Eighteen. Officially an adult, supposed to be spreading my wings and figuring out life. Instead, I was grounded—literally and figuratively. No graduation parties, no beach trips with friends, no drunken summer nights that blurred into sunrise. Just the same four walls closing in, the oppressive silence echoing the void in my plans, and the same oversized hoodie I’d been living in for weeks. Comfort food in fabric form. And definitely no bra involved. What was even the point of underwires when the most action my breasts saw was when they shifted position under my slouch?
Curled into a corner of the worn couch, legs tucked up beneath me, I numbly stared at the muted TV screen. Some sitcom rerun I’d cycled through for the third time played, but my eyes glazed over the rapid-fire jokes. My phone was a useless brick, stubbornly refusing to charge. The air in the house hung thick and stagnant, heavy with the stale scent of confinement and the unspoken tension simmering beneath the surface.
And then, as if summoned by my spiralling thoughts, he had to crash into my fragile bubble of apathy.
Liam. My brother. Just a year older, nineteen and overflowing with self-importance, acting like he was the sole casualty of this lockdown. As if his boredom was somehow deeper, his restlessness more profound. He stomped around the house like a goddamn caged tiger, all sharp angles and barely contained frustration. And inevitably, more often than not, I became his easiest target.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His heavy footsteps reverberated down the staircase, each one a little tremor in the tense silence. Then his voice, rough and impatient, sliced through the quiet like a serrated knife.
“Get off the WiFi, Ella.”
I didn’t even bother to lift my head, just kept staring at the fake smiles on the TV. “I’m watching Netflix.” My voice was flat, devoid of any real emotion beyond weary annoyance.
“I’m lagging.” His voice sharpened, edged with that familiar, simmering irritation.
“Not my problem.” I let a little ice creep into my tone, a subtle challenge.
Suddenly, a shadow fell across the TV screen, blocking out the artificial light. Liam filled the doorway, his presence radiating restless energy. Dark hair was a chaotic mess, falling across his forehead. Sweatpants hung low on his hips, the drawstring loose, like he’d literally just rolled out of bed – which, knowing his current lifestyle, was probably the truth. His jaw was clenched tight, muscles in his neck corded. He looked like he was about to explode like his skin was a size too small and he needed to punch something, anything, just to feel alive.
“You’re so fucking selfish,” he spat, the words laced with a petulant venom.
I finally dragged my gaze up to meet his, arching a brow in exaggerated boredom. As I shifted, the neck of my hoodie slipped further off one shoulder, dipping low and revealing the pale curve of my collarbone and a hint of the swell of my breast beneath the thin fabric. “Cry about it,” I drawled, letting my gaze drift back to the TV.
He exhaled sharply, a frustrated gust of air, and stormed off towards the kitchen. Cabinet doors crashed open and slammed shut with unnecessary force. A cereal box hit the counter with a solid thud. I sighed heavily, sinking deeper into the cushions, the worn fabric scratchy against my skin. This house, once a comforting haven, now felt like a pressure cooker, and we were both slowly, inevitably, boiling over.
Later, hours blurring together into a monotonous stream, I shuffled into the kitchen in search of some semblance of warmth in a cup of tea. He was still there, leaning against the cool countertop, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. His thumb swiped and swiped, a frantic, repetitive motion. His gaze flicked towards me as I entered, lingered for a beat longer than necessary, and then quickly dropped back to the illuminated screen.
“What?” I snapped, the abruptness of the question startling even me.
“Nothing.” He said it too quickly, too dismissively.
I busied myself filling the kettle, the metallic clang of the tap a loud noise in the still room. Steam began to curl from the spout, rising like a silent, soothing whisper between us. The scent of honey and lemon from the tea box drifted into the air, a familiar, comforting aroma. For the first time in days, a tiny spark of something other than just numb indifference flickered within me.
“You act like I’m not stuck here too,” I said softly, my voice barely above a murmur as I reached for a mug and a tea bag. “Like you’re the only one suffering.” I stirred the tea absently, watching the liquid swirl.
Liam went completely still. When he finally looked up, his eyes were different. Softer. Almost… surprised. Like he’d genuinely forgotten that I was a person too, capable of feeling things, experiencing this stifling confinement in my own way.
“Yeah,” he admitted, the word escaping in a long, heavy exhale. “I know. It just… fucking sucks.”
“It really does.” The quiet that fell between us wasn’t peaceful, not exactly. But it wasn’t hostile anymore either. Just two people, adrift in the same slowly sinking ship, finally acknowledging, in a hushed, unspoken way, that they were both drowning.
“Truce?” I offered, a faint, fragile smirk playing on my lips.
He huffed out a short laugh, but the corner of his mouth twitched upwards in a reluctant smile. “For now.”
I took my mug of tea and retreated back to the couch, the ceramic warmth seeping into my cold palms. The silence in the living room didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. Maybe, just maybe, Liam wasn’t completely unbearable.
(But I still wasn’t turning off Netflix. Baby steps.)
That night, sleep was a distant fantasy. I tossed and turned in the tangled sheets, my mind a restless whirlwind of nowhere thoughts. The wind outside whispered against the windowpane, a sound as unsettled and agitated as I felt. Giving up the charade of trying to sleep, I dragged my blanket with me, the soft cotton offering a small comfort, and padded silently down the hallway.
The living room was bathed in a dim, bluish glow, flickering shadows dancing across the walls cast by the TV screen, still mindlessly playing. And there he was. Liam. Slumped on the couch, illuminated by the screen’s light, wearing nothing but low-slung pajama bottoms. In his hand, he held a glass of amber liquid, swirling it slowly.
“Is that Dad’s whisky?” I whispered, my voice soft in the quiet room.
He didn’t even flinch, just shifted his gaze from the TV to me for a brief moment, then back to the screen. “Yep.”
I stepped closer, the hem of my pale blue nightgown brushing lightly against my bare thighs. The thin lace at the neckline dipped low, just subtly, the cool night air teasing my skin. I didn’t bother to adjust it. It was just him, in the dark.
“You’re really just sitting here, drinking alone like some tragic hero?” I teased, trying to inject a lightness into the heavy atmosphere, as I sank onto the couch beside him. His eyes flicked downwards, lingering on my legs, then up to the hem of my short nightie. He quickly averted his gaze back to his drink, but the shift in his attention hadn’t gone unnoticed.
He swirled the glass again, watching the amber liquid catch the flickering TV light. “Helps me think.”
I tucked my bare feet under me, pulling the blanket over my lap, the soft fabric bunching around my legs. “You okay?”
For a long moment, he didn’t answer, just traced the rim of his glass with a finger. Then, quietly, the word barely audible: “No.”
The admission hung between us, raw and unexpected, thick with unspoken frustration. Liam, the stoic one, the one who always pretended to have it all together. He never admitted weakness. Never showed cracks.
I hesitated for a beat, then gently nudged his knee with mine. “Wanna talk about it?”
He exhaled, a rough, tired sound. “What’s there to say? I was supposed to be gone by now. Living. Doing shit. Instead, I’m stuck here, stealing Dad’s liquor, fighting with you over bandwidth.”
I studied him in the dim light—the tense set of his shoulders, the way his fingers gripped the glass just a little too tight, knuckles white. He wasn’t just restless. He was unravelling.
“You think I don’t feel that?” I murmured, my voice low. “I was supposed to be out there too. Meeting people. Making mistakes. I have needs, you know? With… with a boy or two. Not rotting in my pyjamas.” I shifted slightly, unconsciously pushing my chest forward, just slightly, feeling the weight of my breasts against the thin fabric of my nightgown.
A beat of silence stretched between us. Then, his voice dropped even lower, almost a whisper. “Fancy sharing the blanket? It’s cold.” His eyes, though he tried to keep them casual, flicked downwards again to my chest for a fleeting, undeniable moment.
I smirked, a slow, knowing smile spreading across my face. “Depends. You pouring me a drink and putting on a decent movie?”
He chuckled, the sound low and rumbling in his chest, reaching for the whisky bottle. “Fine.”
As he poured a shot into another glass and handed it to me, his fingers brushed mine—just for a second. Warm. Rough. The brief contact sent a surprising little shiver through me.
“For the record,” he muttered, not meeting my eyes, but I caught his gaze lingering pointedly on my chest again, the lace neckline revealing the subtle shadow between my breasts, “I don’t mean to be such a dick. I’m just… pent up. Taking it out on you. Sorry. God, I haven’t had sex in months, it’s fucking killing me.”
I took a slow sip of the whisky, the burn sweet and sharp as it went down my throat. “Yeah, well. Lockdown’s shit for everyone. You’re not the only one who is, you know, not getting any action. Yeah, I haven’t had sex in a while either, so it’s really getting me frustrated too.” I met his gaze then, a challenge in my eyes, letting him see that I understood, maybe even in ways he hadn’t considered. And in that shared, uncomfortable honesty, something shifted between us in the hushed darkness of the living room.
“Maybe we should help each other out haha, just kidding,” he said pouring another.
“I mean,” I stopped as my heart raced. “We would have to be quiet, don’t want Mum or Dad walking in on us doing it. No, kissing it will be just sex.”
“Wait… you… you serious?” He looked genuinely shocked, eyes wide beneath his furrowed brow.
I raised an eyebrow, taking another sip of whisky, letting the burn settle in my throat. “Did you think I was joking?” The words hung in the air, laced with a mixture of defiance and a tremor of nervousness I hoped he couldn’t detect. This was insane. Utterly, completely, insane. But beneath the surface of the insanity, a different kind of tension, a different kind of possibility, throbbed to life.
He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “I just… I didn’t think… you of all people…” He trailed off, unable to articulate the swirling thoughts in his head.
“Me of all people what?” I challenged a playful smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Too good for you, Liam? Listen it is just sex, no kissing. We are just helping each other’s pent-up tension ok.”
I laid down on the couch and he got on top of me covering us with the couch.
“Lay down properly,” he murmured, his voice rough with a newfound urgency. “Come on… I need room to get it in.” I shifted as he took out his cock and pushed my nightie up as he dragged my panties to the side ready for his cock.
Liam didn’t say anything, just shifted closer, the head of his cock nudging at my entrance, and with a slow, deliberate pressure, he pushed inside, inch by hesitant inch, a warm, thick fullness stretching me open, eliciting a soft gasp that trembled into a quiet moan against his shoulder.
“Mmm,” I murmured, more to myself than him, as I adjusted to the sensation, a shy wiggle of my hips trying to accommodate him fully, “That’s… that’s nice,” I breathed, the words barely there, lost in the rising heat between us.
“Just relax,” he grunted against my neck, his breath hot, a little ragged. But it was hard to relax, with him inside me, filling me up like this. It was… intense. Too intense maybe? No… It was… good. Really good.
He started to move then, slowly at first, a deep, gliding motion that stretched me with each push. “Mmm,” I breathed out, my fingers digging into his shoulders, just gripping, not really pulling him closer, just needing something to hold onto. He was so heavy on top of me, the weight strangely comforting. “Y-yes…” I stammered, the word catching in my throat as he pulled almost all the way out and then plunged back in again, deeper this time.
“Like that?” he asked, his voice thick, strained.
“Y-yeah… like… like that,” I repeated, my head lolling back against the cushions. The TV was still flickering, casting strange, distorted shadows across his face, making him look both familiar and utterly different in this moment.
He picked up the pace, his hips rocking against mine, the couch springs groaning beneath us. Each thrust was a little harder, a little faster. “Good,” he breathed out again, a short, sharp sound. “Feels… fucking good.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I managed, my breath catching in my chest. It did feel good. Too good. I hadn’t realized how much I’d been craving this, this raw, animal feeling. He squeezed my sides through the thin nightie fabric, his fingers pressing into me, not gently, but not hurting either. Just… there. Firm.
“Keep… keep going,” I gasped out, as he drove into me again, a little grunt escaping him this time. His balls slapped against my thigh with each thrust, a damp, fleshy sound that was somehow both gross and incredibly exciting. The air in the room felt thick, heavy with the scent of whisky and something else, something musky, primal.
He was panting now, his breath hot against my ear. “Don’t… don’t stop,” I pleaded, my hands sliding up his back, bunching up the fabric of his pajama top, feeling the hard muscles beneath. I needed more. More sensation. It was like a fire was building inside me, spreading through my veins.
He must have sensed it because he shifted his weight slightly, his hand reaching under the neckline of my nightie, his fingers finding my breast through the lace. He squeezed, not roughly, but firmly, his thumb circling my nipple, making it instantly hard and sensitive. “That feels… amazing… umm,” I moaned, the sound drawn out, involuntary.
He pulled back slightly, just enough to look down at me, his eyes dark, pupils dilated. “You feel so good, ahh,” he breathed, his voice low and rough, like gravel. He looked… hungry. Like he wanted to devour me.
I squirmed beneath him, my hips arching up instinctively, wanting more of him, deeper inside. “I like that,” I whispered, clutching at his shoulders harder now. “More… please… more…”
He understood. He lifted himself up, his body pulling almost completely out of me, leaving me aching and empty for a split second, before he slammed back down, burying himself deep, right to the hilt. “Oh, god,” I gasped, my vision blurring for a moment. That was… intense.
“Harder,” I managed, my voice trembling slightly. “Harder, Liam… please…”
He obliged, his movements becoming less controlled, more frantic. He was pounding into me now, each thrust deeper and harder than the last. The rhythm was rough, almost violent, but it was exactly what I wanted. Needed.
He shifted again, one hand still gripping my breast through the nightie, the other now reaching down, pulling the thin fabric further up my thigh, exposing more of my skin to the cool night air. He leaned down, his mouth hot against my neck, nibbling, sucking, leaving wet trails of saliva.
“Beautiful,” he murmured, his breath tickling my skin. “You’re so fucking beautiful.” It was a whisper, almost lost in the panting and the sounds of our bodies moving together, but I heard it. And it did something to me. Made the heat inside me burn even brighter.
I reached down, fumbling with the neckline of my nightie, pulling it wider, freeing my breast from the confines of the lace. “Here,” I breathed, offering it to him, my nipple already tight and aching. “Suck it.”
He didn’t hesitate. His mouth was on me instantly, hot and wet, pulling, sucking, his teeth scraping lightly against my nipple. A jolt of pure sensation shot through me, all the way down to my core. “Oh, fuck,” I groaned, arching my back, pushing my hips up to meet his thrusts.
He sucked harder, his hand still squeezing my other breast through the nightie, and he started going faster, harder, deeper, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “You’re so… hot,” he panted, his words broken, almost unintelligible. “So fucking… hot…”
“Yes,” I stammered again, my own breath ragged now. “Y-yes… don’t… don’t stop… like… like this… yes… oh god… yes…” The words were just sounds now, meaningless syllables lost in the rising tide of sensation.
He paused, bracing himself above me, his knuckles white as he gripped the couch back. “Ella,” he breathed, my name a prayer on his lips, “are you…?”
I knew what he was asking. Was I close? Was I feeling it too, this overwhelming rush that threatened to consume us both?
“Almost,” I gasped, my fingers digging into his back, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin. “Don’t stop, Liam. Please. I need…”
He didn’t need any further prompting. He plunged back down, deeper than before, and a guttural moan escaped my lips, a sound that was both primal and utterly vulnerable. This time, it wasn’t just a sound of pleasure; it was a release, a shedding of the day’s anxieties and insecurities.
His hand moved from my breast, tracing a path down my stomach, his fingers feather-light against my skin. He found the sensitive spot just above my clit, and a sharp intake of breath was his response. His thumb began to circle, adding another layer of intensity to the already overwhelming sensations.
“Liam,” I whimpered, my body arching against his, “I’m so close…”
He nipped at my neck, his teeth gentle, his breath hot against my skin. “Let go, Ella,” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “Just let go.”
And I did.
The world exploded in a kaleidoscope of colours and sensations. My body convulsed a series of tremors that started deep within my core and radiated outwards. I cried out, a long, keening sound that echoed in the small apartment. I soaked the couch as I squirted and he didn’t stop fucking me hard, and harder and even harder. To the point he put his hand over my mouth so I didn’t wake Mum or Dad.
His movements became frantic, desperate, a mirror of the storm raging within me. He was close too, I could feel it in the way his body tensed, the way his breath hitched in his throat. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound that vibrated against my skin.
And then, he went still. Every muscle in his body locked, his shoulders rigid, his jaw clenched. He threw his head back, a strangled sound escaping his lips, and I felt the first powerful surge of his release. He held himself there, hovering above me, suspended in that moment of pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Then finally Liam let out the most guttural moan which sent shivers down my spine, and deep, thick robes of spunk spurted into me, each pulse a searing wave of heat that resonated through my very being. It felt as if he was emptying himself completely, giving me everything he had. The force of it was incredible, almost overwhelming.
He slumped forward then, his weight heavy on top of me, his breath ragged and uneven. We lay there for what felt like an eternity, tangled together in a sweaty, exhausted heap. He didn’t move, didn’t say a word, just held me close, his heart pounding against my chest.
The TV flickered in the background, casting dancing shadows across the room, but I barely noticed. My mind was still reeling, my body still vibrating from the intensity of the orgasm. I felt drained, exhausted, but also strangely alive, connected.
After a few minutes, Liam stirred. He lifted his head, his eyes dark and unfocused. “Wow,” he breathed, his voice husky. “That was…”
He trailed off, unable to find the words to describe what had just happened. I knew the feeling.
“Yeah,” I managed, my own voice still shaky. “That was something.” Although I was shell-shocked that he had his hand over my mouth to keep me quiet, I had never seen that coming, but I also kind of liked it.
He rolled off me then, carefully, mindful of my still-sensitive state. He didn’t say anything, just reached for the remote and turned off the TV, plunging the room into darkness. The silence was thick, and heavy with unspoken words and lingering desire.
“Well that was something eh?” said Liam.
“Yes it was, I didn’t know you had that in you” I replied.
“Me neither,” said Liam.
He looked at me in the darkness, “Are you ok? the hand thing, was that ok?”
“Yes of course that was ok, you didn’t want to wake Mum and Dad did you?”
“No of course not. It’s just, that all got a bit out of hand didn’t it ” said Liam.
“It did, but it was good, very good,” I said.
I needed to break the silence and ask him “I needed that. How’s your dick now huh, did you get rid of all that pent-up tension because I know my pussy needed it. So same time tomorrow?” I could not believe I just said that.
Liam chuckled, a low rumble in the darkness. “Pent-up tension is definitely gone. As for my… well, let’s just say it’s enjoying a well-deserved rest. And as for your…” He reached out and gently stroked my thigh under the thin nightie. “… I think it’s safe to say you got what you needed.”
The silence stretched again, but this time it was comfortable, filled with the heavy contentment of shared pleasure. I could feel the heat radiating from his body, the lingering scent of our exertion hanging in the air.
“So,” I said, breaking the comfortable quiet. “Same time tomorrow?” I held my breath, waiting for his response, a thrill of anticipation coursing through me.
Liam squeezed my thigh, his touch sending a shiver that had nothing to do with being cold. “You’re insatiable, Ella,” he said, his voice teasing. “But… yeah. Same time tomorrow. If you think you can handle it.”
A playful grin spread across my face, even though he couldn’t see it in the dark. “Oh, I can handle it,” I replied, my voice low and confident. “The real question is, can you?”
He laughed again, a sound that vibrated through me. “Challenge accepted.”
I snuggled closer to him, the exhaustion finally starting to catch up. “Good,” I mumbled, my eyes already drifting closed. “Because I’m already looking forward to it.”
He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me tighter against him. “Me too, Ella,” he whispered, his breath warm against my hair. “Me too.”
We lay there in the darkness, the only sound the gentle rhythm of our breathing. The events of the past hour replayed in my mind, a vivid tapestry of touch and sensation. It had been intense, raw, and more exhilarating than I could have ever imagined. And despite the unexpected hand-over-mouth moment, it was exactly what I needed.
As I drifted off to sleep, I couldn’t help but wonder what tomorrow night would bring. One thing was certain: it wouldn’t be boring. And for the first time in a long time, I felt a sense of excitement, a spark of anticipation that had been missing from my life. Tomorrow couldn’t come soon enough. My pussy was already primed and ready for action.