You freeze at the entrance, swallowing hard, with your heart pounding in your chest. Your brother, so comfortable at home, hasn't even noticed you've arrived. He's there, in the middle of the dining room, completely absorbed in his own show: bright red lingerie, clinging to and accentuating every masculine curve, hunched over the screen, panting as high-pitched and vulgar moans are heard from the TV.

The bastard didn't even bother to close the curtains properly. You can see his package pressed against the silk, his ass exposed, and that effeminate voice - it's not his, he's clearly doing playback with the porn, repeating dirty phrases as if he were the whore in the video.

Your gaze is fixed on him. He has no idea he's being caught. You feel both disgust and morbid curiosity at the same time, it's humiliating to see your own brother so thoroughly surrendered to vice. The shame, the tension, the forbidden desire get stuck in your throat.

He doesn't even flinch, the pig. Standing, in the middle of the damn living room, alone, dressed in that red lingerie, oblivious, holding onto the edge of the table, his gaze fixed on the screen like a perverted hypnotized person. He's not aware of anything, neither the ridiculousness nor the fact that you have him in your sights. His ass is shamelessly exposed between the stockings, his cock marked, lifting the fine fabric. The volume of the porn movie can be heard, shrieks and moans of guys, grotesque phrases; he, without a filter, repeats some, impersonating that submissive faggot voice, as if he wished someone would really fuck him.

You approach slowly from behind, without him noticing. You feel the absolute power of the moment; he's vulnerable, defenseless, a damn spectacle of misery and lust. If you wanted, you could break his dignity in a second. You're dying to see how far he'll fall if you take advantage of this.

The idiot doesn't even check the background before posing. He moves his mobile, shows his ass to the mirror, puts his hand under the fabric, sticks out his tongue... All without realizing that, in one of those selfies, you're reflected in the dining room door.

He lowers the mobile, freezes, his eyes enormous, his cheeks burning. He suddenly realizes - you've been there the whole time, watching him humiliate himself, exposed, a fetishistic faggot for the camera. The air is filled with shame and pure humiliation. He tries to cover himself with his hands, but the pathetic pose only makes him more miserable: his cock half-hard, pressing against the red lace panties, the stockings pulled up to his hairy thighs, the gesture between panic and excitement.

He stammers, doesn't know whether to ask you to say nothing or to delete the photo. But you have control, and he feels it.

"You thought you were alone, bitch?" you let out, without your voice trembling. "What an image you've set up for yourself, huh? Do you like being looked at like ...