Chapter 934: Cock Too Thick for Her Fist

Then her hand moved.

Her right palm—still trembling—slid down the outside of my thigh, slow and deliberate now, no longer pretending it was accidental. Fingernails grazed skin, raising goosebumps. When her fingers curled inward, she didn’t stop at the base this time. She wrapped her small, warm hand fully around my cock—right at the thick, veiny root—squeezing once like she was testing how much give there really was.

"Let me help you hold it..." she breathed against my shoulder, voice husky and wrecked. "So you can... let go. I want to feel it soften in my hand... or get even harder. Whatever you need."

The instant her fingers closed—tight, possessive, slick already from the precum she’d smeared earlier—I sucked in a sharp hiss.

My hips bucked forward on reflex, shoving the swollen, veined length deeper into her fist. The thickest vein on the underside pulsed violently against her palm like it was trying to fuck her hand.

I groaned low and filthy. "Sister Yuko... fuck... you’re making it so much worse."

She gasped—half shock, half thrill—and her grip instinctively tightened. "Why... why is it getting bigger?" Her thumb dragged up the underside in one long, curious stroke, pressing right along that fat, throbbing vein. "It’s... swelling so much... look how the head is leaking all over my fingers..."

She wasn’t wrong.

Another fat bead of precum welled at the slit and rolled down, coating her knuckles. The head was an angry, glossy plum now—flared obscenely wide, glistening, twitching every time her heartbeat echoed through her palm into mine.

The whole cock looked obscene in her small hand: veins bulging like ropes, skin stretched tight, curving upward with shameless need.

"Because you’re jerking me," I rasped, voice gravel. "Because your soft little hand feels like sin wrapped around my cock. Because you just kissed me like you wanted to swallow my tongue, and now you’re holding the dick you made rock-hard. That’s why it’s getting bigger, Sister Yuko. It wants to fuck your fist until it paints your pretty fingers white."

Her breath hitched—ragged, needy. She let out a tiny, broken whimper and pressed her forehead harder to my back like she was trying to hide how soaked her panties must be right now.

"I... I didn’t mean to..." she stammered, but her hand betrayed her—starting to move again. Slow, experimental pumps.

Up to the slick head, twisting once around the ridge as she’d seen in some secret video, then back down, squeezing the base until another thick rope of precum oozed out and dripped onto her wrist. "It’s so hot... so thick... I can feel every vein pulsing... it’s jumping in my hand like it has a heartbeat..."

"Keep going," I growled softly. "Stroke it. Milk it. Make it leak for you. You said you’d do anything—prove it. Jerk your big brother’s cock until it calms down... or until it explodes all over your innocent little hand."

She moaned—quiet, muffled against my skin—and obeyed.

Her strokes grew bolder. Wetter. The obscene, slick schlick-schlick filled the tiny bathroom, louder than the buzzing light, louder than the drip of the faucet. Her other arm stayed locked around my waist, holding me up while she worked me from behind—cheek pressed to my spine, tits crushed against my back, nipples hard enough I could feel them stabbing through her blouse.

"Does it... feel good?" she whispered, voice shaking with lust and shame. "When I twist my wrist like this... right under the head? When I squeeze the fat vein? Tell me... please... I want to make it feel so good..."

"Fuck yes," I hissed. "Just like that. Faster now. Grip it tighter. Pretend you’re trying to choke the cum out of me. You’re doing so good, baby sister... so fucking filthy and perfect."

Her rhythm faltered for a second at the "baby sister"—then sped up, desperate. Her hand was drenched now—precum and her own nervous sweat making everything slippery, messy. Every upstroke, she dragged her thumb over the slit, collecting the steady leak and smearing it down the cock until my cock gleamed under the harsh light.

"It’s... dripping so much," she panted. "There’s so much... it’s running down my wrist... onto the floor... oh god, Jack, it’s making such a dirty sound..."

I leaned my head back until my lips brushed her ear.

"Keep jerking me," I ordered quietly. "Let her hear how sloppy you’re making my cock. Let her hear how much you love being my dirty little nurse. Don’t you dare stop until I tell you."

She whimpered—high and needy—and resumed pumping. Faster. Filthier. Hand flying now, slick sounds echoing off the tiles like wet slaps in the small, echoing space.

Her voice cracked against my back: "Jack... it’s throbbing so hard... I think... I think it’s going to..."

I cut her off, voice low and urgent. "Sister Yuko... It’s not working. We have to make it quicker. Otherwise, Aunt Julie might get suspicious... or come check on us."

Yuko froze mid-stroke, hand still wrapped tight around the slick, veined cock. Her eyes flicked up to mine—wide, glassy, pupils blown with a cocktail of shame and arousal. The blush that had never really left her face deepened to an almost violent scarlet.

"What... what should I do?" she whispered, voice trembling.

I turned slowly in her grip—careful of the IV line still taped to my arm—and looked down at her.

"Sister Yuko... can you get on your knees?"

She didn’t hesitate.

Her knees hit the cold tile with a soft thud. My cock—still rigid, glistening with her spit and precum, veins standing out like angry cords—bobbed inches from her flushed face. She stared up at me, lips parted, breath coming in shallow pants. Strands of dark hair had fallen across her forehead; she looked wrecked already, and we hadn’t even started.

"Do... you want to..." she started, voice barely audible, eyes darting to my length then back to my face.

I didn’t let her finish.

"Sister Yuko... I want to put it between them."

I nodded downward—pointing with my chin at the deep valley of her massive tits straining against the crisp white blouse of her lady suit. Even buttoned and professional, the fabric was stretched taut across her chest, the outline of her bra cups visible beneath. She followed my gaze. Realization hit. Her mouth fell open on a tiny, shocked exhale.

But she didn’t protest.

Instead—blushing so hard I thought she might pass out—she lifted both hands to the front of her blouse. Trembling fingers worked the top two buttons open, then a third, exposing the lacy edge of a pale pink bra and the creamy swell of her cleavage.

I stepped closer. She stayed perfectly still on her knees, like an offering.