His Sister's Keeper

The Shawcross family were wealthy and well-known enough to be worried about scandal. When their eldest daughter Francis, shamefully unmarried at the age of twenty-one, was found consorting with Suffragettes and other agitators, she quietly disappeared--sent off to Europe, many people said, to be re-educated, or sent out of the way to a nunnery.

In fact, she wasn't sent anywhere at all. Her parents had her declared legally insane by a local doctor and sequestered her away in a comfortable little room in the attic. She was confined to her bed, arms cuffed to the headboard, except when the doctor or her brother walked her in the walled-in garden for exercise and sunlight.

Her older brother, Peter, provided most of her care. Her father found it beneath him to associate with such a willful daughter, and she was strong enough to overpower her mother when angry, but Peter was big enough to keep her in line. Many men his age might have found it tiresome to be placed in the role of caregiver, but Peter embraced his duties; he fed his sister, bathed her, changed her clothes. And in the evenings, he visited to be sure she slept well.

It was six months into his evening visits before Francis finally gave in.

Peter slipped into her room that night as usual, smiling when he saw the way the moonlight caught on her bright, angry eyes. He closed the door behind himself and locked it--he had the only key, and he didn't want to be interrupted--and watched the way his sister's wrists shifted restlessly in their bonds above her head.

"How are we feeling tonight, Frannie?" he asked, friendly. She didn't respond; this was an improvement, compared to the venom she had once spat. He was starting to tame her. "Well enough, I hope," he filled in for her when the silence continued.

He sat on the side of the bed. Her fingers curled into fists, her eyes fixed on him in the dim room, lips pressed together in a thin line. She was already breathing harder, her breasts swelling under the thin fabric of her shift, nipples stiff enough to leave little peaks, and he didn't waste any further time on niceties. He reached down and cupped one of her breasts in his hand, feeling the soft weight of it. Francis immediately sucked in a sharp breath and squirmed, squeezing her fists tighter as her glare glazed over into a different kind of look.

He teased her breasts for several minutes, alternately kneading the soft flesh for his own pleasure and tweaking the sensitive nipples to make her gasp and writhe. And she did writhe--after six months of his attention and no release, his sister's body had been reduced to an aching, weeping animal, responding to any stimulation like a creature in heat.

He had given her one opportunity for a climax a few months earlier; he had uncuffed one of her wrists and informed her that she was free to touch herself as she liked, but he wasn't going to leave the room. She had gone from lustful to angry, called him all manner of nasty names. When he had just calmly locked her back in her cuffs again and left, he had seen the regret on her face.

Now, he thought, as he watched her shake and arch under his fingers, she would have jumped at the chance. But it was too late; he wasn't going to offer that deal again.

When he'd had his fill of her breasts, and when she was panting and rubbing her thighs together like a whore, he reached down and placed his hand on her stomach. Her knees immediately fell apart, inviting his attention shamelessly. He chuckled low and she turned her face away, flushing.

"There's no need for that," he assured her. "You can hardly help it, can you? This is inhumane, the way that I treat you. Isn't that what you said last month?"

She didn't respond. As he began to roll her shift up, exposing her knees and then her damp thighs, she began to tremble with anticipation.

"That's it," he murmured, and then groaned in appreciation as he hiked her skirt up to her waist, exposing her glistening, pulsing sex. "You can't help any of it. You must ache so badly here."

He placed a hand over her wet lips and massaged them in a slow rolling motion, and his sister finally voiced a sound, though there weren't any words to it; just a desperate low moan as she lifted her hips into his hand. He rolled his fingers again, then moved up to place a finger against the underside of her clit, feeling it twitch against him as her cunt clenched.

"Five tonight, I think," he informed her, and she moaned again, this time in despair. She was extremely unlikely to find her release based on anything he did with her--the longer he touched her, the slower he moved, until she whimpered like a tortured thing, dangling on the edge of pleasure--but five strokes was pitifully few, even so.

He smiled at her distress and pressed down firmly with his finger, dragging it in one long, slow stroke up the underside of her clit until he reached the sensitive tip, finishing with a little swirl that made her cry out. "One." He did it again, and she cried again in helpless pleasure, the muscles of her stomach twitching under the rucked-up fabric of her nightdress. "Two."

"Oh," she moaned as he placed his finger at the base again. "Oh, oh, oh. OH--" she bucked her hips and bit back a too-loud cry when his finger again swirled at the tip.

"Three," Peter said. "Goodness, you really are on a hair trigger tonight, aren't you? Is it because of the peppermint salve I applied after your bath?"

Francis whimpered, which may have been an answer, or may have just been because his finger was at the base of her clit again. As he dragged his finger up, she whimpered again and again, more urgently, her thighs shaking; as he swirled around the tip, the whimpers choked off into a pathetic squeak.

"Four. Just one more, now," he said. Her eyes were closed tight now, teeth buried in her lip, her whole body tense. Focusing on the pleasure, he assumed; trying to eke out what she could in a desperate bid to relieve herself.

He pressed his finger against the base, and felt the little flutter of her clit responding. This time, he dragged his finger up slowly--so slowly--and when he reached the tip, instead of swirling, he just gave another firm press and then let go. "Five."

"Ah," Francis cried out involuntarily in despair, her toes curling into the bedding. Then, as he moved to stand up--not righting her shift; he found she was much more biddable if he left her exposed all night--she gasped out a quiet, "please."

"Hmm?" he asked, looking up at her. Her face was turned away again, towards the wall, refusing to look at him. "What was that, Frannie? Did you want to ask me something?"

"Please, Peter. Please--don't stop."

"Whyever not?" he asked, feigning confusion. Her body shook in a silent sob as she understood he intended to make her beg.

"I'm so close. I can't stand it any more, please."

"Close to what?"

"To--to finishing," she said, her voice cracking, and he laughed.

"Oh, I think I understand now, sister. You're such a desperate little slut that you're asking me to rub out a naughty little come for you?" he asked. She made a stifled noise of outraged humiliation. "You just can't hold it in? Your needy cunt needs to be touched? Maybe I'm still not understanding, maybe you had better say it that way."

"Peter," she begged, sounding on the edge of tears.

"Come on, now, it's not so difficult. You used to be so good with words," he taunted. "Just say 'please give me a come by rubbing my wet cunt, brother'."

"Please," she gasped, her voice shaking, barely above a whisper. "Please--please give me a come by rubbing my--my wet cunt."

"Hmmmm," he murmured, brushing his fingers very, very lightly over the sopping lips of her sex. Even that gentle touch had her squirming, her knees shaking and her feet pressing down into the bed. "Alright. But first you'll need to prove to me that you mean it, that you really, really need it."

"I need it! Damn you, Peter--"

"Do you need it enough to suck my cock?"

That shut her up for a second. Francis lifted her head and stared at him, her eyes wide. He lifted his eyebrows at her.

"That's--that's filthy," she accused finally, her voice faint.

"You just asked me to rub a come out of your sopping pussy," he pointed out, smirking. "Be careful in your glass house, sister."

She stared at him, and he watched the gears turning in her head, weighing the pros and the cons.

He imagined that her aching cunt was a very heavy weight indeed.

Finally, she nodded. "Alright. I'll--I'll do it. I agree. So just--please touch me."

"Oh, no, no, no," he said, laughing. "I'm not an idiot, sister. If you get what you want first, I'm likely to get bitten as soon as I get into your mouth. No, you'll suck me first, and then we'll see about you."

She moaned quietly, clenching her toes, but then she nodded.

He stood and undid his pants; he was already fairly hard, as he often was after touching his sister--sometimes he let her know so, as well; he'd brought himself to release in front of her no few number of times, moaning out his satisfaction while she burned and shook desperately in her confinement--and then he climbed onto the bed, kneeling over her chest. He used a pillow to prop her head up and then, though she was looking less certain of her choice now, he fed his hard member into her mouth.

She was inexperienced, as he expected, and not entirely enthusiastic at first, doing little more beyond keeping her teeth carefully away from him and letting him thrust into her mouth. He reached down to pinch one of her nipples until she moaned. "Show a little more gratitude," he instructed, and finally she began to suck in earnest, slipping her tongue clumsily against him.

"Mm, yes, that's it. Oh, we'll train you up well yet, sister," he groaned, riding her mouth in slow rolls of his hips. "You're setting a poor precedent here, you know. Which hole will I want to fuck next? How desperate will you have to get before you let me? Mmm--" he sunk deep into her mouth and grunted as he shot into her throat, long, hard pulses that left him bone-satisfied. "Oh, yes. That's fantastic."

She gasped for breath as he pulled out of her, her body trembling under him. When he climbed off and leaned back to look, he found her thighs smeared with fluid, even wetter than he'd left her. He laughed. "You liked it that much, did you? Or were you thinking the whole time about my fingers on your aching clit?"

"Please," she rasped, her voice thick with the seed he'd spilled into her. "I did it, so please--Peter, please?"

"Say it again," he instructed, and she flushed bright red.

"Please...give me a come by rubbing my...wet cunt."

He smirked. "Not tonight."

"Peter!" she gasped, tears welling up in her eyes. "I did what you wanted! You can't do this to me!"

"I want to be sure you understand your place, sister. One night of obedience doesn't make up for the grief you've given me over the past few months." He righted his pants and patted her shoulder. She was trembling all over like a leaf, her wet sex clenching over and over, like she was on the edge just from having her expectations denied. "Besides, you look amazing like this. A real whore."

"Peter, please, please," she sobbed. She continued crying his name as he walked out of the room and shut the door, locking it behind him.

***

At that point, their evening routine changed. Peter no longer touched her where she most wanted it; he massaged her breasts, and he pulled up her shift to look at her sex, but then he climbed on top of her and pressed his cock into her mouth instead.

Her skill steadily improved, and her cunt was always weeping when he finished, wet and sticky and untouched between her creamy thighs. She grew quieter and more obedient during the day as well, her disposition improving immensely as she withdrew in a haze of confused lust.

Peter waited a week to be sure these changes were somewhat set in place. Then, one afternoon, as he was walking Francis around the garden, he stopped her under the shade of a tree that hid them from the house.

"Lift your skirt," he said to her quietly.

She stared at him for a moment, uncomprehending. "But--we're outside."

"Yes," he agreed. "Outside, where the animals fuck. Isn't that what you are now? Flashing your tail like a doe in season, begging for any buck who'll have you, too desperate to care for the laws of nature or man?" Her face was flushing steadily pink as he spoke, and her eyes darted around, looking for anyone else who might be around, but there was nobody to interrupt them. "Lift your skirt up, sister, so you can get that come you need so badly."

"I--" she began, then seemed to think better of objecting, her face flushing even deeper. She reached down and knotted her hands uncertainly in the skirt of her dress, and then she slowly drew it up, bunching it in her hands to reveal her tights, then the bare skin of her thighs, and then her exposed cunt, because he rarely put underthings on her.

"There you go," he murmured, admiring her in the sunlight. Her pink little clit stood at attention and a bit of fluid drooled from between her lips. "Come here." He put a hand around her waist and pulled her to the stone bench under the tree; he sat down, then sat her on his lap, straddling one of his thighs. She let out a little cry when her bare cunt made contact with his pants, her thighs trembling. "Yes, that's it. Go ahead. Ride me."

"Oh," she gasped, low and lost, and began to rock her hips, grinding herself down onto the muscle of his thigh. "Oh. Oh. Oh--oh--"

"That's right. You're just a needy little bitch, hmm? Aching to hump whatever you can?" He squeezed her hip, feeling the pivot of her body there as she worked herself hard against him. "Have you been thinking about what I said, sister? About fucking whatever part of you I please? Have you been wishing that I'd just go ahead and do it? Is that what you think about when I leave you alone at night, dripping for me?"

"Ah," she cried, unable to keep her voice quiet as she moved faster. One of her hands went down between her thigh to rub vigorously at her clit and her back arched. "I'm--oh, God, please--"

"That's it. Do it, Frannie. Come for me. Come for your brother like the desperate slut that you are," he said, and she wailed and clamped her thighs hard around his as she reached her trembling peak, her face contorting in spasms of pleasure. Her climax went on for a long, shaking minute, incoherent noises falling from her mouth as she rutted her need into his leg, and then finally she went limp, gasping. Peter smirked down at the ruin of his sister sprawled in his lap, her skirts hiked up above her waist, her thighs and sex exposed to the open air.

"You're such a whore, Frannie," he said fondly, laughing when she turned her face away. "Don't be ungrateful now. That looked like a good, hard come. Wasn't it worth waiting for?"

"You're a beast," she whispered, out of breath. "A monster." He laughed again.

"Save the insults, Frannie. You haven't seen the worst of me yet." He patted her exposed thigh. "Come on, you need a bath."