Becky is the woman who has lived in every hidden corner of my heart since we were children.
My best friend. My first love. My wife for twenty incredible, breathless years.
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We’ve been separated for the last five years, because life has a vicious, apparently deeply twisted sense of humour: she is now, legally and absurdly, my step-sister.
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She’s thirty-five now, six feet of pure northern Scottish thunder. And still I crave her body like air.
Twelve and a half stone of living, breathing delicacy wrapped around that impossible hourglass frame. She played netball when we were at school, still likes to keep in shape, hiking, swimming, dancing, she never stops moving.
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Now she works as a physical education teacher Waterloo Road Sports and Technology College—an absolute shithole of a comprehensive in one of the roughest parts of town—barking orders at students, half-in-love teenagers in a voice that could strip paint.
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Her body is a weapon she has lovingly polished for three decades. Broad, strong shoulders taper to a waist I used to span with both hands when we were at college and stupid in love. Then the dramatic flare of hips, thick athletic thighs that could crack walnuts, and that 36E chest—full, high, heavy in the way only years of explosive sport can sculpt them. They strain against whatever she wears, baggy hoodies or not; gravity has never stood a chance.
We separated 5 years ago. Quietly. Sadly. Never with hate.
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The sex had always been fireworks, earthquakes, religious experiences, but life dragged us in different directions. Then, four years ago, my dad started dating her mum. Two years after that we stood in the exact same registry office where we’d once promised each other forever, watching our parents do the same damn thing. Step-brother and step-sister. The universe laughed its arse off in hysterical glee.
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I still love her. Of course I do. Just… differently now. Like a sister, I tell myself. Most days I almost believe it.
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A year ago I fell into the ugliest relationship of my life with Carol Slater. One drunk night, wrong bar, woke up in her bed and somehow stayed for twelve months of pure chaos. Carol was all sharp edges, sharper nails, cheap perfume, and cheaper vodka. Possessive, violent, and—turns out—sleeping with half the town behind my back. One drink turned into a kiss turned into clothes on her living-room floor. Nothing special. Felt cheap from the first thrust.
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So there I was, spilling my guts about Carol to my step-sister Becky, sat opposite me in the living room, legs crossed, looking Ultra-casual but deliberately provocative. The thin white tank clings to every curve and faintly shows a black sexy bra underneath in the sunlight. The frayed, mini denim skirt barely covers her long thick creamy legs. Paired with fluffy pink house slippers, it creates a “just rolled out of bed, but make it sexy” energy. It screams careless confidence, like she knows exactly how much attention, skirt riding higher, showcasing those endless thighs and long, long legs I adore. The white top clinging for dear life to her ridiculously sexy natural 36EE chest.
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She looked like walking sin and barely-contained violence. Ponytail flicking like an angry cat’s tail. She listened to every sordid detail with that predator smile I remembered from the many times someone had dared trash-talk me back at school. When I finished, her green eyes were glittering like broken glass.
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“You need to leave her now. Ring that bitch, dump her. She’s been cheating on you, Neil. Every Tuesday. Black Mustang. Thursdays, silver BMW when you’re on nights. Mick the landlord slipping out at four a.m, who the fuck else,.”
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“I think she needs a talking-to, love. She’s obviously messed up I’m calling that cow Carol right now.”
Becky picked up the phone, and on the seventh ring—beep—it went to voicemail.
“Hi, it’s Caroline. Leave a message…” 1… 2… 3…
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I charged towards Becky to grab the phone. “Please stop, don’t—”
She just smiled, gave me that look. The air felt electric.
She pulled me towards her as she came forward and kissed me.
Not gentle. Hungry. Years of stolen passion, swallowed words exploding between our mouths. Hands in hair, tongues sliding, teeth clashing. Clothes gone in seconds—tank top over her head, my T-shirt ripped off, her skirt pulled up above thick hips, and knickers yanked down to her ankles, my jeans and boxers lost somewhere under the coffee table. Carol forgotten.
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(The answerphone still recording?)
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We didn’t make it to the bed.
She pulled me down onto the thick rug in front of the couch. I slid into her in one long thrust that punched the air from both our lungs. She was molten velvet, so wet I sank to the root on the first stroke, balls pressed tight against her arse.
“Look at you,” I rasped, dragging my palms up her sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of her perfect, perky tits, pulling them over the bra cups as I caressed the diamond-hard nipples. “Fuck, Bex… just look at you. You’re absolutely gorgeous.” I missed you so much.
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Her nipples were erect rosebuds, stiff and dark. I rolled them between my fingers and watched her back arch, watched her pussy flutter around my cock.
“These tits… flawless. This body—” I spanned her waist with my hands, thumbs almost touching. “I could lick wine off every inch of you, Bex. These legs… huge tits… they go on forever, sculpted like a goddess, trembling because you’re already close, aren’t you?”
She whimpered, thighs flexing, fresh slick coating my shaft.
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(The voicemail still recording?)
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She reached for the bottle on the table, flipped the cap, and poured a thick stream of cheap white wine straight over her chest.
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It splashed across her breasts, ran in shining rivers down her sternum, pooled in her navel. I tipped more over my own shoulders, let it cascade down my hairy chest, my abs, until it met the place we were joined and turned everything into liquid silk.
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We glistened.
Every muscle caught the low light—wine and sweat and cum mixing into a mirror finish. I slid my hands over her, spreading the wine, watching her skin turn molten. Her nipples ached under my slick thumbs; her back bowed off the rug.
“Your turn,” she whispered, voice ragged, and poured wine straight onto my chest, watching it run in rivers down the ridges of my abs, over the deep V disappearing into her body.
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“Neil… your body is unreal. Six-foot-six of pure sculpted muscle, abs I want to lick clean… and this cock—” She clenched deliberately and I groaned. “So thick, so gorgeous, dripping with us. I’ve never seen any like it, i missed it.”
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I hooked her knees over my elbows, spread her wide, and poured the last of the wine straight over her pussy. It flooded her clit, ran down her lips, coated my cock as I sank in to the root. We both watched, mesmerised, as I pulled out slow—shaft shining like polished steel, veins pulsing, coated in wine and her cream and streaks of my own earlier loads—then slammed back in.
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She was squirming constantly now, hips rolling, hairy pussy making greedy flutters every time I bottomed out. Her clit peeked from its hood, swollen and begging. I rubbed it with two slick fingers, fast and rough.
“Come for me, perfect girl,” I growled. “Milk me dry.”
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Voicemail ended. Recorded sex sounds.
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Bex shattered—back bowed, toes curled, thighs shaking in my grip—and came with a broken scream, pussy clamping in rhythmic waves so strong I felt every pulse. A hot rush of her squirt mixed with the wine, splashing my abs, running down both of us in warm rivulets.
I lost it.
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My hips stuttered, cock swelling thicker inside her, and I came with a guttural roar, pumping rope after thick rope deep into her overflowing cxnt. It leaked out around my shaft in creamy pulses, mixing with the wine sliding down her arse crack, pooling beneath us in a slick, filthy mess.
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I stayed buried, grinding through the aftershocks, watching her glistening body shake and quiver, wine and cum and sweat turning us both into something primal and perfect.
“The most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” I rasped against her lips, kissing her slow and deep.
She smiled through the haze, fingers tracing the slick ridges of my abs. “You’re the most gorgeous man alive… especially when you’re dripping inside me.”
We stayed locked together, shining, trembling, utterly reclaimed.
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“I love you, Bex,” I whispered. “I mean it. I want you forever.”
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Her door exploded open with a bang that shook the walls.
Keys clattered. Cheap cider, vodka, and chemical rage flooded the room.
Carol stood framed in the doorway, club makeup smeared, piggy eyes wide, then narrowing to slits.
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She took in the scene: Bex still sprawled beneath me, thighs trembling around my hips, my cock hard and buried inside her. Wine gleamed on every curve. Thick rivulets of my cum slid out of Bex’s swollen pussy, painting her thighs white, dripping onto the rug. Bex looked like a goddess freshly sacrificed.
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Carol—five-foot-four, eleven stone of spiteful, Oversized quilted jacket with fur hood, skin-tight black leggings, sneakers. She’s bundled up top but the leggings leave nothing to the imagination below. Phone in hand. It’s the “normal day out” #—looked like pure hate given flesh.
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“You slut,” she hissed.
holding her phone. Pointing it at Becky
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Her other fist knotted in Bex’s hair before either of us could react. Becky cried out as Carol hit me with the phone in her hand, clean off Bex—my cock still Rock solid, squirted, a pop, cum gushing in a sudden flood
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Carol dragged Bex naked across the floor by the hair with one hand and filmed with the iPhone in her left. Bex’s back arched, perfect tits bounced, long legs kicked helplessly. Hands grasped wrists
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“Dirty little man-stealing whore!” Carol screeched, hauling Bex upright by the hair until she was on her knees, then throwing her face-first over the arm of the sofa. Bex caught herself on shaking arms, arse in the air, pussy still gaping and dripping.
Carol twisted Bex’s hair tighter until she whimpered. “Look at this cum hoar, his spunk on her like a fifty-pence slag. Think you’re done?”
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She slapped Bex’s meaty arse—hard. The crack echoed. Bex jolted, fresh cum trickling down her thigh. Another slap, harder, leaving a livid red handprint. Bex openly sobbed, but her hips twitched back a fraction, betraying her.
Bex suddenly charged. Carol was still filming. She tackled Carol low. They hit the floor, Bex on top for a heartbeat, fists swinging. Carol bridged violently and flipped her. Before Bex could roll away, Carol was straddling her chest, pinning her arms with her knees.
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“Think you’re tough now, princess?” Carol snarled, slapping Bex’s face—left backhand, right backhand—still recording. Cracks echoed. Bex’s head rocked, tears springing, but she kept struggling.
I roared and hauled Carol up by the armpits. She elbowed me in the throat. I choked, grip loosening.
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Carol laughed, grabbed Bex’s throat, forced her head around to look at me.
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“Look at your step-sister.”
Bex’s lips parted. Tears clung to her lashes, but her eyes burned.
Carol shoved Bex face-down into the cum-soaked sofa, grinding her cheek into the wet patch. Bex’s muffled moan vibrated through the room. Her back arched, presenting that red-handprinted arse higher.
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Carol’s hand cracked down again—once, twice, three, four, five, six times—each slap louder, wetter, Bex’s arse jerking, wine and cum splattering.
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,The sound was a sharp, a seventh wet SMACK that echoed off the walls. Becky jolted forward, a shocked cry ripping from her throat. Pale flesh bloomed crimson instantly, a perfect handprint glowing on that big, juicy globe.
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“You like that, you lanky fucking slut?” Carol growled.
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Another brutal slap, left cheek, harder. Becky’s whole body jerked, tits swinging wildly, red mark spreading.
Carol didn’t let up. She rained down open-palmed blows like she wanted to beat the memory of me out of Becky’s skin. Left, right, left, right—fast, vicious, merciless. Each slap a deafening CRACK, Becky’s arse rippling like jelly, flesh turning angry red to deep crimson. Becky’s moans became desperate, broken sobs, legs trembling, fresh slick running down her thighs.
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Carol grabbed the ponytail again, yanked Becky’s head back savagely.
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“Push that fat arse out further. I want it higher.”
Becky obeyed instantly, arching deeper, presenting that battered, glowing arse like an offering. Carol rewarded her with a storm: twenty, thirty slaps in rapid, savage succession, no pause. Becky screamed, tears streaming, mascara ruined, handprints overlapping into one solid sheet of punishment, skin hot and swollen and purple at the edges.
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Carol stepped back, chest heaving, eyes wild, admiring the wreckage: Becky’s enormous, athletic arse utterly destroyed, quivering, bruised, owned.
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Becky’s scream broke, arms gave out, and she collapsed forward over the sofa, face buried in the cushions, arse still up, trembling uncontrollably.
I stepped between them, voice low and lethal, every muscle coiled.
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“Get your fucking hands off her. Now.”
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Carol’s head snapped up, lipstick smeared into a clownish red slash, eyes wild with vodka and venom.
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“Or what, Neil? You gonna choose this slapper whore over—”
I didn’t let her finish. My hand shot out, clamped around her wrist like a steel trap, and twisted hard. She yelped, fingers springing open, releasing Becky’s hair instantly. Becky collapsed forward onto her forearms, chest heaving, blonde strands plastered to her tear-streaked face, those green eyes flicking up to me—grateful, burning, still hungry.
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Carol tried to swing at me with her free hand. I caught that wrist too, lifted her clean off the floor until her boots dangled. Five-foot-four of drunken fury suddenly looked very small against six-foot-six of pure possessive rage.
“We’re finished,” I snarled, voice shaking with disgust. “I’ve known for months you’ve been shagging Mick, Carl, half the fucking estate. Tuesdays in the Mustang, Thursdays in the BMW, Mick sneaking out at four in the morning like a rat. You’re the dirty slag here, Carol. Not her. Never her.”
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I marched her backward toward the hallway, her heels scraping uselessly against the laminate. She flailed, nails raking my forearms, drawing thin lines of blood I barely felt.
“You’re done,” I told her, slamming her up against the wall by the open door. “I packed my shit this morning. It’s in the boot of my car. You don’t call me. You don’t text me. You don’t even look in my direction ever again. This is your mess, you poisonous bitch.”
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I shoved her out into the communal corridor. She stumbled, arms windmilling, caught herself against the opposite wall, and whirled back, face twisted into something feral.
“You’ll regret this!” she screamed. “Men like you are ten-a-penny, Neil! Replaceable!”#
Becky—still on her knees on the rug, body gleaming with wine and cum, thighs trembling, but chin high now, proud even in wreckage—spoke.
“You think you can just dump me to go back to fucking that fat-titted ex?” Carol spat. “After everything I—”
She never finished.
Becky jumped from the floor —blanket abandoned, naked and glorious. One second she was on the floor, the next she exploded forward. Carol had just enough time to throw a wild jab-cross. Becky slipped aside it like the athlete she’d always been, swinging, and fired a short, vicious backhand that came from her hips and cracked clean under Carol’s chin.
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SMACK
The sound was sickening, perfect. Carol’s head snapped back, eyes rolling to white. Her knees buckled instantly. She folded like a broken deckchair and hit the hallway floor with a heavy, meaty thud, limbs splayed, phone skittering away across the tiles.
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Becky stood over her, naked chest heaving, knuckles already swelling, tiny bit of blood-flecked from Carol’s split lip. "That's for hitting my Neil, yelled Bex
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NOW
“Get the fuck out of my flat before I call the police, you disgusting slut,” she said, voice calm now, deadly calm. Scottish steel.
Carol groaned, tried to push up on one elbow, blood trickling from the corner of her mouth. Becky took one step forward and Carol scrambled backward on all fours, panicked, boots scraping, then hauled herself up and bolted down the stairwell, almost falling in her haste.
“You’ll regret fucking with me! Both of you!” she shrieked, voice echoing up the concrete stairs, getting fainter and fainter until the slam of the building’s front door cut her off for good.
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I slammed our door shut, threw the deadbolt, slid the chain. Silence rushed in like cool water.
The lounge was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the thud of my own pulse in my ears.
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Becky stood in the middle of the wreckage, naked, magnificent, trembling with adrenaline and aftershock. Her arse was a map of brutal handprints, deep crimson blooming into purple, skin hot and swollen. Cum still leaked slowly down the inside of one thigh, mixing with the last traces of wine. Her ponytail had come half-undone, blonde strands wild around her face.
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I crossed the room in three strides, cupped her cheeks, thumbs wiping away the tears and smeared mascara.
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“You okay, love?” I whispered.
She laughed once, shaky and wet, then pressed her forehead to mine. “I am now.”
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I wrapped my arms around her, felt her shudder against me, all six feet of her folding into my chest like she used to when we were kids and the world felt too big. I kissed the top of her head, tasted salt and wine and her.
“Come on,” I murmured. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
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I scooped her up—effortless, she’s always been tall but I’ve always been taller—and carried her through to the bathroom. She looped her arms around my neck, legs dangling, and buried her face against my throat.
I set her gently on the edge of the bath, turned the shower on hot, steam billowing instantly. She watched me with those huge green eyes while I stripped off what was left of my own clothes (jeans still around one ankle, T-shirt in tatters). I stepped in first, held out a hand.
She took it and followed me under the spray.
The water hit her bruised arse and she hissed, but then sighed as I pulled her back against my chest, letting the heat soak into her skin. I grabbed her coconut shampoo, worked it gently through her hair, massaging her scalp until she melted against me. Makeup, cum, and wine circled the drain in slow, dirty spirals.
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I turned her around, tilted her chin up, and kissed her slow and deep under the waterfall, hands sliding carefully over every curve, every bruise, every inch of the body I’d worshipped since we were sixteen.
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When we were clean—really clean—I wrapped her in the biggest, fluffiest towel I could find, dried her like she was made of glass, then carried her to bed.
She curled into me immediately, head on my chest, one long leg thrown over mine, fingers tracing idle patterns through the wet hair on my stomach.
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“Stay,” she whispered into my skin.
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“Never leaving again,” I promised.
Outside, somewhere far below, a car engine revved angrily and tyres screeched away into the night. Carol, gone for good.
Inside, Becky’s breathing evened out, warm and steady against my heartbeat.
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For the first time in five years, everything felt right.
I had just pulled the bedroom door almost shut, leaving only a finger’s width of gap so I could hear if Carol tried to kick it in again, when her voice came clawing up the stairwell like broken glass dragged over concrete.
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“I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME, YOU SMUG cxntS!”
She was closer now, right outside the main building door, hammering on the glass with something metallic—keys, maybe the heel of her boot. The whole frame rattled.
I reached for Becky’s hand in the dark. She squeezed once, hard, then let go and padded barefoot to the doorway, completely naked, skin still flushed from the shower, bruises on her arse already turning livid purple in the moonlight that spilled through the half-open blinds. She pressed one palm flat against the bedroom doorframe and listened, head tilted like a wolf scenting blood.
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Carol kept going, louder, drunk on spite and cheap corner-shop vodka.
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“That Waterloo Road Sports Technology College. Rough little shithole, isn’t it? All those teenage girls who worship their Miss Prosser like she’s some goddess. All those little boys who go home and wank themselves raw over those massive tits bouncing about in PE.”
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Becky’s breath hitched—just once, so small only I heard it. Then the corner of her mouth curled, slow and dangerous.
Carol wasn’t finished.
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“Dirty, brother-fucking whore,” she screamed, voice cracking. “I hope the whole estate heard you squealing like a bitch in heat while he pumped you full!”
Becky actually laughed then—low, lazy, filthy. She rolled onto her stomach on the bed, sheet barely draped over the swell of that magnificent, brutalised arse, and raised her voice just enough to carry through the letterbox.
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“Takes one to know one, love,” she called back, syrupy sweet. “Heard you got my message loud and clear, by the way. Sounded like you enjoyed the encore.”
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“You left that on my voicemail on purpose, you smug, stuck-up cxnt,” Carol shrieked, slamming the glass again.
“Accidentally, actually,” Becky said, voice dripping honey and venom in equal measure. “Must’ve butt-dialled you while Neil was busy rearranging my insides with that big, gorgeous cock of his. Terrible luck, really. Technology, eh?”
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I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing despite everything.
Carol was practically vibrating now; I could hear her ragged breathing through the walls.
“You think you’re so fucking clever?” she spat. “You think shagging your own step-brother right in my face makes either of you safe? You think anyone’s going to look at you the same when they find out what a pair of filthy, incestuous animals you are?”
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Becky stretched like a big, satisfied cat, sheet slipping lower until the dimples at the base of her spine showed, then the top of the cleft of her arse. She rested her chin on folded arms and smiled into the darkness.
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“Neil has been mine since we were fifteen years old, Carol,” she said, conversational now, almost gentle. “Before you even knew what a decent shag felt like. You were just borrowing him for a little while. And borrowers don’t get to throw tantrums when the library wants its property back.”
A beat of pure, venomous silence.
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Then Carol’s voice dropped, low and intimate, the kind of whisper that somehow carried farther and cut deeper than any scream.
“Oh, Becky…You know Paris, my granddaughter, started Waterloo last year. Been in your classes, I think, Rebecca.”
The air in the bedroom went suddenly arctic.
Becky froze—every muscle locked, breath caught halfway in her throat.
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“My granddaughter,” Carol continued, soft, lethal.
“Bit wild, takes after her gran. She’ll do anything for me, and vice versa. Same classes as Kristin. Same changing room as Kristin. Same showers after training. Same girls who hang on your every word, Miss Prosser. And little Paris will know exactly whose cum was dripping out of her precious coach last night—and the split lip was just a lucky shot. I’ve got the whole recording. You got spanked, Bex, and I’ve got the proof. I’ll show the whole school. You’re mine now, bitch.”
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Becky’s knuckles went white where they gripped the edge of the duvet.
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Carol laughed, a wet, triumphant sound.
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“The head teacher, the governors, the local Facebook groups… I’ll make sure every parent in that school knows exactly what kind of depraved bitch has been putting their daughters in armbars and telling them to keep their hips low.”
The hallway light flickered on; I hadn’t even realised I’d moved until I was already in the corridor, fists clenched so tight my nails drew blood from my palms.
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Carol wasn’t finished. Her voice floated up, singsong now, almost tender.
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“Sleep tight, Miss Prosser. Sweet dreams.”
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Then the unmistakable clatter of her heels retreating down the stairs, the slam of the building door, and finally the screech of tyres as she peeled away into the night.
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The bedroom was utterly silent except for the soft tick of the cooling radiator and Becky’s breathing—shallow, too fast.
I turned back.
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She was sitting bolt upright on the edge of the bed now, sheet clutched to her chest, face pale in the moonlight, green eyes wide and fixed on nothing.
“Bex…” I started.
She didn’t answer. Just stared straight ahead, jaw clenched so hard I could see the muscle jumping.
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Because Carol had finally found the one weapon that could actually hurt her worse than any slap ever could:
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Kristin. Her reputation. The job she loved. The fragile, hard-won respect she’d built in a school most people wrote off.
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I sat down beside her, reached for her hand. She let me take it, but her fingers were ice-cold and trembling.
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“She won’t,” I said quietly. “She’s bluffing.”
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Becky swallowed once, hard.
“She’s not,” she whispered. “That’s the worst part. She’s vicious enough… and stupid enough… to do it.”
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The bruises on her arse throbbed in the silence like a second heartbeat.
And for the first time that night, the woman who had always loved, had just knocked my cheating, conniving ex girlfriend spark-out with one perfect punch, a split lip to go home with, Becky looked genuinely worried about Kristin meeting Paris at college.
#TBC
