His Sister's Keeper Pt. 02

She cried out and arched her back, squirming in desperate pleasure and rocking back on his cock, grinding herself down on him. "Oh! Oh, God, please, please! Peter, please!"

"I'm close, sister. If you're going to come, now is the time," he informed her, pinching and tugging on her nipple. She sobbed and shuddered under him as he started to thrust harder into her.

"I can't--I can't, please! Oh," she gasped, and lifted her loose hand from the headboard like she was thinking of reaching down to rub herself, but she immediately had to grab on again to steady herself under the violence of his thrusts. "Peter, please!"

"Please what, sister? Are you begging for a come like a filthy whore?" he asked, slamming harder into her until she was grunting in pain, kicking one of her feet in frustration. "You're so desperate to finish that you'll beg your own brother to fuck you in the ass, and even that isn't enough for you? Mm, yeah," he grunted as he slammed home one last time and spilled inside her in long, hard pulses. His balls were pressed against her dripping pussy, and he could feel how it clenched over and over as she whimpered. "Maybe if we do this every night, you'll learn to come from it eventually."

She sobbed as he pulled out, her hips rocking in little movements like she was still looking for a cock to fuck herself on. Her free hand slipped off the headboard again, but he grabbed her wrist before she could reach her pussy, squeezing hard as a warning. Her cunt was so wet that fluid was dripping in long lines down to the bedding.

"Maybe next time I'll get it in the wrong hole by accident," he said, and watched as her pussy visibly clenched and fluttered in response. He laughed, and Francis turned her face away, sobbing into her pillow.

He flipped her back over before locking her back in her cuffs, and left her crying and shaking on the bed, her thighs slick with need.

***

For the next week, Peter alternated nightly between fucking his sister's ass or forcing her to tease herself. Once the tears had mostly stopped--once she was reduced to brokenly whimpering his name and the occasional 'please'--he decided she was ready.

He took her out to the garden during the day again, and walked her around behind the same tree, which blocked the view from the house. "Crouch down," he instructed her, and she gave him a confused look. He gestured to the ground. "You know. Like a bitch relieving herself."

Francis stared for another moment, then slowly crouched, spreading her feet and her knees apart to balance herself. Her face was already flushed, either because she was anticipating what would come next or because of the proximity of her unprotected sex to the ground. He wondered if the grass under her was tall enough to brush her wet lips.

"Lift your skirt. Let me see."

She didn't even try to protest. She just rolled up her skirt--wobbling a bit in her position as she did, but she caught herself--until it was up past her waist, exposing her pale thighs and her dripping pussy. He walked around in front of her and stared, smirking as a thin line of fluid drooled down into the dirt right in front of his eyes.

"Alright. Touch your clit. Just with one finger, and slowly," he said.

Francis reached down and dragged her finger up her clit. Her eyes immediately rolled back a bit and her mouth dropped open, her thighs trembling as she struggled to hold her position through the tide of pleasure and desperate need.

"Oh. Oh, God," she whimpered. "Oh. Oh." She dragged her finger up again, very slowly, obeying his instructions to the letter.

"That's right. You're aching for it, aren't you? Two fingers, now. Circles," he instructed, and she added a second finger, her breathing going shallow and quick as she rubbed circles around her clit. "Do you want to finish?"

"Yes, please, please!"

"You want to rub out a come down there in the dirt, like a filthy animal?" he demanded, and she groaned in desperation, her fingers circling faster.

"Yes, Peter, please!"

"Alright. Go ahead, do it," he said, and she began rubbing faster, her words falling away into heavy panting and low, pig-like grunting noises, her hips twitching in little movements that threatened to unbalance her.

Peter heard a footstep behind himself, and whipped around to see the family's gardener approaching with a rake slung over one shoulder. Before Peter could make any plan to intercede, it was too late; the man froze in place, his eyes bugging out as he spotted Francis crouching in the dirt, furiously rubbing her exposed clit.

Francis was too lost in pleasure to register that she had an audience, or maybe she was too desperate to care. She kept rubbing away, letting out loud animal noises of need, her hips twitching spasmodically and her ankles wobbling with the effort of not falling over.

"What the devil--" the gardener said. Francis interrupted him with louder and louder grunts, and then she abruptly fell silent as she gasped out a hard breath. Finally, she let loose with a very unladylike howl as she reached her climax, shaking and thrusting her hips forward and toppling onto her knees as she humped into her own hand, filthier than any peep show.

"Ahh! Yes! Yes! God, yes! Uhnnn!" she cried, rubbing faster and then squealing as she came again, pitching forward to catch herself on the ground with her free hand as her body spasmed.

"Good Lord," the gardener said faintly, and Francis finally seemed to notice he was there, whipping her head up to stare at him blankly, her mouth gaping open as she panted. Her hand was still at her clit, squeezing. Peter leaned down and grabbed her arm to wrench it away.

"She's not well," he explained to the gardener. "I'm so sorry. Francis, come on."

"You should see the doctor about that," the gardener advised. Peter nodded in vague agreement.

As Peter steered Francis forward around the gardener, the man stumbled back, as if afraid she might lunge at him. It likely didn't help that Francis was barely able to stand, her legs shaking under her own weight, her gait bow-legged from the violence of her recent climax. Tears began to fill Francis' eyes as she finally seemed to understand that her depravity had been witnessed, not only by her brother, but by a member of the staff.

"I'm sorry," she said, reaching for the gardener, and he shuffled further back, looking frightened. "I'm sorry, I had to. He never lets me. I had to, I couldn't stand it."

"Shush now, sister," Peter said, dragging her away.