My Pregnant Sister

The humid Seattle air hit me the second I stepped out of the cab, thick with the smell of saltwater and wet pavement, and it dragged every filthy memory of Sara straight back into my cock. I hadn’t seen her in years—not since the wedding where she’d opened the door in that white dress with champagne on her breath and let me fuck her one last time against the wall while the guests danced downstairs. Now she was pregnant, third trimester, and the thought of that belly, those swollen tits, that ripe cunt had kept me hard for the entire flight.

I didn’t call ahead. Calling would have given her time to say no. Standing on her porch with a duffel bag and a raging hard-on was the only way. The suburban house looked too perfect, too clean, the kind of place where nothing dirty ever happened. I rang the bell twice, shifting so the tent in my jeans wasn’t quite so obvious.

The door swung open and there she was.

Sara.

Brunette hair a little longer, cheeks flushed, that permanent pout still making her lower lip look like it was begging to be sucked. The red V-neck sweater stretched tight over tits that had grown heavy and full, the fabric riding up just enough to flash the underside of a round, tight belly. Stretchy jeans strained around her hips and the zipper looked ready to give. She froze, eyes wide, mouth open.

“Holy shit,” she breathed.

I stepped in before she could close the door. Mark was somewhere deeper in the house; I could hear him. I pulled her into a hug that lasted three seconds too long, my hand sliding down the small of her back, feeling the heat of her skin through the sweater. Her belly pressed against me, firm and warm. My cock jumped.

“Jason… what the fuck are you doing here?”

“Needed a place. Figured my sister wouldn’t turn me away.”

She glanced over her shoulder, then back at me, cheeks still pink. “Mark’s home.”

“I know.”

They let me stay. Mark didn’t like it—never had—but Sara talked him into the guest room right next to theirs. Shared wall. Perfect. That first night I stood under the shower with the water scalding, soap sliding down my chest, and I stroked my cock slow while I pictured her naked and pregnant on the other side of that wall. Engorged tits with dark, fat nipples, the belly hanging low enough to hide the top of her pussy hair, those thick lips already wet from the hormones. I came hard against the tile, whispering her name, then rinsed and went downstairs still half-hard.

She was on the couch in the same jeans and sweater, belly peeking out. I sat close enough that our thighs touched.

“You’re pregnant,” I said, like an idiot.

“Nine weeks left.” She smiled that soft, knowing smile. “You can feel if you want.”

I laid my hand on the bare skin just above her waistband. Soft, warm, the skin stretched tight. She guided my fingers lower, under the edge of the jeans, until I felt the fine trail of hair running down toward her cunt. A tiny kick brushed my palm. My cock throbbed so hard it ached.

“Feel that?” she whispered.

“Yeah.” My voice cracked. I left my hand there longer than I should have, fingers brushing the top of her mound through the denim. She didn’t pull away.

Over the next days the house settled into a rhythm. Mark left early in his suit. Sara floated around in a thin blue silk robe that gaped when she walked, the curve of one heavy breast flashing, the dark shadow between her thighs when she sat. One morning she brought coffee to the table and stood right beside me. My hand slipped under the robe without thinking, palm flat on the warm skin of her outer thigh. She froze, then stayed. I stroked higher, feeling the heat rising toward her cunt. Mark was reading the paper three feet away. She didn’t move until he turned a page, then she stepped away, thighs pressing together.

That night we sat on opposite ends of the couch while some movie played. The robe had loosened. I could see the full swell of her belly, the underside of her tits. My hand was already in my pants, stroking slow. She watched me from the corner of her eye, then her own hand slid between her legs under the silk. The fabric shifted with the steady rhythm of her fingers. I could hear the wet sound. She came first, thighs clamping, a soft little gasp she tried to swallow. I followed, shooting into my fist while she stared at the mess.

We didn’t talk about it.

The real crack came on the patio a week later. Afternoon sun, her in a soft yellow sundress that clung to every curve. No bra. No panties. I could see the dark circles of her nipples through the fabric, the way the dress rode up when she crossed her legs. We talked about the past—the Florida nights, the shared beds, the first time I slipped my hand into her panties and found her soaked. She got wetter the longer we talked. By the time I put my hand on her neck and trailed it down to squeeze one heavy breast, she was breathing hard.

“You’re not the kind of person anyone gets over,” I told her.

“You have any idea how horny a pregnant woman is?”

She took my hand and pressed it between her knees. “We can’t.”

But we did.

It started slow that evening after Mark left for some work dinner. She was in the living room in the yellow dress again, barefoot, belly out. I sat beside her and put my hand on her thigh. She didn’t stop me. I pushed the hem higher, higher, until my fingers brushed the soft hair of her mound. She was already slick. I slid one finger between her lips and she moaned, low and hungry.

“Jason…”

“Shh.”

I fingered her open, two fingers curling inside that tight, swollen cunt, thumb circling her clit. She came hard, thighs shaking, juice running down my wrist. Before she could catch her breath I had my cock out and was rubbing the head up and down her slit, coating myself in her cream. She looked at me, eyes dark, and nodded once.

I pushed in.

Fuck. Pregnant pussy is different—hotter, tighter, the walls fluttering around my shaft like they were trying to milk me. Her belly pressed against my stomach as I sank deeper. She wrapped her legs around my waist and pulled me all the way in until my balls rested against her ass.

“Oh god… Jason… fuck me.”

I did. Slow at first, long strokes that dragged every inch of my cock against her walls, then harder when she started rocking back to meet me. The dress was pushed up under her tits. I sucked one fat nipple into my mouth and bit gently; she cried out and came again, cunt clamping down so hard I almost lost it. I held still until the spasms passed, then started pounding her properly—deep, wet, filthy strokes that made her tits bounce and her belly jiggle. The wet slap of skin filled the room. Her juices soaked my balls, ran down my thighs.

“Harder,” she begged. “Fuck your sister’s pregnant cunt harder.”

I flipped her onto her hands and knees on the couch. The position made her belly hang, heavy and full. I gripped her hips and drove back in, watching my cock disappear between those puffy, wet lips. One hand reached around to rub her clit; the other squeezed a swinging tit. She pushed back onto every thrust, moaning like a whore.

“Gonna fill you,” I growled. “Gonna pump my sister’s pregnant pussy full of cum.”