Chapter 9: His Turn to Be Used

Mom’s door had barely clicked shut for the night when Sophie’s fingers closed around my wrist. The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the fridge and the distant murmur of traffic bleeding through the thin curtains. She didn’t say a word at first—just tugged me toward the bedroom with that dark, mischievous glint in her eyes I’d come to crave like air. Her bare feet padded silently on the creaky floorboards, the oversized T-shirt she’d stolen from my drawer brushing the tops of her thighs.

“Tonight it’s my turn to play with you,” she whispered against my ear the second we crossed the threshold, her breath hot and promising. The door shut behind us with a soft snick that felt louder than it should have. Mom’s soft snoring already drifted from the living room, a constant reminder that one wrong sound could unravel everything. My pulse kicked hard.

She pushed me onto the bed before I could protest. The mattress dipped under my weight, the sheets still carrying the faint musk of last night’s mirrored frenzy. Sophie climbed over me, straddling my hips, and pinned my wrists above my head with surprising strength. Her smile was slow, wicked. “Look at you,” she murmured, voice low and teasing. “So cute when you’re helpless.”

From the drawer beside the bed she pulled two of her own soft cotton panties—pale pink, the ones with the tiny lace trim I’d watched her peel off earlier that week. She looped them around my wrists, threading the fabric through the slats of the headboard and knotting them tight. The silk bit gently into my skin when I tested the give, a constant, intimate pressure that sent a fresh throb straight to my cock. I was already half-hard, straining against the thin fabric of my boxers.

Next came the blindfold. She grabbed one of my dark T-shirts from the floor, the one I’d worn all day, and wrapped it around my eyes, tying it snug at the back of my head. The world vanished into soft black cotton that smelled like me and her and the apartment’s stale heat. Then the earplugs—cheap foam ones we kept in the bathroom drawer for the nights the neighbors blasted music through the walls. She rolled them between her fingers, the faint rustle the last sound I heard clearly before she eased them in. Silence swallowed everything. Mom’s snoring, the traffic, even the creak of the bed—all of it muted to a distant underwater hum.

Only feeling remained.

My heart slammed against my ribs. Panic flickered, sharp and electric, tangled with a trust so deep it scared me. This was Sophie—my little sister—tying me down while our mother slept ten feet away on the other side of paper-thin plaster. Guilt twisted low in my gut, the same familiar burn that had haunted every stolen touch since the move-in. But beneath it surged something darker, hotter: the raw ache of surrender. My cock twitched visibly now, tenting my boxers, leaking a small wet spot against the cotton. I couldn’t see her. Couldn’t hear her. I could only wait.