The Sister 8

Author's Note:

He's been her brother's football (soccer) coach for years -- always polite, always distant. Every summer, she came along on the tour, and every summer, she pushed the line a little further.

Now she's 18.

This year, she's not asking. She's taking.

A slow-burn story about power shifts, quiet dominance, and the moment everything changes.

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I told myself I was checking on the lads. Standard duty. A check-in to make sure they weren't causing trouble. But the second I stepped through the bar doors, I knew -- this wasn't about them. It wasn't about the lads. It was about her.

Same smirk. Red top. Tight jeans. And beside her -- my pint. She didn't wave. Just tapped the rim with one nail, like she'd already decided how this night would end.

I sat. Our knees brushed and stayed there. We barely spoke. Didn't need to. It was all there in the silence -- that thick, low hum between us. The way her gaze lingered on my mouth. The way I couldn't seem to look anywhere but her collarbone.

When I stood, she followed. No word, no question. Just her quiet footsteps behind mine, her heels clicking against the floor. Calm. Sure.

We didn't talk on the walk back. There was nothing to say. We both knew exactly where this was going. And maybe we'd always known. She wasn't a kid anymore. And I'd run out of reasons to keep pretending she was.

At my door, I turned.

She kissed me. No hesitation. Full mouth, whole body, pressing in like she meant to burn the hesitation right out of me. I staggered back into the wall, caught her instinctively. Her legs came up around my waist like she'd done it a hundred times. I could feel everything -- her breath hot in my mouth, her nails dragging across my neck, the heat of her through her jeans and mine. It was dizzying.

For a second, I couldn't tell if it was really happening.

Then it was all happening too fast.

I set her down and fumbled for the key. She got the door open and pulled me inside by the hand, as if it were her house, not mine. Of course, she knew the way. Every caravan here was the same.

We hit the bedroom, and the air shifted. The space felt too small. Too close.

She turned in the low light, her face unreadable. Then, without a word, she bent to undo her shoes. One. Then the other. She stood again and pulled her top off in a single, fluid motion. No nerves, no show. Bare arms, black bra, soft skin lit by the hallway glow.

I didn't move.

She looked at me, then down at the button of her jeans.

That's when I stepped forward, still not quite breathing right. I kissed her. I needed to kiss her. I needed something to hold on to while I reached for the button and started to undo it.

My hands shook. She felt it -- I know she did -- but she didn't say anything. I leaned into the kiss and pulled her hips, encouraging the denim to slide down.

I didn't want to stop kissing her. If I stopped, I might break.

The zip came down slow. The sound of it -- soft, precise -- almost louder than the thoughts crashing in my skull. I slid my fingers under the waistband and started to pull. She lifted one foot, then the other, stepping out of them like it was nothing. Like this was always going to happen.

And maybe it was. Perhaps it had been inevitable since the day I set eyes on her when she was just the sister of one of my players.

She stood there in her bra and knickers, and for a second, all I could do was look at her. Not in the way I had when she was younger, full of questions and danger, but as a woman. A whole woman. Wanting me. Choosing me.

I swallowed.

She smiled a cheeky grin and reached for my belt.

Steady fingers, unhurried and sure. No rush. No performance. Quietly confident, like she'd known exactly how this would go the moment I walked into that bar.

I caught her wrist. Not to stop her, not really to pause. To remind myself, I could.

She looked up at me. Not annoyed. Not scared. Just... waiting. Her pulse was visible in her throat. She didn't say a word.

I let go.

She placed one hand on my stomach and pushed. It wasn't hard, but it was decisive. I let her; I allowed myself to tip back and land on the mattress with a soft thud.

She climbed on top of me carefully, straddling my hips, her knees pressing into the mattress on either side. Her hair had come loose and fell in front of her face, casting her in shadows. She didn't kiss me again. Not yet. She let her hands travel over my chest, along my ribs, down to the edge of my shirt.

She slipped her fingers beneath the fabric and pushed it up. I lifted my arms so she could peel it off. She sat back, looking down at me, and bit the corner of her lip. That lip -- that mouth -- had no business on an eighteen-year-old. But it wasn't about age now. Not anymore.

She leaned forward and kissed my collarbone. Just that. A soft press of lips against skin.

I felt it like a shot of heat right down my spine to my cock.

Then one more, just beneath my jaw. And another, measured, precise, over my chest. Her mouth moved like she needed to remember every taste. As she had envisioned it countless times, she now needed to bring it to life. Her breath was warm and trembling, yet her hands remained steady. Intent.

Mine were still at my sides. I didn't know what to do with them.

Reading my mind, she took my hands and placed them on her waist.

The way she said it -- soft, but sure -- it wrecked me. As my hands touched her soft warm skin more blood rushed to my cock, I was sure she could feel it getting harder.

I allowed my thumbs to glide along the waistband of her knickers, not descending any lower, simply savouring the moment. Being present. She leaned in to kiss me, her breath warm, her hands steady, her hair brushing against my face, and at last, finally, kissed me once more.

This time it was different. Deeper. Slower. Less hungry, more certain. Like we'd crossed into something neither of us could take back.

As she pulled away, I found myself breathless.

A spark appeared in her eyes, sharper than before. It felt as if she had chosen her next step and was merely executing it.

She shifted her weight, sliding back along my thighs. I felt the change immediately -- the cool air between us, the ache of where she had been. My hands slipped from her hips, but I didn't stop her. I watched.

She moved with intention, her fingers trailing down my stomach, slow enough to make me forget how to breathe.

When she reached the edge of my boxers, she paused. Just a breath. Just long enough to make sure I was watching her, really watching. Then she dipped her fingers beneath the waistband, gentle and unhurried, until she found my hard cock. The one she had told me had been the centre of her fantasies for many years.

I twitched under her touch. God. Her hand was warm, soft, so confident. How was she this confident? How was she seducing me? How was she in control of this?

She pulled me free, the heat of her mouth already making it impossible to think. Her eyes flicked up to mine, a look that told me she knew what she was about to do. She knew she was going to wreck me. The way she looked up -- calm, almost smug -- told me she was taking me apart one breath at a time.

I wasn't guiding this. I was being guided.

Every motion of her mouth was deliberate, as if she was reading a map she'd memorised years ago -- and now, she was tracing it with her tongue.

Her lips brushed the head, tender and electric. Barely a kiss. And still -- it hit like lightning. I swallowed hard and let my head fall back, my hands tightening on the sheets. I could feel everything. Every warm breath. Every slow inch of her. The careful way her mouth moved, learning me.

I wanted to move, to thrust my hips, but I couldn't. I was frozen.

She had the control.

This wasn't a performance. It wasn't about proving anything. It was personal -- her pace, her rhythm, the slight hum in her throat like she'd finally gotten something she'd waited for.

I couldn't take my eyes off her.

The way she moved -- head down, lips parting around me -- like this wasn't her first time doing it, but the first time it ever meant something. Like she was claiming me.

And Christ, the way it felt. Warm. Wet. Tight. Too much.

I gripped the sheets harder, trying not to buck my hips, trying not to lose control. But my body had its own ideas. Every flick of her tongue, every slow pull of her mouth sent another wave of pressure building low in my gut. I could feel the edge creeping closer, fast, too fast.

Jesus. I can't...

Not yet.

I didn't want it to end. Not like this. Not with her barely getting started, still so goddamn calm and in control. She wasn't only giving me pleasure -- she was pulling it out of me, inch by inch, like she owned it. Like she'd earned it.

I looked down at her -- at that mess of hair spilling over my stomach, her hands firm around my hips to keep me still, her mouth working me with calculated precision-- and for a second I honestly thought I might lose it.

Right there. In her mouth. Like a teenager.

I couldn't do that. I couldn't be like other guys her age.

I clenched my jaw, breathing sharp through my nose, eyes half-closed. Focusing on holding back.

It was the most erotic kind of torture. Wanting to let go. Needing to. But also needing to stay inside this moment just a little longer. Because once it broke, once I shattered, I didn't know what would come next. And God, I wasn't ready to let her go.

She paused -- just for a second -- pulling back, her lips slick, eyes locking on mine. Her hand stroked me once, firm and deliberate, and she smirked like she knew exactly where I was.

Her mouth moved back to the head of my cock, rock solid, ready to explore. She wrapped her lips around me with that same unbearable grace -- deliberate, precise, wet and sure. It was too much. That kind of too much where you can't breathe, can't think, feel, completely at her mercy.

I gritted my teeth, fists clenched in the sheets, but it didn't matter. My body had its own language now. A low groan broke out of me, unguarded, the sound thick with everything I was trying to hold back.

And she heard it.

She felt the twitch in my thigh. The tightening in my stomach. The raw, involuntary tremor of someone on the verge.

And then she stopped.

Her lips left me with a soft, wet pull, the kind that could have led me to launch my load straight down her throat.

Instead, she sat back on her heels, her hand slid down my length, marking the moment. She looked at me -- flushed, trembling, utterly undone -- and then moved with calm, devastating intention.

She rose. Swung one leg over my hips. And straddled me.

Her eyes never left mine as she reached between us, guiding me to her dripping wet cunt --not roughly, not with hunger, but with aching, unbearable control. And then, with the gentlest, deepest motion I'd ever felt, she sank onto me.

I gasped. It took everything within me to keep control. To not thrust my hips up and straight into her cervix.

Instead, I gripped the sheets. She took every inch, inch by inch, wrapping herself around me in controlled, excruciating silence. Her mouth parted, her breath caught -- but she didn't close her eyes. She watched me. I watched her, felt her. Watched every flicker of disbelief as she settled fully into my lap and held herself there, buried to the hilt, warm and tight and so damn slow I could hardly breathe.

She leaned in and kissed me--soft, slow--while she stayed right there, wrapped around me, tight and impossibly warm. I nearly lost it. The way she held me, the way her body gripped mine... it was too much. But I clung to her hips, jaw tight, willing myself not to give in.

Not yet.

Her mouth stayed on mine, tasting, coaxing, anchoring me when I was right on the verge. And then -- God -- she started to move. Barely. Just the smallest shift of her hips. The rise and fall so careful it almost hurt. Controlled. Intentional. Every motion felt like she was teasing the pressure higher to see how long I could take it.

She wasn't in a rush. She wasn't chasing release. She was dragging me with her, and she knew exactly what she was doing.

I could feel every muscle in my body coil tighter with each gentle motion, the heat of her clenching around me like fire melting through my veins. My breath became a raw, ragged sound that threatened to spill into loud, primal moans.

I fought it, clenched my jaw, fingers digging into the sheets, desperate to hold myself together.

Her eyes never left mine. They held a challenge--a promise that she would take me exactly where she wanted. No faster. No less.

She dipped her head, brushing her lips over my collarbone, then back to my mouth, kissing me slow, deep, the kind of kiss that unravels everything inside but demands silence.

Her body rode me with exquisite control, every movement perfectly measured, every curve teasing me closer to the brink. I could feel my control slipping, the urge to thrust upward, to bury myself deep inside her, to lose myself in the frenzy rising in my gut. But I stayed still, gritting my teeth, my mind a desperate warzone between surrender and restraint.

She ground against me with a torturous slowness, her breath hot and heavy on my skin, the slick wet heat of her cunt wrapping me like a vice. Each slow, deliberate circle of her hips was a promise of release -- but only on her terms.

My body screamed to move, to claim, to explode -- but my hands held firm, gripping her hips, holding her close, begging her silently to keep this delicious torment going.

Her eyes sparkled with dark amusement, the slightest smirk curving her lips as if she could hear the silent plea behind my clenched jaw. And still she rode me -- slow, patient, intoxicating -- until every nerve ending felt alive, trembling, desperate.

I was drowning in her, lost and utterly consumed.

She shifted, just a whisper faster now. Not rushing, but deliberate, each movement sending a fresh jolt through me. Her hips rolled in a lazy, teasing circle, wet heat pressing harder against every nerve ending in my solid cock. The slow drag of her skin against mine felt like fire. It was almost painful.

I clenched my fists, desperate to stop myself from snapping, from thrusting up into her and claiming her like I wanted to. But she was in control, mastering every inch, every pulse. The way she looked at me, steady and unflinching, made it impossible to break.

A sharp groan slipped free, caught instantly by her lips still grazing mine in that soft, electric kiss. She didn't pause. She kept moving--just a touch quicker--her rhythm coaxing, teasing, pulling me toward the edge.

My jaw clenched. A groan escaped -- low, broken. And then I shattered. Heat surged through me in crashing waves. She held me steady as I pulsed inside her, never flinching, riding out the storm she had summoned.

Even after the storm inside me settled, I stayed painfully hard, every inch of me alive, raw, desperate for more. Age was just a number--irrelevant here, now--because she had that fire, that fierce hunger that made every nerve stand at attention.

Slowly, she eased herself off me, sliding down my body with the same deliberate grace that had ruled every moment between us. She lay beside me, close enough to feel the heat of her skin, far enough to tease.

Her eyes found mine, heavy-lidded, burning with that quiet, unspoken command: Now it's your turn.

She didn't have to say it. I knew. I could feel the invitation in the curve of her lips, the soft rise and fall of her chest, the way her fingers traced lazy circles across my hips.

I rolled onto my side, cupping her face, pulling her close. Kissing her, not slowly this time, if she was handing me control, I was going to show her exactly what she had just done to me.

I climbed on top of her, looking down at this beauty. This goddess who had just taken me in the most perfect way.

I pushed inside her as slow as I could manage, fighting the urge to keep control with the desire to fuck her hard fast and raw.

She was young, yes -- but not unsure. Not anymore. That fire in her eyes left no room for doubt. She knew what she was doing and exactly who she was doing it to.

My hands dug into her hips, trying to stay gentle, matching her steady rhythm, but the hunger in me was a beast clawing to break free. My breath came faster. Every soft gasp from her was a spark, every tightening of her cunt a lure I couldn't resist.

I fought it. I did. But I couldn't anymore.

My hips thrust deep into her; she cried out. Raw and uncontrolled, forcing myself deeper, gaining speed, chasing a release I couldn't hold back for much longer. It was painful how hard I was, how desperately I needed to orgasm again. I couldn't understand how that was even possible for me.

But god, I wanted her to come undone for me.

She clung to me, fierce and wild beneath me, and I buried my face in her neck, swallowing the ragged sound of her moans, losing myself in the messy, perfect chaos of her. She was mine to break now.

My hands slid beneath her thighs, lifting her with ease, rolling her back against the sheets. Her legs opened for me like it was instinct, like her body already knew what I needed. I knelt between them, hooked one smooth calf over my shoulder, and there it was -- the perfect angle, the kind of depth that made my breath catch before I even moved.

She looked up at me, wide-eyed, wrecked and radiant. That expression--like she hadn't expected any of this, like it was all happening to her--was a lie. She'd brought me here. She'd unmade me.

And now I was going to give her everything.

I sank back inside her, but there was no gentleness left in me. The angle made her arch, gasp -- made her take every inch like it was carved for her alone. I gripped her hips tightly, fighting the instinct to lose rhythm and take. Her fingers clutched the sheets, mouth parted, moaning my name in something half prayer, half dare.

I tried to hold back. I swear I did. But the way she opened to me -- not just her body, but her mind, her fire, her daring -- it was too much. My control shattered in the space between her gasps. And when I drove deeper, harder, all that innocence she wore like a veil burned away into something far more dangerous.

I watched her as I moved, I moved with purpose, hips meeting hers in a rhythm that made her arch and gasp. Each thrust found that perfect place -- not just inside her, but between us -- where lust became something deeper.

Her body tightened around me, and I swore I could feel her pull me in even as I tried to hold back.

One hand held her hip steady. The other slid down, slow, deliberate, until my thumb found that aching, swollen place between us. I circled gently at first, teasing her with the same restraint she'd shown me, trying to match her rhythm, her pace. She had held back her own pleasure, probably knowing I would come undone in an instant if she had orgasmed.

Her hips bucked, her thighs trembled, and a helpless scream spilled from her lips like she'd been waiting for me to give her that. Her hand flew to mine, covering it, pressing down -- needing more, faster, deeper. And I gave it to her. I gave her everything I could.

Her eyes found mine, wild and glazed, like she couldn't believe what she was feeling -- or maybe she could, maybe this was exactly what she'd planned from the start. This sweet, innocent girl, wrapped around me, wide open and burning, pulling me deeper with every roll of her hips and grind of her clit against my fingers.

And I? I was gone. Nothing but instinct now. Nothing but the raw, ruinous need to feel her fall apart beneath me -- and to follow her straight over that edge.

It happened fast -- too fast -- but there was no stopping it. Not now.