Evil Sister cocktease younger with bigger tits

Horny guy gets worked over by the cock teasing of his gfs younger sister.

Live Sex Cams

Sexy Webcams

Sex Toys

Porn Pay Per View

Erotic sex stories are for adults only - also, all individuals and groups portrayed on this xxx website are over the age of consent

 

The Slow Undoing – Part II

It wasn’t just the glances anymore. Callie had escalated her game.

It started subtly—clothing choices that left nothing to the imagination, always when Marissa wasn’t looking. Then, more brazen moves: bending too low to pick something up in front of Ethan, leaning too far across the dinner table, arms pressing tightly around her chest when she "got cold," eyes flicking to him afterward, gauging the reaction.

Marissa noticed, but in the way someone notices a hairline crack in their wine glass and pretends it’s still whole. She made jokes about it—lightly, at first.

“Guess my little sister thinks we’re in a reality show,” she laughed one evening as Callie walked by in a barely-buttoned flannel and shorts that shouldn’t count as clothing. “Always a little extra.”

Ethan didn’t laugh.

Callie stopped, turned back.

“Extra?” she asked, mock-wounded. “That hurts. I thought I was the favorite sister.”

“You’re the dramatic one,” Marissa replied coolly.

Callie smirked. “Only when it works.”

She turned to Ethan and said it just loud enough for Marissa to hear: “You like dramatic girls, don’t you?”

Ethan said nothing. Marissa poured more wine with a sharper grip on the bottle than necessary.

It became a ritual. Ethan would come home and find Callie in the living room, half-curled on the couch, watching something with heavy sighs and slow, languid stretches. She never hid what she was doing, but never named it. She’d toss off comments in Marissa’s presence like:

“Hey Mar, remember when we were younger and I used to steal your bras? I was just trying to even the playing field.”

Or, worse, directly to Ethan: “Bet she didn’t tell you I was the busty one in the family, huh?”

Marissa always rolled her eyes. “Callie, seriously?”

But she never made her stop.

Ethan started sleeping later. Showering longer. Talking less. Every room had a tension to it—every couch, every dinner, every pause in conversation felt like a stage Callie was directing.

One night, Callie sat beside Marissa while Ethan stood in the doorway, unsure whether to come in or leave.

“She’s lucky,” Callie said suddenly, tracing her finger around the rim of her wine glass.

Marissa looked up. “Who is?”

Callie nodded at Ethan. “You, sis. You always get the ones that pay attention. The ones that try really hard not to look.”

Marissa raised a brow. “He’s loyal. That’s called respect.”

Callie smiled. “Sure. It’s just a different kind of loyalty when someone has to look away, though, isn’t it?”

Silence.

Then, casually, Callie adjusted her shirt—something soft and snug, cut just low enough to be a challenge—and reached for her wine again. Her smirk didn’t touch her eyes. It was something else. A warning. A promise. A game only she knew the rules to.

Marissa didn’t say anything.

And Ethan? Ethan realized this wasn’t about flirtation anymore. It was about control. Callie didn’t want him. She wanted Marissa to feel the slow rot of doubt.

And she was winning.

----

 

The Slow Undoing – Part III

Ethan used to think attraction was something you could reason through—a mental calculation between admiration and restraint. But Callie shattered that illusion with the force of inevitability.

It wasn’t just her body, though that was undeniably part of it. Callie had the kind of figure that made clothing seem ornamental—hourglass lines and unhurried confidence, a chest that defied modesty whether she was trying or not. But she was trying. That was the worst part.

She flaunted it with the precision of someone who knew the effect she had. Her movements were curated. She didn’t walk into rooms—she entered like a question no one dared answer. She didn’t bend, she unfolded. When she stretched, it was slow, deliberate, her shirt riding up just enough to show skin, never by accident.

She wanted Ethan to notice.

And he did. Every single time.

His chest would tighten. His mouth would dry. His heartbeat, steady by nature, would stammer. Not from desire—at least not only that—but from dread. Because he knew this was a game he wasn’t meant to win. He could never look. And she would never stop making him want to.

One night, she came downstairs after a shower—hair still wet, a thin tank top clinging to her, no bra, shorts barely hanging on her hips. She saw Ethan on the couch and gave him a smirk like she’d caught him trespassing in a dream she designed.

“Didn’t expect you down here,” she said, voice light.

“I live here,” he muttered, forcing his eyes to the floor.

“Right,” she said. “But I don’t mind.”

She poured a drink slowly at the counter, turning just enough for the tank top to shift against her chest. He glanced once. Regretted it instantly. She saw. Of course she saw.

She walked over, glass in hand, and sat in the chair across from him—one leg pulled up lazily, casually. The posture was careless, but he knew better. It was choreographed.

“You know,” she said, “Marissa’s always been a little jealous.”

He froze. “Of what?”

Callie gave a slow, deliberate shrug that made her shoulders roll and the fabric shift again.

“I don’t know. Attention, maybe? I mean... I never had to try the way she did.”

Ethan said nothing.

“She used to get so mad when guys looked at me first. Poor thing.”

She sipped from her glass, lips pressing deliberately to the rim.

“It’s not her fault. Genetics are a bitch.”

He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. His throat was tight, pulse hammering in his temples. Callie’s smile turned razor-thin. She leaned forward just slightly, arms pressing together, neckline deepening like a silent command.

“You ever wonder what she’d be like if she had this?” she asked, lifting her chest with a subtle motion and a feigned innocence in her eyes.

He stood up suddenly, muttered something, and left the room.

But her laughter followed.

In the days that followed, the war was silent but constant.

Marissa noticed the distance. Ethan became quieter. But Callie filled the space with soft chaos—always brushing against Ethan when reaching past him in the kitchen, always calling him from upstairs with that drawn-out tone that made his name sound like a dare.

She spoke louder when Marissa was around, saying things like:

“I should really stop stealing your clothes, Mar, but they never fit me right up top.”

Or: “You’re lucky Ethan’s into the more... restrained types. Most guys don’t know what to do with a body like mine.”

Always with that smile. That look of triumph.

Ethan could feel her winning. Every glance he stole, every time he caught himself wondering what her skin felt like under that tank top, every image that flickered in his head just before sleep—it was another tally in her unspoken scorecard.

He was unraveling. And she knew.

She wasn’t just tormenting him. She was dismantling him.


-----

The Slow Undoing – Part IV

Ethan tried to time his routines around Callie. Wake up earlier. Shower first. Leave the room when she entered. But it didn’t matter. Callie had a way of inserting herself everywhere. She never knocked. She didn’t need to. She was entropy in motion—brighter, louder, fuller than the quiet balance he and Marissa had once shared.

And she was always on display.

Her body was a weapon, and she wielded it like art. It wasn’t just the size of her breasts—easily three sizes larger than Marissa’s—or the sway of her fuller, heart-shaped ass in every doorway. It was that she knew. She was built like temptation and carried herself like temptation incarnate—nipples nearly always visible beneath thin fabrics, never wearing bras indoors, acting as if modesty was beneath her.

Ethan noticed. How could he not?

Every time she entered the room, his stomach clenched. She’d stretch in front of him casually, arching her back, tank top sliding up, nipples so stiff and defined they might as well have been cut from ice. The fabric clung to her curves like it had been designed just for this—to test him, to remind him.

He’d pretend to focus on his phone or the wall, but it didn’t matter. She saw the flush in his cheeks. The tension in his jaw. She saw everything.

And she loved it.

One evening, while Marissa was upstairs on a call, Callie walked into the living room in nothing but a low-cut sports bra and yoga shorts that hugged her like paint. Her chest bounced with each step, nipples hard, unapologetically outlined through the thin fabric. The shorts stretched tight over her hips, the fabric pulled deep into the cleft of her ass.

Ethan didn’t move. He froze like prey.

She smirked.

"Long day?" she asked, casually stretching both arms above her head, lifting her breasts high, taut against the thin material.

He didn’t answer.

Callie walked past him, her hips swaying like a hypnotist’s watch, then paused in front of the mirror—turning slightly to inspect her rear.

“You think these shorts are too small?” she asked, looking over her shoulder.

Ethan swallowed hard. “Ask your sister.”

“Oh, I did,” she said. “She said I should be careful what I wear around you.”

His breath hitched.

“Jealousy’s an ugly thing,” Callie said, running her hands down her sides, slow and sensual, “but I get it. If I had her body and you had to wake up to me walking around every day, I’d probably feel threatened too.”

He opened his mouth, closed it.

She turned to him, full view—breasts round, nipples boldly pressing forward, nothing left to the imagination.

“But you’re good,” she said, smiling sweetly. “You haven’t done anything. That makes you better, right?”

There was something in her eyes then—gleeful, cruel. Not attraction. Not interest. Just power. She liked watching him squirm.

“I mean, sure,” she went on, stepping closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, “you’ve probably thought about it. Can’t blame you. These things...” she glanced down at her chest with mock innocence, “...they’ve been driving guys mad since high school.”

Ethan stepped back. “Stop.”

“Why?” she said, tilting her head. “You haven’t touched me. You haven’t even looked—except when you think I’m not watching. So tell me, Ethan... who are you really trying to protect? Me, or yourself?”

He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Then Marissa called down from upstairs, and just like that, Callie slipped away with a grin and the faint bounce of satisfaction in her step.

That night, Ethan lay in bed beside Marissa, listening to her breathe. He didn’t touch her. He couldn’t.

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw Callie—stretching, smirking, victorious.

The walls of their house were thinning. And Callie was peeling them away, one layer at a time.

------

 

The Slow Undoing – Part V

It happened by accident—or at least, that was the story Ethan would cling to when the guilt clawed at him later.

He'd gone upstairs to grab a towel from the hallway linen closet. The bathroom door was ajar, steam curling from the crack like a veil, and as he turned, Callie stepped out—naked.

No scream. No flinch. No startled attempt to cover herself.

She saw him, clearly. Looked him directly in the eyes. Then—nothing. She just stood there, soaked and glowing, water sliding down smooth skin, her posture easy. Relaxed. Victorious.

Ethan froze.

His mind screamed to look away—but his body didn’t move. His eyes refused to obey. And Callie just... stayed.

It felt like hours, though it couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds. He saw everything. She let him. No accident. No shame. Only silence, and that little, dangerous smile in the corner of her mouth.

Then she turned, slowly, with a deliberate sway in her hips, and walked back into the bathroom. The door didn’t close until she was almost fully out of sight.

Ethan didn’t sleep that night.

**

She never mentioned it.

Not directly.

But the energy between them changed. The smugness in her gaze had leveled up. There was a quiet cruelty now, a confidence that said I know something you won’t say out loud.

And she played with it.

One morning, Marissa was pulling on a sweater in the kitchen when Callie strolled in wearing an impossibly thin tank top—no bra, as usual—and leaned across the table to grab coffee.

“Ugh,” she groaned with mock disgust. “I can’t borrow anything from you, Mar. Your bras are like training wheels.”

Marissa rolled her eyes. “You’re unbelievable.”

Callie turned to Ethan, eyes gleaming.

“Don’t you think we should settle this once and for all?” she said with a wicked grin. “Nice breasts contest. Winner gets... I don’t know, bragging rights?”

Ethan choked on his coffee.

Marissa laughed, shaking her head. “Grow up.”

Callie shrugged. “I’m just saying, if we lined up side-by-side—”

“Callie.”

She held up her hands in fake surrender. “Fine, fine. Next time.”

Ethan tried not to look at her chest, but his eyes betrayed him. She noticed. Of course she noticed.

**

It didn’t stop there.

Twice more over the next week she brought it up—always when Marissa was half-listening, always when Ethan was trying his best not to react.

“Still thinking about that contest,” she said one evening. “Bet Ethan would be a fair judge.”

Marissa laughed it off.

But Callie’s eyes never left his. She said it like a challenge. Like she knew exactly what she'd done to him.

**

The Slow Undoing – Part VI

She had just come in from a run.

Skin flushed, breathing steady, a film of sweat catching the kitchen light. Her body was sculpted, hips rolling with every step, her sports bra clinging like a second skin. It left nothing hidden—neither the rise and weight of her chest, nipples visibly pressing forward with almost comical boldness, nor the shape of her waist, narrowing just enough to make everything beneath it seem larger.

Ethan turned to see her grab water from the fridge. That was all.

But Callie caught him again—eyes tracking the hesitation in his stare, the way his breath skipped a beat. She knew his tells now. Every one of them. She didn’t have to guess anymore.

Then her gaze flicked downward.

There, clear and damning: a bulge in his pants, not even trying to hide itself. Not even capable of hiding, in that moment. His arousal betrayed him utterly. The outline was unmistakable—thick, firm, heavy. More than she expected? Maybe. But she didn’t look surprised. She looked... satisfied.

Her mouth didn’t move for a few seconds.

Just her eyes, watching, calculating.

She took a sip of water. Turned. Leaned a hand on the counter, chest lifted.

Then, without even looking at him:
“Hm.”

A quiet sound. Half amusement, half intrigue. But for Ethan, it landed like a blow.

That hum wasn’t surprise—it was approval.

She let the silence hang there, thick as syrup. He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

Then, softly, offhanded, like it meant nothing at all:
“Is that for me?”

No smirk. No wink. Just those five words dropped like a coin into a well—rippling through him in slow, paralyzing waves.

And she was already walking away before he could even open his mouth, her tone as casual as if she'd asked for more coffee.

But inside, Ethan burned.

She saw him—completely. And worse: what she saw suited her just fine.

**

From then on, she never needed to say anything more. The power shifted.

Now, every time she entered the room, he was aware of his own body in ways he’d never been before. She didn’t have to tease aloud. She only had to glance down once, eyes flicking with that private knowledge, a silent nod to what she already owned.

And it was ownership.

She didn’t need to touch him. Didn’t need to seduce him. She just stood there, confident and deliberate in her body, knowing he was thinking about it. About her. About what she’d seen, what she knew, and the fact that he couldn’t hide it anymore—not even from himself.

**

That night at dinner, Marissa playfully asked, “What are you two so quiet about lately?”

Ethan said nothing.

Callie sipped her wine. Met his eyes. Held them.

“Just thinking about... measurements,” she said with a smile. “Some people really do come out ahead.”

Her hand brushed her own chest casually.

Marissa rolled her eyes. “Still on about the bust thing?”

Callie turned to her, grinning.

“I mean, if we’re keeping score…”

Then, back to Ethan—just a flicker of her eyes downward. A silent, wicked echo of the kitchen moment.

Ethan couldn’t eat. Could barely breathe.

Because now, it wasn’t just the house she controlled.

It was him.

-------

 

The Slow Undoing – Part VII

The worst part, Ethan realized, was that he started looking forward to the moments when Marissa wasn’t home.

He’d never admit it aloud. Not even to himself, not fully. But when it was just him and Callie, the air in the house changed. The quiet felt heavier. More dangerous. And he was no longer resisting it—just bracing for it.

It happened on a Tuesday. Marissa had a late client dinner. Ethan came home early, tension already knotted in his chest.

Callie was on the back porch, lounging on a deck chair in a cropped tank and no bra, of course. Her shorts were practically an afterthought. Sunglasses on. Legs stretched long. One strap of her top had slipped down her arm.

She saw him through the glass. Smiled.

Waited.

Ethan hesitated in the doorway.

“Come out,” she said, not looking at him. “Sit.”

He did. Because he always did.

She took her sunglasses off slowly. “So. We’re alone.”

His mouth was dry. “Yeah.”

She turned toward him, adjusting her posture. Her breasts shifted freely with the movement—big, heavy, round, impossible not to notice. And she noticed him noticing.

“Tell me something,” she said, voice light, sweet—but the undercurrent wasn’t.

He didn’t answer. She leaned forward.

“Do you think I’m attractive?”

His breath caught.

“Callie…”

She waited. Calm. Confident.

“You’ve been trying not to look at me for weeks. I’ve seen the way your body reacts. I know what I walked in on the other day,” she added with a smirk, referencing the moment he thought had been buried. “So just... say it. Say what you think when you look at me.”

Ethan looked away. But something in him cracked.

"You’re... gorgeous," he muttered.

She smiled wider. “Where?”

“What?”

She leaned closer, her voice lowering.

“Don’t get shy. Be honest. Where do you look first?”

He didn’t answer. Her tone sharpened just enough to make him flinch.

“Ethan.”

His name in her mouth wasn’t a request. It was a command.

His throat worked. “Your—your chest.”

She sat back, satisfied. “Of course.”

Her hand brushed across her shirt absently, the soft curve rising with the motion. “It’s okay. I know what they do to people. You’re not the first.”

“You’ve made it impossible not to notice,” he said quietly.

She laughed. “Exactly.”

A pause.

Then, softly, without looking at him: “And you liked what you saw, didn’t you?”

He swallowed.

“Yes.”

She smiled like a queen.

“Good.”

She stood slowly, stretched, her breasts shifting against the thin fabric again—and this time, she didn’t walk away. She stood right in front of him, arms crossed under her chest, enhancing their fullness.

“Say it.”

He looked up at her, dazed. “Say what?”

“What you really think. Tell me what it’s like seeing me like this every day. Tell me what it does to you.”

He hesitated, but she waited. She always did.

“It’s…” He exhaled shakily. “It drives me crazy. You know it does. You don’t hide anything. You walk around like you own the place—like you own me.”

Her smile widened.

“And don’t I?”

He didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.

Her power was complete in that moment. Not because he touched her. Not because she touched him.

But because she’d made him confess.

Because now she knew everything.

And she would use it.

waiting for you