NSFW
Kickerboy7
Established
The first time I really noticed her, she was laughing at something stupid on my phone screen. A clip from some slice-of-life anime I'd been bingeing all afternoon. She'd slid onto the bed beside me without asking, her shoulder brushing mine, and I remember the smell of her shampoo—something floral, maybe jasmine—hitting me right as she leaned in to see the screen better.
That was two weeks into summer vacation at Lola's house in Quezon.
The place was massive, old money from a generation I never met, with six bedrooms and a sala that could hold a barangay fiesta. More than 10 of us cousins packed inside that summer, spilling into every corner, claiming mattresses and couches like territorial animals. I'd grown up in the province with my siblings, only visiting Lola's during breaks, so I never got close to most of them. Faces blurred. Names slipped. Handshakes and polite nods.
But her. She was different.
Her name was Mia. 19 - same age as me, but we'd barely exchanged ten sentences in all the years prior. She was petite in that way that makes you look twice—small-boned but curved where it mattered, with skin that held light like porcelain and a nose that cut a sharp line down her face. If you watch the usual streamers online, she kinda looked like that.
Fair-skinned. Smooth. Hair that fell in black waves past her shoulders.
And I'd never really looked at her before that summer.
It started innocent. She'd wander into the room I shared with two other cousins while I was watching anime, and she'd just... stay. Sit on the edge of the bed first. Then cross-legged. Then lying on her stomach, chin propped on her palms, asking me to explain plot points she'd missed. By the third week, she was curling up beside me under the blanket, the glow of the tablet painting her face in blues and whites until her breathing slowed and her eyes closed.
I didn't think much of it at first. Bodies shift in sleep. Arms drape. It happens.
Then came the goodnight kiss on the cheek. A peck. Quick. She'd roll over after and I'd lie there in the dark, my cheek tingling, wondering if cousins did that. Wondering if I wanted her to stop.
I didn't
The nights got warmer. The blanket became our blanket. And I started noticing things I shouldn't have been noticing—like the way her loose t-shirt gaped when she slept on her side, giving me a clear view of the curve of her breast. No bra. The fabric would ride up and there it was: pale skin, the shadow of something soft beneath. Her nipples were light brown, almost pinkish in the morning light, and they'd press against the cotton when she shifted.
My eyes shouldn't have been there. My thoughts shouldn't have been there. But they were.
One night, after a long day of swimming at a nearby Falls with the whole chaotic caravan of cousins, she fell asleep pressed against me in the back of the van. Her head on my shoulder. Her hand resting on my thigh, dangerously close to somewhere it shouldn't have been. Our other cousin, Ate Lena, glanced back from the front seat and raised an eyebrow.
"May something ba sa inyo?"
Mia stirred, but I answered. "Wala po. Close lang kami."
The words tasted like a lie even as I said them.
That night changed everything. We were in bed, anime playing on low volume, and she was already drowsy. She tugged at my arm. "Tulog na tayo."
"Maya-maya lang."
"Ngayon na." There was something in her voice. Not demanding. Softer. She leaned over and kissed me.
On the lips.
I froze for about half a second. Then my mouth moved against hers, instinct overriding reason, and she made a small sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and kissed me back. When we broke apart, her eyes were wide in the dim light.
"First kiss ko 'yun," she whispered.
"Gusto mo turuan kita?"
She nodded, and I kissed her again. Slow. Guiding. "Ganto lang," I murmured against her lips, and she laughed, a breathless little sound that turned into something deeper when our mouths opened and her tongue found mine.
Making out with your cousin shouldn't feel like that. It should feel wrong. It felt like discovering a language I'd always known but never spoken.
Her hand found my wrist and guided my palm to her chest. The weight of her breast settled against my fingers through the thin cotton, soft and yielding, and I squeezed gently. She gasped into my mouth. I could feel her nipple hardening against my palm, a small pebble of heat—
The door swung open.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The tablet screen had gone dark. The room was silent except for the whir of the electric fan.
Her kuya came in, and asked us why we are we still up and awake.
"May tinatapos lang kami na anime" I said, and my voice came out steady, which was a miracle.
He grunted, grabbed a jacket from the chair, and left. The door clicked shut. Mia buried her face in my shoulder, her body shaking with silent laughter, and then we were kissing again, hungry and hushed, until sleep finally pulled us under.
After that, we became addicts.
Every moment alone became a window we'd crawl through. A quick kiss in the kitchen while the others were in the sala. Her hand brushing against the front of my shorts as we passed in the hallway. We got good at being invisible. At hearing footsteps three seconds before they became a problem. At arranging our faces into neutral expressions while our hearts slammed against our ribs.
The thrill of hiding it was its own kind of high.
At night, with the lights off and the house settling into its late-night creaks, we'd lie under the blanket and explore. She'd face away from me, her back pressed against my chest, and I'd reach around to cup her breasts under her shirt. Skin to skin now—we'd graduated from over-the-clothes to under. Her nipples were the color of milky coffee with a hint of rose, and they'd pebble tight under my thumb. She'd arch her back, pressing her ass against the hard length of me through our clothes, and start a slow grind that made my vision blur.
I learned the geography of her body in the dark. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hip. The way her breath would catch when my fingers traced the edge of her shorts but didn't go lower. She'd roll her hips in circles, riding me through layers of fabric, and I'd bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.
Then came the night the house emptied out.
A barkada gimmick had claimed half the cousins. Night shift work had claimed the others. It was just us in the bedroom, the door locked, the silence absolute.
She stood in front of me and pulled her pajama bottoms down.
Her legs were smooth, pale, the muscles of her thighs flexing as she stepped out of the fabric. Black panties. Simple cotton, but on her they looked like a dare. She reached for the hem of her t-shirt and lifted it over her head, and then her breasts were right there, inches from my face, small and round and tipped with those dusky nipples I'd only ever felt in the dark.
"Your turn," she said, and her voice trembled just slightly.
I shed my shorts. My boxers stayed on, but the outline of my cock pressed visibly against the fabric, and her eyes dropped to it immediately. She reached out. Hesitated. Then her fingers curled around me through the cotton, and I made a sound I didn't recognize.
We fell into the bed together. My mouth found her breast and I sucked, pulling the flat nipple into a stiff peak, rolling my tongue around it until she whimpered and pressed my head harder against her. She was grinding on my thigh now, her panties growing damp, and my cock was a steel beam trapped in my boxers.
She pushed me onto my back and straddled me. Her hand slipped under the waistband.
When her fingers wrapped around my bare cock for the first time, I almost came right there. Her grip was tentative at first, exploring—she ran her thumb over the head, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there, and I watched her face register the slickness with widened eyes.
"Ganito ba?" Her hand began to move, up and down the shaft, learning the rhythm. My cock was average length but thick, the head flared and sensitive, and every stroke sent electricity up my spine. The veins along the shaft stood out, and she traced one with her fingertip, fascinated.
My balls tightened. The pressure built at the base of my spine.
"Mia—"
The first spurt hit my stomach. Then another, thicker, white and copious. She kept stroking me through it, watching the semen pulse out in ropes, and a smile spread across her face. Pure delight. Like she'd discovered something precious.
I grabbed tissues and wiped myself clean, and her expression crumpled.
"Bakit?"
"I wanted to taste it," she said, and the words landed in my gut like a punch.
"Sige. Isa pa." I was still half-hard, still tingling from the aftershocks. "Pero isubo mo na."
She lowered her mouth to my cock without a second of hesitation.
Her lips were soft. Warm. She took just the head in first, sucking gently, and I felt her tongue press against the frenulum—that sensitive spot just beneath the tip—and my hips bucked involuntarily. She pulled back, eyes questioning. "Tama ba?"
I couldn't speak. I just nodded, my hands fisting in the sheets.
She took me deeper. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, and the sight of her lips stretched around my shaft, the wet sounds filling the room, the way her tongue laved along the underside—I was done for. My orgasm built faster than I expected, a rising wave of heat that crested and broke.
"Malapit na," I gasped.
She didn't pull away. My release flooded her mouth, thick and salty, and she swallowed every pulse of it, her throat working to keep up. When I was spent, she licked the last drop from the tip and sat back, lips glistening, looking proud.
She brushed her teeth. I passed out.
But I woke sometime later—maybe an hour, maybe less—to the sensation of her fingers tracing the outline of my cock again. The room was still dark. The house was still quiet.
"Fingerin mo naman ako," she whispered.
The words sent a jolt through me. We hadn't done that yet. We'd danced around it for weeks.
"Sure ka?"
She nodded, already pulling me toward her.
I kissed her slowly this time, drawing it out. My hand found her breast, kneading the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between my fingers until she was breathing harder. Then I let my palm drift lower. Over her stomach. Down to the waistband of her panties.
She was trembling.
I touched her over the cotton first. The fabric was soaked—a dark wet patch spreading beneath my fingers—and she moaned when I pressed, just lightly, against the outline of her pussy. Her hips jerked upward, seeking more pressure.
I teased her. Circles over the fabric. Light taps. She was gasping now, her head thrown back, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
Then she grabbed my wrist and shoved my hand inside her panties.
Drenched. Swollen. The lips of her pussy were plump and slick, parting easily under my fingers. I explored her slowly, tracing the shape of her—the outer lips soft and fleshy, the inner ones delicate and smooth beneath the wetness. Her clitoris was a firm little bud at the apex, and when I brushed it with my thumb, she cried out and her whole body clenched.
I circled it. Slow. Lazy. She was breathing in sharp, ragged bursts now, every exhale a quiet little "ah" that grew higher in pitch. Her pussy lips were puffy and flushed, the skin there a deeper pink than the rest of her, and the slickness coated my fingers until they glistened.
"Faster," she begged.
So I did. My fingers traced firm circles over her clit, and I watched her face transform—jaw slack, eyes half-closed, lips parted around a moan she couldn't contain. Her body began to shake. Her inner walls pulsed against nothing, clenching around emptiness, and then she shattered.
She came with a choked cry, her back arching off the bed, her thighs clamping around my hand. I felt the gush of wetness against my palm, warm and abundant, and kept stroking her through it until she pushed my hand away, oversensitive and panting.
We lay there in the aftermath, tangled together, the smell of us thick in the air. She kissed me—soft this time, tender—and we pulled our clothes back on before sleep claimed us both.
But before I drifted off, she pressed her lips to my ear.
"Bukas ulit."
That was two weeks into summer vacation at Lola's house in Quezon.
The place was massive, old money from a generation I never met, with six bedrooms and a sala that could hold a barangay fiesta. More than 10 of us cousins packed inside that summer, spilling into every corner, claiming mattresses and couches like territorial animals. I'd grown up in the province with my siblings, only visiting Lola's during breaks, so I never got close to most of them. Faces blurred. Names slipped. Handshakes and polite nods.
But her. She was different.
Her name was Mia. 19 - same age as me, but we'd barely exchanged ten sentences in all the years prior. She was petite in that way that makes you look twice—small-boned but curved where it mattered, with skin that held light like porcelain and a nose that cut a sharp line down her face. If you watch the usual streamers online, she kinda looked like that.
Fair-skinned. Smooth. Hair that fell in black waves past her shoulders.
And I'd never really looked at her before that summer.
It started innocent. She'd wander into the room I shared with two other cousins while I was watching anime, and she'd just... stay. Sit on the edge of the bed first. Then cross-legged. Then lying on her stomach, chin propped on her palms, asking me to explain plot points she'd missed. By the third week, she was curling up beside me under the blanket, the glow of the tablet painting her face in blues and whites until her breathing slowed and her eyes closed.
I didn't think much of it at first. Bodies shift in sleep. Arms drape. It happens.
Then came the goodnight kiss on the cheek. A peck. Quick. She'd roll over after and I'd lie there in the dark, my cheek tingling, wondering if cousins did that. Wondering if I wanted her to stop.
I didn't
The nights got warmer. The blanket became our blanket. And I started noticing things I shouldn't have been noticing—like the way her loose t-shirt gaped when she slept on her side, giving me a clear view of the curve of her breast. No bra. The fabric would ride up and there it was: pale skin, the shadow of something soft beneath. Her nipples were light brown, almost pinkish in the morning light, and they'd press against the cotton when she shifted.
My eyes shouldn't have been there. My thoughts shouldn't have been there. But they were.
One night, after a long day of swimming at a nearby Falls with the whole chaotic caravan of cousins, she fell asleep pressed against me in the back of the van. Her head on my shoulder. Her hand resting on my thigh, dangerously close to somewhere it shouldn't have been. Our other cousin, Ate Lena, glanced back from the front seat and raised an eyebrow.
"May something ba sa inyo?"
Mia stirred, but I answered. "Wala po. Close lang kami."
The words tasted like a lie even as I said them.
That night changed everything. We were in bed, anime playing on low volume, and she was already drowsy. She tugged at my arm. "Tulog na tayo."
"Maya-maya lang."
"Ngayon na." There was something in her voice. Not demanding. Softer. She leaned over and kissed me.
On the lips.
I froze for about half a second. Then my mouth moved against hers, instinct overriding reason, and she made a small sound—surprise, maybe, or relief—and kissed me back. When we broke apart, her eyes were wide in the dim light.
"First kiss ko 'yun," she whispered.
"Gusto mo turuan kita?"
She nodded, and I kissed her again. Slow. Guiding. "Ganto lang," I murmured against her lips, and she laughed, a breathless little sound that turned into something deeper when our mouths opened and her tongue found mine.
Making out with your cousin shouldn't feel like that. It should feel wrong. It felt like discovering a language I'd always known but never spoken.
Her hand found my wrist and guided my palm to her chest. The weight of her breast settled against my fingers through the thin cotton, soft and yielding, and I squeezed gently. She gasped into my mouth. I could feel her nipple hardening against my palm, a small pebble of heat—
The door swung open.
My heartbeat thundered in my ears. The tablet screen had gone dark. The room was silent except for the whir of the electric fan.
Her kuya came in, and asked us why we are we still up and awake.
"May tinatapos lang kami na anime" I said, and my voice came out steady, which was a miracle.
He grunted, grabbed a jacket from the chair, and left. The door clicked shut. Mia buried her face in my shoulder, her body shaking with silent laughter, and then we were kissing again, hungry and hushed, until sleep finally pulled us under.
After that, we became addicts.
Every moment alone became a window we'd crawl through. A quick kiss in the kitchen while the others were in the sala. Her hand brushing against the front of my shorts as we passed in the hallway. We got good at being invisible. At hearing footsteps three seconds before they became a problem. At arranging our faces into neutral expressions while our hearts slammed against our ribs.
The thrill of hiding it was its own kind of high.
At night, with the lights off and the house settling into its late-night creaks, we'd lie under the blanket and explore. She'd face away from me, her back pressed against my chest, and I'd reach around to cup her breasts under her shirt. Skin to skin now—we'd graduated from over-the-clothes to under. Her nipples were the color of milky coffee with a hint of rose, and they'd pebble tight under my thumb. She'd arch her back, pressing her ass against the hard length of me through our clothes, and start a slow grind that made my vision blur.
I learned the geography of her body in the dark. The dip of her waist. The flare of her hip. The way her breath would catch when my fingers traced the edge of her shorts but didn't go lower. She'd roll her hips in circles, riding me through layers of fabric, and I'd bite the inside of my cheek to keep from groaning.
Then came the night the house emptied out.
A barkada gimmick had claimed half the cousins. Night shift work had claimed the others. It was just us in the bedroom, the door locked, the silence absolute.
She stood in front of me and pulled her pajama bottoms down.
Her legs were smooth, pale, the muscles of her thighs flexing as she stepped out of the fabric. Black panties. Simple cotton, but on her they looked like a dare. She reached for the hem of her t-shirt and lifted it over her head, and then her breasts were right there, inches from my face, small and round and tipped with those dusky nipples I'd only ever felt in the dark.
"Your turn," she said, and her voice trembled just slightly.
I shed my shorts. My boxers stayed on, but the outline of my cock pressed visibly against the fabric, and her eyes dropped to it immediately. She reached out. Hesitated. Then her fingers curled around me through the cotton, and I made a sound I didn't recognize.
We fell into the bed together. My mouth found her breast and I sucked, pulling the flat nipple into a stiff peak, rolling my tongue around it until she whimpered and pressed my head harder against her. She was grinding on my thigh now, her panties growing damp, and my cock was a steel beam trapped in my boxers.
She pushed me onto my back and straddled me. Her hand slipped under the waistband.
When her fingers wrapped around my bare cock for the first time, I almost came right there. Her grip was tentative at first, exploring—she ran her thumb over the head, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there, and I watched her face register the slickness with widened eyes.
"Ganito ba?" Her hand began to move, up and down the shaft, learning the rhythm. My cock was average length but thick, the head flared and sensitive, and every stroke sent electricity up my spine. The veins along the shaft stood out, and she traced one with her fingertip, fascinated.
My balls tightened. The pressure built at the base of my spine.
"Mia—"
The first spurt hit my stomach. Then another, thicker, white and copious. She kept stroking me through it, watching the semen pulse out in ropes, and a smile spread across her face. Pure delight. Like she'd discovered something precious.
I grabbed tissues and wiped myself clean, and her expression crumpled.
"Bakit?"
"I wanted to taste it," she said, and the words landed in my gut like a punch.
"Sige. Isa pa." I was still half-hard, still tingling from the aftershocks. "Pero isubo mo na."
She lowered her mouth to my cock without a second of hesitation.
Her lips were soft. Warm. She took just the head in first, sucking gently, and I felt her tongue press against the frenulum—that sensitive spot just beneath the tip—and my hips bucked involuntarily. She pulled back, eyes questioning. "Tama ba?"
I couldn't speak. I just nodded, my hands fisting in the sheets.
She took me deeper. Her cheeks hollowed as she sucked, and the sight of her lips stretched around my shaft, the wet sounds filling the room, the way her tongue laved along the underside—I was done for. My orgasm built faster than I expected, a rising wave of heat that crested and broke.
"Malapit na," I gasped.
She didn't pull away. My release flooded her mouth, thick and salty, and she swallowed every pulse of it, her throat working to keep up. When I was spent, she licked the last drop from the tip and sat back, lips glistening, looking proud.
She brushed her teeth. I passed out.
But I woke sometime later—maybe an hour, maybe less—to the sensation of her fingers tracing the outline of my cock again. The room was still dark. The house was still quiet.
"Fingerin mo naman ako," she whispered.
The words sent a jolt through me. We hadn't done that yet. We'd danced around it for weeks.
"Sure ka?"
She nodded, already pulling me toward her.
I kissed her slowly this time, drawing it out. My hand found her breast, kneading the soft flesh, rolling the nipple between my fingers until she was breathing harder. Then I let my palm drift lower. Over her stomach. Down to the waistband of her panties.
She was trembling.
I touched her over the cotton first. The fabric was soaked—a dark wet patch spreading beneath my fingers—and she moaned when I pressed, just lightly, against the outline of her pussy. Her hips jerked upward, seeking more pressure.
I teased her. Circles over the fabric. Light taps. She was gasping now, her head thrown back, her fingers digging into my shoulders.
Then she grabbed my wrist and shoved my hand inside her panties.
Drenched. Swollen. The lips of her pussy were plump and slick, parting easily under my fingers. I explored her slowly, tracing the shape of her—the outer lips soft and fleshy, the inner ones delicate and smooth beneath the wetness. Her clitoris was a firm little bud at the apex, and when I brushed it with my thumb, she cried out and her whole body clenched.
I circled it. Slow. Lazy. She was breathing in sharp, ragged bursts now, every exhale a quiet little "ah" that grew higher in pitch. Her pussy lips were puffy and flushed, the skin there a deeper pink than the rest of her, and the slickness coated my fingers until they glistened.
"Faster," she begged.
So I did. My fingers traced firm circles over her clit, and I watched her face transform—jaw slack, eyes half-closed, lips parted around a moan she couldn't contain. Her body began to shake. Her inner walls pulsed against nothing, clenching around emptiness, and then she shattered.
She came with a choked cry, her back arching off the bed, her thighs clamping around my hand. I felt the gush of wetness against my palm, warm and abundant, and kept stroking her through it until she pushed my hand away, oversensitive and panting.
We lay there in the aftermath, tangled together, the smell of us thick in the air. She kissed me—soft this time, tender—and we pulled our clothes back on before sleep claimed us both.
But before I drifted off, she pressed her lips to my ear.
"Bukas ulit."
