Sorry - here's the full background:
In a modest two-story house on the outskirts of Monterrey, Mexico, where the summer heat clung to everything like a second skin, 24-year-old Valeria ruled the roost. Their parents had died years ago in a car crash on the road to Saltillo, leaving her to raise her 19-year-old brother Diego. Valeria was a force: a semi-pro boxer with a lean, sculpted body, caramel skin that glowed under the sun, long black hair she kept in a high ponytail, and fiery dark in her dark eyes. At home she dressed for comfort and the relentless heat: tiny loose white sports skirts that fluttered with every movement, no panties underneath because “why bother in your own house?” and skin-tight white t-shirts that hugged her full breasts and showed the outline of her nipples when the AC kicked in.
Diego had always been the screw-up: skipping college classes, smoking weed with his deadbeat friends, and lately staring at his sister in ways no brother should. That afternoon it went too far.
Valeria was in the living room shadowboxing in front of the cracked mirror, sweat making her skirt cling and ride up with every pivot. Diego stumbled in drunk from a midday binge, saw the flash of her toned ass beneath the fluttering fabric, and before his brain caught up, his hand shot out and grabbed a fistful of her cheek.
The room froze.
Valeria spun, eyes blazing. “¿Qué chingados hiciste, cabrón?”
Diego’s sloppy grin vanished the second her right hook cracked across his jaw. He flew backward into the couch. Before he could scramble up, she was on him—knees pinning his arms, skirt riding high enough that the lips of her shaved pussy brushed his chest through the thin fabric. She rained precise, vicious punches: a jab to the nose that exploded in crimson, a hook that blackened his left eye instantly, an uppercut that split both lips like overripe fruit.
“¡Te dije que nunca me tocaras, pinche pervertido!” she snarled between blows. Each punch landed with the wet thud of leather on flesh, even though her hands were bare. Diego tried to block, but she was too fast, too strong—years of sparring in dusty gyms had turned her into a weapon. His face swelled grotesquely, nose bent at a sickening angle, blood pouring over his chin and onto the tile floor.
When he went limp, whimpering, she stopped. Chest heaving, nipples hard against her soaked t-shirt, she stared down at the ruin she’d made of him.
“Get up,” she said coldly. “Bat
Post too long. Click here to view the full text.
