.