Misty

She is my younger sister, three years below me. She loves being close to all of us, letting every man in the family have her body without resistance. She opens herself completely, always eager, always ready, breathing out every detail of what she feels—the stretch, the warmth, the way her body pulses when she’s filled. She doesn’t just allow it, she gives herself fully, as if being taken this way is what she was made for. She is tender but endlessly expressive, turning even the roughest moments into something she savors. She draws men in with how she looks at them, how she moves, how she tells them what their touch is doing to her. She enjoys being surrounded, being taken again and again, the closeness of many at once, the fullness, the constant flow inside her. She is carrying dad’s child now, still in the early months, and she talks about it with a glow, as if the thought of being made a mother by him completes her. Grandpa showed her how to share herself with more than just family, how to let others use her, and she discovered she loves it—the attention, the devotion, the feeling of being chosen again and again. Now I want the same. I want to plant myself in her, to make her body carry mine as well, just as she carries dad’s. The thought of her belly swelling with life that comes from me drives me to want her more every time I see her, every time I hear her soft voice describing how much she loves being filled. She wants that too—because nothing excites her more than being taken deeply by the ones she belongs to, and giving back something lasting..