/media/ - Media

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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. “Bathroom. Now.”
Diego crawled, sobbing, face already ballooning. Valeria followed, skirt swaying, the scent of her sweat and faint arousal thick in the air—violence always lit a fire in her blood.
In the bathroom she shoved him onto the toilet lid. She washed her knuckles first, then turned to him with the gentleness of a nurse and the authority of a queen. Cold water, antiseptic that made him scream through broken lips, gauze, butterfly bandages over the worst splits. She reset his nose with a sickening crunch that made him nearly pass out; he bit down on a towel so hard his teeth squeaked.
“I’m sorry, Vale,” he croaked when she pressed an ice pack to his swollen eye. “I’m so fucking sorry, hermanita. I was drunk, I’m disgusting, I swear I’ll never—”
“Shh.” She cupped his unbruised cheek surprisingly tenderly. “I know you are. But you needed to learn. And you learned the hard way.”
She finished bandaging him—his face now a patchwork of white gauze and purple bruises—then helped him to the couch. He could barely walk. Valeria disappeared into the kitchen, skirt flicking up with every step, giving him fleeting glimpses he no longer dared linger on.
An hour later she brought him a tray: caldo de res steaming with carrots and corn, fresh tortillas, a cold Modelo she opened for him because his lips couldn’t manage the bottle. She sat beside him, legs tucked under her, skirt barely covering anything, and fed him spoonfuls when his trembling hands failed.
“Eat,” she ordered softly. “You’re still my brother. Stupid, horny, pathetic… but mine.”
Diego cried quietly while she fed him, apologizing between every bite. “I crossed the line. You could’ve killed me and I’d have deserved it.”
Valeria wiped a smear of blood and broth from his chin. “I didn’t want to kill you, Diego. Just make you remember who’s in charge.” She leaned in, kissed his forehead—the only untouched spot left. “From now on you keep your eyes and your hands to yourself. Understood?”
He nodded frantically, tears mixing with the antiseptic sting.
“Good boy.” She ruffled his hair, then stood, skirt swirling. “When you can move again, you’re cleaning the blood off the floor. And tomorrow you’re coming to the gym with me. You’re going to learn how to throw a punch instead of grabbing asses.”
Diego managed a broken, grateful smile through his wrecked face.
Under the harsh Monterrey sun filtering through the blinds, the house settled into a strange new peace: Valeria, the fiery queen in her fluttering white skirt, and her thoroughly disciplined little brother who would never forget the price of crossing her again.