my stepbrother didn’t pull out

The thing about my stepbrother is that we’ve always had our own set of rules. We don’t operate like other people. From the very first time we crossed that line, tangled together in my bed one rainy afternoon, condoms were never really part of the equation. It wasn’t about being reckless; it was about trust. A deep, terrifying, and exhilarating trust that went beyond just our bodies. We track my cycle with a kind of obsessive precision, marking days on a hidden app on his phone, whispering about it over breakfast when the house is empty. Depending on where that little dot is on the calendar, he’ll either finish inside me or pull out at the very last, heart-stopping second. It’s a system. Our system. And it’s worked.

We talk about it openly, like we’re discussing the weather or what to order for dinner. “You’re in the safe zone until Thursday,” he’ll say, his voice low and casual as he passes me the salt. Or, “It’s a red week, so we’ll have to be careful later.” It’s this clinical, practical conversation that somehow makes the dirty, forbidden thing we do feel manageable. It makes us feel like we’re in control, even when the passion that consumes us is anything but.

But this week was different. I’d told him just a few days ago, my head resting on his bare chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart under my ear. “We have to be extra careful,” I’d murmured, tracing the lines of his abs. “I’m in the danger zone now. Ovulation is any day.” He’d just nodded, his hand stroking my hair, his silence an agreement. We both knew what that meant. It meant that if he wasn’t going to wear a condom—and we both knew he wouldn’t, the feeling of skin on skin was a drug we were both hopelessly addicted to—then he had to pull out. No exceptions.

Our kinks don’t help. God, they make it so much harder. We love to play with fire. When he’s buried deep inside me, his body slick with sweat and his muscles taut with the strain of holding back, I love to whisper the most dangerous things in his ear. “Come on, fill me up,” I’ll moan, my voice ragged. “I want to feel you come inside me, I want to feel it all.” It’s just a game, a filthy, hot fantasy we act out. He’ll groan, his eyes squeezing shut, and whisper back, “You’re gonna make me do it, you’re gonna make me knock you up.” And in that moment, suspended in pleasure, it feels so real, so right. But the rational part of our brains always clicks back in. We are, once again, being as safe as possible. It’s just talk. Until last night, it was just talk.

Last night, something shifted. The air in my room was thick and heavy, charged with a need that felt more urgent than ever before. Maybe it was my hormones, making me ravenous, making my skin hypersensitive to every touch. He started slow, worshiping my body with his hands and mouth until I was a writhing, begging mess beneath him. But soon, slow wasn’t enough. He slid into me in one smooth, devastating stroke, and we fell into a frantic, desperate rhythm in missionary, our favorite position for this deep, soul-shattering connection. Our eyes were locked, and I could see the battle raging in his—the intense pleasure warring with the knowledge of our rules.

I was climbing, my orgasm coiling tight and low in my belly, a storm about to break. My world had narrowed to the feeling of him filling me, the sound of our skin slapping together, the sight of his face contorted in ecstasy. He was close, I could feel it in the way his thrusts became more erratic, more forceful. He gasped, his voice strained and raw, “Rose… I’m close… I need to pull out.”

I didn’t hear him. Or maybe I did, and my body just refused to listen. My legs, which were wrapped around his waist, locked him to me, pulling him deeper, holding him prisoner inside me. I was so, so close, and the primal part of my brain was screaming that I needed him there, needed to feel every last bit of him to push me over the edge. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” I chanted, my voice a broken sob.

He tried. I felt his muscles tense, the heroic effort to withdraw. But my grip was like a vise, and my own climax was crashing over me, a tidal wave of pure, blinding white pleasure. My pussy clenched around his cock in violent, rhythmic pulses, milking him, demanding everything he had. And in that moment, his control shattered. A guttural, broken groan ripped from his throat, a sound I’d never heard before, and I felt it—the hot, sudden, pulsing rush deep inside me as he came.

The aftershocks of my orgasm were still wracking my body when the reality of what had just happened began to dawn. The feeling wasn’t the familiar, fleeting warmth of our play-acting; it was a profound, lingering heat, a full, wet sensation that was utterly, terrifyingly real. My eyes fluttered open. His were wide, staring down at me, a mixture of shock, panic, and something else… something like awe.

“Oh, fuck,” I breathed, the pleasure instantly morphing into a cold spike of fear. “You… you didn’t pull out.”

I wanted to panic. I felt the scream building in my throat, the frantic need to push him away, to run to the bathroom, to do something, anything. But he didn’t move. He collapsed on top of me, his weight a comforting anchor, and buried his face in my neck. His cock was still nestled deep inside me, still pulsing softly, keeping his seed trapped within me. He held me so tightly, as if he was afraid I would vanish.

“Shhh,” he whispered against my skin, his voice rough but steady. He placed a soft, lingering kiss on my jaw. “It’s okay. Whatever happens, we can handle it. Together.” His words were a balm, seeping into my frantic mind. The fear was still there, a cold knot in my stomach, but it was now entwined with the most powerful, overwhelming love I have ever felt.

Later that night, the fear had transformed. The danger, the reality of our situation, became its own kind of aphrodisiac. I was straddling him, riding him slowly in the dim light, my body still humming with the horniness of my fertile time. He was hard inside me again, his hands gripping my hips.

“Since I already came in you once,” he murmured, his eyes dark with desire and a new, profound possessiveness, “it would be okay if I did it again, right?”

I didn’t answer with words. I just leaned down, kissed him deeply, and began to move faster, taking him all the way, chasing that high once more. This time, when we fell over the edge together, his release flooding into me for the second time that night, there was no panic. There was only us, delirious and satisfied, falling asleep tangled together in a mess of limbs and sheets and the unshakable knowledge that our world had irrevocably changed. I love him so, so much.