The front door clicked shut behind my parents with a finality that echoed through the silent house. Their suitcase wheels faded down the driveway, then the car engine purred away into the distance. A whole week. Seven days alone with my three sisters in this big, creaky family home. No rules. No prying eyes. Just us.
I was 22, home from college for the break, and the sudden emptiness felt electric—like the air itself was charged, waiting for something to spark.
I wandered upstairs, pretending to head to my room, but really I was listening. Karin, my eldest sister at 19, was already in the upstairs bathroom we all shared. The door was cracked open just enough for a ribbon of steam to curl out into the cooler hallway, carrying that signature peach shampoo scent she always used. It hit me like a drug—sweet, ripe, feminine, wrapping around my senses and pulling me closer before I even realized my feet were moving.
She was humming softly, some pop song I half-recognized, her voice light and carefree, muffled by the hiss of the shower still running in the background. I slowed my steps, heart thudding a little harder than it should. The bathroom light spilled out in a warm glow, illuminating the steam like fog in sunlight.
I shouldn't have stopped. But I did.
Peeking through the narrow gap in the door, I caught her reflection first in the fogged-up mirror—her back to me, standing at the sink in nothing but a short white towel wrapped loosely around her body. The towel barely reached mid-thigh, clinging to her damp skin where droplets still traced lazy paths down her legs. Her auburn hair was piled messily on top of her head, dark strands plastered wet against her neck and shoulders, glistening under the light.
She reached for the hairdryer on the counter, and the motion made the towel shift. It rode up just a fraction, exposing the soft underside curve of her ass—pale, flawless skin still flushed pink from the hot shower. My breath caught. She bent slightly to plug in the dryer, and the towel gaped at the top, revealing the swell of her breasts pressed together, nipples hard and visible through the thin fabric from the cool air hitting her warm body.
Fuck. She was shaved. I could see it when she shifted her weight—the towel hiked higher for a split second, giving me a teasing glimpse of the smooth, hairless mound between her thighs. Completely bare, like silk, the kind of flawless smoothness that made my cock twitch instantly in my jeans. Her pussy lips were plump and neatly closed, a faint sheen of leftover moisture making them glisten. Innocent, yet so blatantly inviting. My little sister—sexy, cute Karin with her heart-shaped face and those big green eyes—was standing there half-naked, utterly oblivious... or was she?
The peach scent was stronger now, mixed with the clean, musky warmth of her freshly washed skin. I could almost taste it on the air, feel the humidity clinging to my face as I lingered too close to the door. My mouth went dry. Blood rushed south, my dick hardening painfully against the zipper, throbbing with the sudden, forbidden rush of wanting her.
She started toweling her hair more vigorously, the motion making her body jiggle subtly—breasts bouncing under the towel, hips swaying. A droplet slid down her collarbone, tracing the delicate line into the valley between her tits before disappearing into the fabric. I imagined licking it off, tasting her skin, salty-sweet from the shower. The taboo of it burned in my gut: this was Karin, my sister, the one who'd always been just a little too close, a little too teasing in her short shorts around the house.
But now, with the parents gone... the house empty... that bathroom door ajar like an invitation.
She caught her reflection in the mirror and smiled at herself, biting her lower lip as she smoothed lotion up one thigh—slow, deliberate strokes that parted her legs just enough for another flash of that shaved perfection. Her fingers grazed dangerously close to her slit, and I swear I saw her shiver, a soft exhale escaping her lips.
My hand twitched at my side, itching to adjust the aching bulge in my pants, but I didn't dare move. One wrong sound and she'd know I was watching. The tension coiled tighter, hot and immoral, my mind flooding with filthy thoughts: pushing that door open, dropping the towel, burying my face between those smooth thighs until she moaned my name.
The peach scent lingered in the hallway long after I forced myself to walk away, cock straining, pulse racing. It hooked into me deep, pulling me back toward that cracked door like a promise of more to come.
The house was empty. But the air felt anything but.
The next morning dawned bright and lazy, sunlight filtering through the hallway windows and turning the steam from last night's shower into a faint, lingering haze in my memory. I couldn't shake it—Karin's damp skin, that peach-scented air, the forbidden flash of her shaved pussy under the towel. My cock had been half-hard all night, throbbing every time I replayed the glimpse in my head. Jerking off twice hadn't helped; if anything, it made the ache worse.
I headed to the bathroom first thing, needing to splash cold water on my face and get a grip. But as I pushed the door open, there she was—Karin, already at the sink, toothbrush in hand. She was wearing an oversized nightshirt, pale pink and threadbare from years of wash, the kind that hung loose on her slender frame but clung in all the wrong—or right—places. It barely skimmed the tops of her thighs, leaving her long, toned legs fully exposed, still smooth and flawless from whatever routine kept her that way.
"Morning, big bro," she murmured sleepily, her voice husky from sleep, green eyes flicking up to meet mine in the mirror. She didn't stop brushing, foam gathering at the corners of her soft, full lips.
I froze in the doorway, my gaze dropping involuntarily. The nightshirt's hem rode high as she shifted her weight, leaning over the sink to spit. And there it was—confirmed, undeniable. As she bent forward, the fabric lifted just enough to expose the perfect, hairless curve of her mound. Her pussy lips were puffy and pink, seamlessly smooth, not a single stray hair to interrupt the silky expanse. They pressed together neatly, a faint seam glistening with what might have been leftover lotion or just natural morning dew. My mouth watered instantly, cock swelling thick and urgent against my boxers.
We both reached for the toothpaste tube at the same moment—her hand brushing mine, fingertips grazing my wrist in a spark of contact that shot straight to my groin. Her skin was warm, soft, lotion-slick from whatever she'd applied before bed. She lingered there a second too long, her touch feather-light, tracing the vein on the back of my hand before pulling away with the tube.
"Sorry," she said, but her cheeks flushed a deeper pink, and she didn't drop her gaze from mine in the mirror. Instead, she squeezed the paste onto her brush slowly, deliberately, her nightshirt shifting again with the motion. Another teasing glimpse—her thighs parting just a fraction as she adjusted her stance, the smooth lips of her pussy peeking out fuller now, the inner folds barely visible, flushed and inviting.
I mumbled something incoherent and stepped closer, pretending to wait my turn, but really I was drinking her in. The peach scent was back, mixed with the minty freshness of toothpaste and the subtle, musky warmth radiating from between her legs. It was intoxicating—clean and girly on the surface, but underneath, pure sex. My dick throbbed painfully, tenting my pajama pants obviously now, the head leaking a wet spot through the fabric.
She noticed. Her eyes dropped to my crotch in the mirror, widening slightly before a small, knowing smile tugged at her lips. But she didn't call me out. Instead, she rinsed her mouth, bending deeper over the sink, ass tilting up. The nightshirt rode higher, exposing the lower curves of her cheeks and the full, shaved glory of her pussy from behind—lips parted just enough to show the slick pinkness inside, her tight little entrance winking as she clenched unconsciously.
Blush deepening, she straightened and handed me the toothpaste, her fingers brushing mine again—deliberate this time, lingering, nails grazing my palm. "Your turn," she whispered, voice breathy, before slipping past me toward the door. Her hip grazed my erection as she went, a soft, accidental-on-purpose press that made me groan low in my throat.
She paused at the threshold, glancing back with those big, innocent eyes that weren't so innocent anymore. "Door's unlocked if you need anything," she said softly, then padded away down the hall, nightshirt swaying with her hips.
I stood there gripping the sink, cock pulsing, pre-cum dripping freely now. The mirror still held her reflection's ghost—the image of that perfect shaved pussy burned into my brain.
The day dragged on in tense normalcy, but evening brought the real torment. I heard the bathroom door click—but not lock. Soft music played from her phone, something slow and sultry. Curiosity—and raw need—pulled me upstairs.
The door was ajar again, steam wafting out thicker this time, carrying that peach lotion scent like a siren's call. Peering in, I saw her perched on the counter, legs spread wide for "moisturizing." The mirror reflected everything perfectly: nightshirt hiked up to her waist, exposing her fully nude lower half. She was rubbing lotion into her thighs slowly, hands gliding up, up, fingers circling closer to her bare pussy.
Her mound was swollen slightly, lips parted and glistening—not just from lotion. She dipped two fingers into the jar, then trailed them deliberately over her smooth folds, spreading the cream in lazy strokes that made her breath hitch. The mirror showed it all: her clit peeking out, hard and pink, as she "accidentally" brushed it, hips bucking subtly. Slick sounds filled the humid air, wet and obscene, her arousal mixing with the lotion until her shaved pussy shone obscenely.
She knew I was watching. Her eyes met mine in the reflection, holding as she parted her lips wider with two fingers, exposing the dripping entrance, tight and virgin-pink. "Feels so good after shaving," she murmured, voice dripping with faux innocence. "So sensitive... smooth."
My hand was on my cock before I realized, stroking through my pants as she continued the show—fingers dipping just inside her hole, pumping shallowly, lotion and juices coating her thighs.
But she stopped short, legs closing with a shy smile. "Not yet, bro," she whispered, hopping down, nightshirt falling back into place. She brushed past me again, body heat radiating, pussy scent clinging to her skin.
The tension was unbearable now—coiled tight, ready to snap. The bathroom wasn't just a room anymore. It was ours. And the door would stay unlocked.