The Forbidden Nudity is Revealed

Chapter 15

The first scene of this episode really shows who my dad was. I walked through the front door in a pathetic state—some guy had just fucked my throat, and rivers of fluids streamed down my face, smearing my mascara and soaking and staining my blouse. Anyone who saw me would think I'd just gone through some trauma or cried like I'd lost my mom, and speaking of her, I never would've done that if it was her in the living room. My mom had a nose for trouble; she'd sniff me out, figure out what I'd done, and beat me till I said stop.

I stepped into the house, and my dad, who hadn't seen me in two days, was sitting on the couch with a plate of food in his hands, glued to the evening news. My brother looked up right away, noticed something off, but didn't make a fuss.

"Good evening, Dad," I said, already turning toward the hallway before he could spot anything and start asking questions.

"Good evening, sweetie, everything okay?" he replied without even glancing my way.

Perfect, I was safe. My dad was like that: distant, lost in his own world, like I was just another piece of furniture in the room he barely noticed. He didn't see the marks on my neck, the messy hair, the smell of man stuck to my skin. Nothing. And that, in a twisted way, gave me freedom. Freedom to become who I was slowly turning into, without fanfare, without questions. Because if he didn't see, no one did. And if no one saw, I could keep pushing boundaries, discovering, feeling more of that thing that made me buzz inside, like each hookup was a step toward something bigger, something I couldn't see the end of yet, but it called to me slowly, promising more release, more fullness, more of me.

I went into my room and looked at myself in the mirror again, wrecked and happy. Damn, I was so happy. My body electric and satisfied, like I could keep doing that all night, repeating the cycle of desire and relief without ever getting tired. It made me want to test if it'd work with anyone, if it was just about wanting it and letting it happen, opening the door to one more and another, slowly, no rush, building something that might turn into routine, that might fill the empty days in ways I couldn't even imagine yet. I was dying to tell someone about it, the scene pounding in my head—the cock in my mouth, the cum dripping, the control in my hands—and I had no one to share it with, just the mirror staring back, telling me I looked like trash.

I started getting ready for the shower. I peeled off my blouse slowly, left in just my bra. I twisted my hair into a loose bun, staring in the mirror while I debated actually washing up that night or letting his scent cling to my skin till morning. On the bed, I'd already set out clean panties, an old sleep shirt, and a pad, because after all that action, I knew something would still be leaking out later.

When I gathered it all in my arms to head to the bathroom, my brother knocked on the door and barged right in without waiting, sounding alarmed.

"Nicole, what happened to you?" His voice had an edge of anger mixed with worry.

"I'm fine, nothing happened. What are you talking about?"

"Look at your face. It looks like you were crying. Did Fabiano do this to you?"

He expected any kind of response: tears, nervous denial, fear. Anything but the sly smile that slipped out before I could stop it, me biting my lips slowly to hold it back, eyes heavy and sideways.

"Nicole! What are you laughing at?"

"You don't wanna know. So don't ask," I said slyly, glancing away.

He sat on my bed, looking thoughtful. Face full of doubt, trying to figure out what was going on.

"Come on, tell me!"

He pressed, voice low but firm, perched on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on mine. I was still standing, clutching the pile of clothes to my chest, simple bra hugging the hard nipples that were perking up again just from remembering what went down on the stairs. My whole body buzzing, throbbing low between my legs, Gustavo's cum drying slowly on my thighs. I wanted to tell him. Wanted to spill it all: the dark stairs, the cock in my mouth, the hot load filling my throat, the way I told him to shove it inside me without even pulling my jeans all the way off. I wanted to see his face change, see if he'd be shocked, pissed, turned on, anything. Because the idea of telling him stirred something in me I didn't expect—it was like sharing the secret made the arousal hit harder, like his gaze made it all real again.

But when I opened my mouth to start, I noticed. Even worried, even with that protective look, his eyes were stuck in the wrong place. On my tits. It wasn't subtle. It was fixed, heavy, tracking every move as I paced the room, talking low, trying to decide how much to share. I didn't stop walking for a second, and his eyes followed, watching the small but firm swell under my bra. His thinking slowed down, responses got shorter, breathing a little deeper. Men. Even my brother.

"We'll talk later. I need a shower."

I said it to buy time, but I was already unzipping my jeans. I slid the zipper down slow, pushed the loose fabric down my thighs, let it drop to the floor. Left in just my panties—plain cotton, worn, with that huge bulge in front from the hair. I was hairy, yeah. Never cared about shaving. Mom kept a close eye on that: waxing was just for hygiene, she'd say, and taught me to trim with scissors, nothing more. Up front, there was a thick dark brown bush, strands that tangled a bit, dark and dense. It wasn't ugly. I liked it, actually. Made a bulge that showed strong through the panties, a mound no one else saw because I never showed off. Fabiano never complained—seemed to like it, even grabbed it with his whole hand like he wanted to feel it all. Gustavo barely got a look: he just rammed his dick into me from behind.

My brother went quiet when he saw. Eyes drifting down slow, from my belly to the bulge in my panties, then back up to my face, like he couldn't believe it.

"You're hairy, Nicole..."

It was the only thing he said. Voice rough, low, almost a whisper. Not disgust. Something else. Surprise mixed with something I knew well: raw desire, no filter.

I hooked my fingers in the sides of my panties and teased pulling them down, slow, just a little, the elastic stretching against my skin.

"You really wanna see me naked? If not, get out."

He blinked, face flushing red, but he didn't look away. Swallowed hard, thighs pressing together on the mattress.

"I've seen you naked plenty, you idiot."

Lie. My brother had never seen me naked. Not that I remembered. Since puberty hit, I changed in the locked bathroom, slept in long shirts, avoided any situation showing too much skin. Only Mom had seen, and a few school friends in the locker room. They'd glance sideways, whisper, but never got close.

But now he was looking. And I was letting him. The heat built slow, hot, from my gut to my tits. It wasn't just because he was a guy. It was because it was him. My brother. The only one who still saw me for real, even when I tried to disappear. And seeing him like that, speechless, eyes dark, breathing heavy, hit me in a way I didn't expect. Surprise mixed with guilt, with want, with that warm peace that only came when someone desired me.

And I stood completely naked in front of him.

And his reaction?

None.

Not a single muscle in his body moved.