Your hot little sister went away to college a virgin. You know she did, because you beat the shit out of anyone who touched me. Anyone who looked at me. This one time? You crushed a guy’s balls in your bare hands because he kissed me at a party. You almost killed him. I was pissed off, but you could tell I was secretly impressed by how far you’d go to protect me.
You made me feel safe.
You make me feel loved.
I would lay on my yoga mat in the basement and watch you work out, shirtless, like a nun on her knees at church. You’d carry me upstairs and toss me on the couch and make me do my homework. You’d spank me in front of mom when I stayed out past 9pm, even when I was I senior.
You were my whole world.
But after I’d been at school for a few months, you could see that keeping me chaste was a mistake.
A life without men—other than you, big brother—left me curious about women. You encouraged me to make female friends, and I did. Easily. Too easily, really. I have one of those faces people love. A soft and springy body, tight everywhere, curvy without an inch of fat anywhere. And my lips are… well… let’s just say they give people ideas.
I wrote you about “experimenting” with another girl not much more than a month after I got there. Kissing her and it was so soft. The way her tongue tasted like coke—the soda, dummy—and the weird, foreign knob of her tongue ring.
She put her hands between my thighs but I stopped her. I wasn’t ready yet.
But you know I would be. And soon.
You wrote me to stay away from “women like that.” You said women were meant to be with men. You said “my sister isn’t a dyke.”
I wrote back that I’d been on your computer enough to know that you were very much in favor of women being with women. That I knew for a fact that you dated the Gerald sisters at the same time, and that Henry Gerald saw you take both of them into a motel room after prom. At the same time. And that when you left your room, sweaty, in nothing but the slacks that came with your tux, to get ice? You had two pairs of panties wound around your wrists like bracelets: yellow and blue: the same colors as the Gerald sisters’ dresses.
I told you to stop being stupid.
And that night, I lost my cherry to the girl with the tongue ring.
Even though you’re my brother I texted you pretty much immediately and told you I’d done it.
That it was good, but I was guilty. I apologized all night.
She’d gone so slowly the orgasm snuck up on me, and then pulled my head between her legs and taught me to eat pussy the way it was meant to be eaten. She tasted… salty. Kind of weird. But good in a way I couldn’t describe. Funky? Ew, that sounds gross. But I spent close to two hours eagerly bringing her to orgasm after screaming, praise-filled orgasm.
You addicted me to the words “good girl,” you know?
I was so sorry, but the next weekend, you know I went home with the girl again.
This time it was my turn to spend hours screaming. She brought a vibrator the size of a baseball bat.
Then, when I was so exhausted I could barely raise my head off her bedspread, she slid her hairy, wet pussy under my head. Her pussy was a gooey mess of buttery juices even though she hadn’t touched herself. She spread her enormous, beautiful pussy lips and told me to slurp away the cream and then carefully run my tongue over this fold… and that one…
I couldn’t believe I was telling you all these details. It was gross and wonderful at the same time. Pussies—I started calling them “pussies” all of a sudden, instead of “womanhood” or “insides” or “between her legs,” you noticed—are so fucking beautiful. The color of flowers. And I’d quickly come to crave the taste, which was so strong when she was wet. I nibbled her clit and she smacked me, lightly, and made me circle it with my tongue. But when she came I gently went back to her clit—“her clit” and not “her bud,” or whatever—and made her come until she cried.
Actually cried, and held me and told me I was good. So good.
I found I enjoyed fucking her with a strap on. “Fucking her,” yeah. My mouth was pretty dirty by then. I wore a big black prick exactly eight inches long—not quite as long as yours, but I didn’t know that—and fucked her and… others.
It didn’t take me long to become “a dyke whore” as far as you were concerned, although you didn’t tell me.
I fucked her best friend, and a few of the people in her circle.
And eventually realized I was out of their league, really. Out of everyone’s league. Like you, I was born with mom’s good looks and Dad’s athleticism, and I could take my pick of whatever women I wanted.
I tended to go for curvy women with big, suckable tits. Just like you do.
You stopped trying to talk me out of being a dyke and just soaked it all in, miserably. You would read my letters or my texts, tell me you loved me, and then go down to the basement and add another 50 lbs to the bench press. Or pay your Karate teacher 100 bucks to let you spar without gloves. Until you broke his nose, that is.
Well, I graduated. I graduated first like you knew I could. All thanks to you forcing me to do my homework and spanking me when I got Bs. Maybe a little too long, up in your room, breathing hard and making yourself not go any farther. You’d kick me out of your room after a spanking and I heard you violently jerking off, although I had no idea what you were doing.
I didn’t know a thing about men, really.
You’re the only member of my family to come see me graduate. See my speech. Valedictorian at an Ivy League school. The first person with our name ever to go to college.
I’d told you I was going to go to graduate school for women’s studies.
You thought that was funny in a very unfunny way, but you didn’t say it.
It’s after the graduation, and we’re back at your hotel.
“You’ve put on twenty pounds at least,” I say, impressed. I pat your shoulders through your ill-fitting suit. They’re like melons.
“You pierced your belly button,” you say, hollowly, as you stare down at my bare—and very sexy, let’s be honest—pierced midriff.
You can see the piercing is a very sexual-looking rose.
I grin with my perfect, white teeth. You remember how much I hated the braces you made me get when I was twelve.
“I got a tattoo, too,” I say, putting my finger up to my lips. “Shh… don’t tell mom.”
I slide my jeans down—lowcut, I wrote GIRLS ONLY on the waistband in sharpie at some point and didn’t wash it off very well—and you see my panties are a white, pristine thong with the word “DYKE BITCH” written in bold black letters right over my pink, pristine pussy.
There’s a little tongue, dripping , tattooed on my thigh right near my pussy.
“I fucked the dean,” I blurt, all at once, as if showing so intimate a place let you into my heart.
“She gave me the Valedictorian over twenty other students with the same score,” I say. My face is as red as yours. “It’ll be worth it, though. I’ll get another full ride in grad school. You know? No more working overtime for me.”
I put my head against your broad, rock-hard chest.
“I missed you,” I said.
I smell like flowers and sex. You’ve had an erection like a lead pipe pressed painfully against your thigh all day, your huge masculine balls pressed up into your groin by underwear made for someone with a third your endowment.
“No,” you said, in your deep, brotherly voice. The same voice you used when you told me you crushed that guy’s balls.
“What?” I ask, leaning back. Your jaw is so hard it clicks when you open your mouth.
“You’re not going to grad school,” you say.
I just stare, startled. You take me by the shoulders and stab an expression of furious guilt between my eyes.
“You’re not leaving home ever again,” you say. “Not until you’re… cured.”
You start to pull your belt apart. You don’t wear big buckles or anything flashy, but your belt is so wide it takes a minute.
“Cured… of what?” I look down at the belt coming apart into your hands. Long down the floor like a whip. Broad as a popped tire. Two prongs, ten holes.
It wasn’t my imagination. Your shoulders are bigger but your waist is smaller. The prongs were two notches closer than where the holes are bent out of shape.
“You’re a fucking dyke, sis. A dirty-mouthed lesbian whore, and you know it. I didn’t let you learn to love men, and now you’re a filthy, slit-lapping, muff diver, and you’re an insult to me and your family.”
I back up. You’ve never spoken to me this way before. You reach out and yank my shirt up over my bra. It’s an expensive one, designed to keep my breasts from getting in my way. They take my D-cup chest down to a C, and pad my sensitive nipples so I don’t gasp when I move quickly.
You uhook my bra in the back and my breasts bounce out, perfect and chubby, with nipples even bigger than mom’s.
“These are fucking wasted on dykes,” you growl, and tear my shirt off me so it rips. Tear my bra off so it leaves a stripe of red on both rib cages.
“Wait… stop!” I say, dumbfounded, so startled I barely even react as you yank my jeans down to my ankles and rip the dyke panties off me with a disgusted snarl. The tearing fabric hurts and I squeal. You’re spanking me almost before I realize what’s happening.
“Stupid bitch,” you mumble. “Wasting your time munching carpet instead of studying, instead of coming back home!”
Your hand is huge, it covers both cheeks of my little ass. You’ve never spanked me directly over my bare body before, even though you always wanted to.
I have a tiny brown asshole barely the size of my own pinkie. It’s perfectly smooth and clean; a virgin ass.
I have a bubblegum pink pussy as tall as two fingers put together, between lips like the petals of the rose in my belly button. You realize the rose is a copy of my pussy.
This fucking sickens you, that I show literally everyone who looks at me my cunt.
“I’m going to fuck the dyke right out of you, you little bitch. My dick ain’t small, and I’m going to shove it all the way up into your spoiled little heart, and fuck the devil right out of your body. Then I’m going to take you home, lay you down on my bed next to mom, and you’re never leaving my house except to go to the store and maybe bring me something to eat, you understand?”
But I don’t understand.
You’ll have to make me understand.
Come make me understand.
Describe yourself, tell me about mom and your history and all the details I hinted at but left up to you to decide. Tell me how you took over after dad died and why, or whatever you want to.
Then pick up where I left off.
(:
Note: Oh, if you don’t know me: I’m a lesbian IRL so I really, really get off on lesbian slurs and obviously, I love pussy and can talk about it for hours. But I come to Reddit for huge dicks and huger balls—I have such a balls/sperm/potency/testosterone/etc fetish and no one can ever do anything with it, nggggggf—so that’s why we’re here.
Did you like this? Do you want more? I need your help!
Please support me on Patreon! Or, you can buy me some coffee via PayPal!
(I live on Coffee and D-cell batteries.)
Her Tongue 