A Terrible Mistake
Copyright© 2025 by Knobbie Knows
Chapter 1
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 1 - A brother gets caught spying on his sister, resulting in confrontation and a new relationship.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Reluctant Heterosexual Fiction Incest Brother Sister Masturbation Safe Sex Voyeurism BBW AI Generated
The air in Chloe’s bedroom was thick and still, heavy with the day’s trapped heat and the lingering scent of her vanilla-scented candle, now just a puddle of wax. She stood before her full-length mirror, her reflection a study in soft curves and self-loathing. At twenty-two, her body was a canvas of stretch marks silvering her hips and the generous swell of her stomach. She called herself a fat girl, not with pride, but with a resigned, brutal honesty she reserved only for these private moments.
With a sigh that was part frustration, part ritual, she peeled off her oversized t-shirt and cotton sleep shorts. The fabric clung for a moment to the damp skin of her lower back before falling away. Naked, she felt both vulnerable and powerful, a dichotomy that always confused her. She ran her hands over her stomach, her thighs, a frown etching her features. Then her eyes drifted to the top drawer of her nightstand.
Inside, beneath a tangle of journals and charging cables, was her secret: a sleek, purple vibrator. It wasn’t fancy, but it was reliable. Her fingers closed around the cool silicone, and a familiar thrum of anticipation moved through her. This was her time. Her release.
She lay back on her bed, the sheets cool against her skin. She closed her eyes, shutting out the critical voice in her head, and let the buzz of the toy fill her senses. She was loud, unashamed in her solitude. Her moans were not delicate whispers but full-throated, guttural sounds of pleasure that echoed in the quiet room. She was lost in the sensation, a universe of one, building towards a crescendo.
In the dim blue glow of his computer monitor two doors down, Leo watched. His breath was shallow, his hand moving rhythmically under his desk. The image on the screen was crystal clear, courtesy of the pinhole camera he’d hidden inside the smoke detector on Chloe’s ceiling. He’d justified it to himself a hundred times: it was a curiosity, a dare, a way to see the private life of his older sister, who was always so composed, so annoyingly in control around him.
But justification had long since been incinerated by raw, illicit arousal. He didn’t feel guilty. He felt powerful. He was the master of this secret, the unseen audience to her most intimate performance. He watched the sweat gleam on her skin, heard every hitch in her breath, every filthy, pleading word she muttered to herself. He was mesmerized. She was magnificent in her abandon, a goddess of unapologetic need, and he was her clandestine worshipper.
He was so engrossed he didn’t notice her rhythm falter. On screen, Chloe’s eyes, glazed with pleasure, had drifted open. They’d scanned the familiar landscape of her popcorn ceiling, past the glow-in-the-dark stars she’d stuck there as a teenager, and had snagged on something that didn’t belong. A tiny, almost imperceptible dark hole in the white plastic of the detector. A hole that, if you stared long enough, seemed to hold a faint, sinister red gleam.
Her pleasure crashed into a cold, hard wall of dread. The vibrator’s buzz suddenly felt invasive, not pleasurable. She sat up slowly, her heart hammering against her ribs. She didn’t scream. A terrifying calm settled over her. She kept moaning, faking the sounds of climax for the hidden audience, all the while staring directly at the camera, her eyes sharp and hunting.
Leo, on the verge of his own release, frowned. Her moans sounded different now. Forced. And then he saw it—her face was turned towards the camera, and her eyes were wide open. They weren’t clouded with ecstasy. They were filled with a cold, terrifying fury. He froze, his own pleasure evaporating in a wave of ice-cold panic.
The screen went black. She’d thrown a shirt over the detector.
His door didn’t burst open. It swung inward slowly, with a controlled, deadly quiet. Chloe stood there, wrapped in a bedsheet, her face pale but set in a mask of cold rage. In her hand was the smoke detector, wires dangling like severed nerves.
“You sick little fuck,” she said, her voice low and trembling with a intensity that was far scarier than any scream. “You perverted piece of shit. How long?”