My beautiful sleeping sister_(0)

Chapter One

I knew it was wrong, but I was obsessed with my sister. She was so incredibly sexy to me and I spent what seemed like every waking hour trying to be close to her, coming up with excuses to touch her, forever sneaking peeks at her body or simply staring at her if she was looking the other way.
I can’t remember when it started, but I’d felt this way about Chloe for a couple of years. She was 17 and I was two years younger. My friends always made jokes about fancying her and saying I was lucky I got to see her in her underwear. It was true, I was, and I did at every chance I got.

Chloe was about 5’ 4”, slim, with straight shoulder-length light-brown hair and curves in all the right places. She used to jokingly describe herself as ‘compact and bejou’. She had absolutely gorgeous breasts, full and pert, with nipples which would often poke through her t-shirt or dress. They were size 32C. I knew because I’d checked her bra once, before rubbing it against my face and breathing in her scent. But her best feature was by far her bum. The perfect cross between being voluptuous and perky, just the sight of it in tight leggings would make me embarrassingly hard in my jeans. I used to deliberately walk behind her where possible if we were out somewhere as a family so I could watch it, the buttocks move up and down as she walked. Unfortunately I’d not seen her naked for years. I was well into puberty now and she was fully aware I was no longer her innocent little brother who would sometimes sleep in her bed during a thunder storm.

For the last few years she had house-sat for my aunt and uncle when they went on holiday for a couple of weeks. They had a small one-bed bungalow with a huge garden. It was a lovely quiet place and Chloe made the most of it to do her school and college work. She was studying art and would paint outside on the lawn. This year I asked her if I could stay over for a few nights too, pitching it as an excuse to get away from mum and dad. She seemed reluctant, like I was impinging on her space, but said yes as long as I didn’t pester her. I dutily promised I’d be good, and spent the following weeks aching for the time to come, turning myself on with thoughts of being able to spy on her.

I had had a fairly regular routine for several months at home. She would sleep in a long t-shirt (there were several she rotated) which finished just above her knees, and a pair of knickers. I’d gotten to know them very well. Each morning when I heard her get up I’d hope mum and dad weren’t around and wait by my door, listening. She’d walk to the bathroom, close the door and a few seconds later I’d hear the shower go. After washing herself, always with the radio blaring pop music, she’d wrap a towel round her damp body and one round her hair and head back to her room clutching her t-shirt in her hand. When she closed her bedroom door to dress, I’d rush to the laundry basket in the bathroom, pick up the panties she’d slept in, press them against my face and sniff them, deeply breathing in the musky odour. Sometimes I’d lick the gusset, closing my eyes and imagining it was her pussy, that almost mystical thing I longed to see and touch in reality. Sometimes I’d masturbate with them, though being careful not to cum on the soft cotton or lace in case mum found out when she did the laundry.