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Another day, another premature awakening to the sounds of crashing, falling, and high-pitched voices. A most sophisticated lullaby now available at the low, low price of having a family, plus tax. Call 1-800-PURGATORY in the next five minutes for a 50% discount on the obstetrician!

Days like these, Peter hated his sister the most. No misunderstandings should be had: she was a royal pain in the arse every other day, too. But on a Saturday morning, after a long week of academic torture, headaches, and even more premature awakenings, her contributions were as unwelcome as lemon drops in an open wound.

Mind still spinning from the confusion of a fading dream, he made his way to the door and down the hallway. He walked absently, yawning and rubbing his eyes, barely even seeing what lay before him, towards the summoning grounds of wakefulness, the bathroom. Coy glee poked its head out to the prospect of cold water and a surge of adrenaline. He knew he wanted it. He knew he needed it. His body ached for the stimulation, lest lethargy curse him with the mark of the undead.

He reached his hand forward just in time not to crash on the door, and fumbled about for the handle. Finding the hard shaft of his desires, he opened the door with all the energy of a quadriplegic, eyelids letting in just enough sunlight to locate the sink.

“What the hell are you doing?!” screamed a wrathful deity, her high-pitched anger penetrating his body, shaking his bones, shattering his ears. As good a surprise as any, his heart burst into activity, and he goggled at whatever it was he did that warranted such spite.

It took him a couple of seconds to realise what had happened, what with the combination of sleepiness and surprise disorienting him, not that promptness would have spared him much anguish. He had walked in on his little brat of a sister using the toilet, her pyjama shorts down to her ankles, her lowef half fully exposed for the morning breeze to fondle.

“Get the fuck out!” she commanded, uncertain the first scream had got through. Fearing for his life, Peter closed the door with the loudest thud. Behind it, the complaining lived on. “You fucking pervert! Oh my God! The weed is messing with your brain, fucking pig! I can't believe it!”

Of course, there was no weed, and there had never been any weed, but perhaps drugs were a more palatable alternative to her other standard explanation, incest. He sighed, the stress achieving what cold water would have, and turned around, heading downstairs. His sister's—Susan's—muffled yelling could be heard all the way down, though indecipherable in content. The enmity behind it was communicated perfectly nonetheless.

He was going to have fun, fun, fun explaining that to his parents. Though in retrospect, he probably didn't have to. It wasn't his fault that she'd forgotten to lock the door. Really, she'd been asking for it. If nothing else, this would become a good life lesson for her; lock the doors when you're hollowing your bladder. Or intestines. Or whatever it was she was hollowing when he walked in on her.

Regardless, with increased metabolic activity finally achieved, it was time to grab breakfast. He entered the kitchen, finding it as empty as the rest of the rooms, which had begun seeming suspicious. His misadventures upstairs ought to have alerted someone, and yet no one had showed up. A mystery for the ages.

His approach to the fridge wrapped the mystery up with haste. On the white appliance, there was a piece of paper, stuck in place with a small magnet, its pull outdoing gravity in macroscopic evidence for the asymmetry of the fundamental forces of the universe. The note, unlike his inner narrative, didn't comment on theoretical physics, but:

“Dad and I will be away for most of the day. Try not to starve to death! —Love, Mom.”

A mixed blessing, really. No one would be there to mediate the future outbursts of Susan, which were sure to come, but on the other hand, he could get away with slacking the whole day, criticism-free. At last, things had taken a turn for the better.

Makeshift breakfast consumed, Peter decided to return upstairs, clean himself, and then perhaps take care of some “business” with some privacy. And after finishing all of the above, he could hopefully resume cuddling with Morpheus, without any implied homoeroticism.

Susan passed him by on his way there, sending him a look that could kill the blind with its venom. He turned to see her enter her room, closing her door loudly as a reminder she was still homicidal, and a few more clicks locking it, just to be safe. Unphased by the passive-aggressiveness, he went on with his plan.

His face and teeth clean, the next part of his ingenious scheme involved fapping one out, a very welcome stress reliever to undo his peculiar alarm clock. His laptop booted up with unquestioning loyalty to what surely must be a tedious task: decoding kinky pictures in quick succession ad nauseam until the user either gave in or gave up, depending on his ejaculation disorder.

Perhaps it was karma biting back like an exasperated altar boy, or maybe someone had slipped drugs in his breakfast, but Peter was suffering from an ironic difficulty getting off. Stress strongly affects performance, after all, and his morning had been nothing if not chaotic. Intrusive thoughts of what little hips and legs he could remember from his walk-in with incestuous sanitation earlier feasted on his sanity like a politician on selfless lobbyist donations.

After half an hour of effort, he had to admit defeat. Or if not defeat, at least a temporary retreat. He needed to take his mind off things with some brain-numbing bullshit. Lacking alcohol, he needed television in his life. He cleaned his hands and returned downstairs once more, indecisive about the floor he wanted to reside in as a teenage girl about her dress of choice for prom night.

Speaking of the opposite sex, his sister had exited her room sometime during his unsuccessful self-help session, and was lying down on the sofa, talking on the phone to one of her friends, or boyfriend, or something. Whatever it was 11-year-olds do that constant giggling is a symptom of. Besides weed. Probably.

She turned to see him enter, frowned, and then turned her focus to her call, which he was sure she found more interesting than anything short of a heart attack. So much for television, he figured; he had trouble being in the same supercluster as her, and didn't feel like trying being in the same room. He'd have to find something brain-numbing to do on the internet. Maybe pussy videos; the furry, purring kind. Some juice would help.

Up until now, Peter had maintained a successful façade with his inner critics, his recent life experiences amounting to a series of unfortunate but normal events. He'd put great effort in maintaining it, in polishing it, in the well-engineered loopholes and rationalisations he'd raised to excuse himself. But add some sexual frustration to the mix of normal frustration and teenage hormones, and you have a whole different kind of demolition expert. His façade acquired irreparable cracks.

The intrusive thoughts had been nothing new. In actuality, they'd become more frequent and more intense with time. He liked handwaving them with the same excuses every time: ask anyone, and they wouldn't deny that his sister, that Susan looked good. Family, friends, eunuchs, asexual landmasskin, whatever. Not even he could deny it.

She'd grown up to be a little temptress. And while, yes, she was the equivalent of a surfing board in mammarian terms, there was more to looking good than upper torso fat tissue. Her face, for example. She'd combined the charm of large, expressive eyes with the loss of baby fat, all the more highlighted by her long black hair. She exercised a lot, perhaps more than she should; she enjoyed dominating in sports, making a fool of her classmates, especially the boys and their superficial masculinity.

She was slim, and tall. Her slender figure was the stuff of super models, but combined with her cute face, she was irresistible. Both to the occasional curious stranger—sometimes including cat-calling strangers—but more importantly to him.

Her behaviour catalysed the situation, and he didn't mean the diva complex. He didn't know if she'd entered puberty yet or if the legendary pattern-matching skills of youth were at work here or what. She seemed aware of the effect she had on people, through her body language, or her fashion sense. Like the way she moved her hips, or, more specifically, the way she'd been lying down on the couch now.

She'd worn a short white one-piece dress, almost at the same tone as her skin. It looked innocent on a hasty glance—perhaps intentionally so—but a most lasting examination revealed clever advertisements of the young girl's assets. Though it covered up most of her back, the fabric was soft and thin enough to be translucent, so onlookers could make out some of the colour and texture of her skin when the fabric lay directly against it, as it was now.

She wasn't wearing a bra, not that it would have anything to support even if she wore one, but the sight of uninterrupted flesh behind her hair and dress was still fascinating. Slowly making his way to the fridge, and trying not to crash on anything while he was checking her out, he had a better view of her behind. His view was partially obscured by her raised legs, resting on her knees, and absently waving left and right as she was talking. Even her bare feet had their allure; long, smooth limbs leading up to curved soles and cute toes.

Susan tried changing her position to avoid numbness, lowering her legs and raising her pelvis for a few seconds. This gave Peter a view on far more than what he'd bargained for; her skirt falling to her lower back unveiled her black underwear, exposing more of her buttocks than they covered. He could even make out the couple of dimples on her back a bit. Clearly, he wasn't the only one taking advantage of his parents' absence. If they were around, they'd lambaste her for her attire. Unfortunately—fortunately?—she had no criticism to fear.

Figuring his lingering stares ought to attract suspicion eventually, Peter hurried up pouring a glass of juice and gulped it down in one go. His plan had backfired horribly. Not only did he fail to calm down, he was feeling more excited than ever. He had to finish as soon as possible, before this went out of hand. He left the room without saying a word.

Unbeknown to him, he hadn't been the only one looking. Sleep found him mysteriously fast as soon as he sat on his chair.


…Only to wake up with a headache some indeterminable time later. He tried opening one eye, the light burning his senses. He really did have an insufferable headache, and he felt sore to boot. He probably fell asleep on the chair. That should teach him to only go for beds if he wanted to avoid muscle pain. He really needed a bath now, of the warm variety. The hot water would ease his suffering. He'd just quickly hop over—

But he couldn't. Something was stopping him. He tried again, but he was unable to move his arms. It soon dawned on him that he was tied on to something—he was tied to his chair. He didn't know what was going on.

“Good morning, sunshine.”

The fear quickly sparking Peter into activity, he opened his eyes to see Susan sitting on his bed three feet or so before him. He looked around frantically, confirming that they were, indeed, in his room, and then at his own shackles, some sort of cloth depriving him of movement.

“The ads were right, after all. You really can knock out a horse with these. Nothing beats some sedatives to go with your refreshments, really,” she said, giggling mischievously. She was hugging her knees on his bed, and his chair had been positioned away from his desk to face her. He wasn't the smartest person on Earth, but he could put two and two together.

“You did this? What the hell are you doing?!”

“Oh, you know. Retribution…” She let her voice trail, breaking eye contact as she twirled her hair.

“What are you talking about?” he yelled. Then he remembered there was no one around to hear him. Even if he screamed at the top of his lungs, his chances of being heard weren't looking good. So he looked for alternative ways to get out of this mess. He recalled this morning. “Look, I'm sorry I walked in on you, okay? I didn't mean to! I was disoriented from waking up and—”

“Sorry?” Susan seemed offended by the word. She stopped hugging her knees, and let her legs down to touch the floor. “What exactly are you sorry about?”

He knew this was a trick question. Every instinct he had told him not to keep the conversation going, that he was going to hate how it ended up. He didn't heed the warnings. “I told you, I'm sorry I walked in on—”

“Hah! A tiny detail compared to the rest of your sins,” she blurted out.

She knew.

“How many times?” she asked.

“How…many times…?”

“You can spend all day repeating my questions, or you can grow a spine. You know your deeds. How many times have you laid your lecherous eyes on me?”

He gulped hard. His heart was beating like a jackhammer. He'd never felt so anxious his entire life. He felt like his life was about to end.

Susan stood up, walked a couple of steps, and looked down on him. Her normally cute face was wrinkled with fury. He could see the homicide brewing from behind the wall of her skull; it was that obvious. She put her right hand on his shoulder, then leaned down on his face.

“I should do you in real good,” she whispered, her words as ominous as the necromantic chant to channel Charon himself. “My only fear is that mom and dad won't be too understanding if I go all out.”

She stood up straight and looked at something behind him. “But, I suppose there are permanent things besides death that I could work with.” She walked to his desk. He couldn't turn all the way back to see what she was trying to do. “Yes,” she announced, epiphany dawning on her. When she returned, she had scissors in hand.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no…,” he said, shaking his head sideways in disgust.

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed.” This time, she knelt, looking straight at his groin. She put a finger on her lower lip. “I wonder how I should go about this. Thrust, or…?” She looked back at him, his facial expression painted with dread.

“No, Susan, stop! What are you doing?!”

She put her hands on his hips, grabbing his trousers, and then pulling them down to his feet, which were also tied to the chair. His boxers couldn't resist the friction and went down as well. He was fully bared in front of his 11-year-old sister. His 11-year-old homicidal sister.

“Please, I'm begging you. Please stop! I promise I won't do it again! I'm sorry for looking at you that way! I know I'm horrible!” He was tearing up under the stress and the desperate emotional appeal.

“Good try, but I think actions speak louder than words, Peter.” She knelt so that her head was at the same level as his hips, and looked at his genitals wide-eyed, excitement in her demeanour. She opened the scissors. She was looking forward to disfiguring him! She was insane! “And no voice carries on further than the high pitch of a castrato.”

“Oh my God. Please stop.” He was in tears now, his voice cracking up, noise distorted by his own gasps for air. She grinned widely as the blades of the scissors touched his penis, her eyes darting back and forth between his member and his tormented face.

“Any last words to little Peter? Perhaps one last fap?” She pursed her lips, puffing her cheeks. She closed down the scissors a bit, blades pressing against his skin tighter, but not enough to draw blood. “Though, really, I wouldn't suggest forcing more blood down there. I hear you can bleed to death if it gets chopped off while erect.” The blades clutched down on his dick harder.

He couldn't look any more. He closed his eyes and yelled his last plea. “Christ's sake, Susan! I'll do anything you want! Just, please, stop! I'll do anything.”

“Anything, eh?” For a moment, the torture paused. Ephemeral hope returned to the desperate Peter.

“Y-yes.” He sniffed, his nose feeling stuffy from all the emotional turmoil. “Anything you ask. I won't tell anyone. Just, please, please stop.”

They exchanged prolonged stares, as if trying to detect some mutual bluff or hidden message. “How far would you go to show your love for your dear, innocent sister?” She touched her chest, as if it wasn't obvious enough she was talking about herself already. “How much would you do to take responsibility for stampeding on her childish heart?”

“Anything you ask. I swear. I'd do anything.”

She looked at him some more. Slowly, the grip of the scissors around his dick eased up, and eventually she put it down. Relief stroke him with permanence this time, and with the ensuing relaxation he found out his legs felt kind of chilly, bared to the room's air. She looked at the floor, and then back at him. She leaned forward, still in a kneeling position, not breaking eye contact, her big brown eyes going through layers of flesh and looking at his unadulterated essence. Then she moved her head down, towards…

“What are you doing?” he asked, this time more confusion in his voice than fear. He genuinely was confused, too: the way she was moving, the way she moved towards his crotch was as if she was trying to touch it, somehow.

She looked down at his organ. “So small, wrinkly, and defenceless,” she said, her voice soft, like she was contemplating something. “How could you ever feel attached to something so ugly?”

He gulped, wondering whether she'd restart her sadistic spree, except this time with teeth instead of scissors. For what it was worth, he preferred the clean metallic blades when it came to getting gored up. Instead of carnage, however, he felt her breath against his skin, hot and tingly.

Her dress was subject to the omnipresent gravity. As she was more or less horizontal now, the front part was hanging loose an inch under her chest. He could see her bare skin. Her nipples were no longer the mosquito bites of a toddler, but had acquired some surface area, albeit still definitely underdeveloped. They were the cutest soft pink, though. She was almost as flat as the day she was born. Her mounds had barely enough volume to signify she hadn't had her glands and fat surgically removed, but otherwise her development in that department was null. She looked enticing, her flat chest begging to be touched, its smoothness enjoyed, like fields of fresh snow, the skin just a shade darker from her white dress.

“You like your little sister, don't you, Peter?” she asked. He bolted her eyes to her, only now figuring out how horribly what he just did could be interpreted. He wasn't sure how to feel about her impish smirk; whether monsters lay behind it or succubi. He could smell her shampoo: cherries and something weird—mint, perhaps? She placed her hand on her chest, blocking his view. “You know, normal people would shy away from me. If not for familial reasons, then for developmental ones.”

The innuendo was not lost on him. She put her hand down, grazing his thigh ever so slightly, and then began drawing 8-shapes with her index finger. It was ridiculous; even her finger felt soft.

“S-Susan?”

She tilted her head down, facing her groin. She opened her tiny mouth, and out of it came a bashful tongue. Only now did Peter notice that blood had been rushing down on his genitals, his penis no longer all that flaccid. Her tongue barely protruding out of her lips, she knelt down further, closer to him.

She never touched it. She stopped just an inch above it, her tongue still out in the air, her breath at its most noticeable on his flesh. She was watching it pulse and gradually grow in size. Spit started flowing out of her mouth and down her tongue, which she used to guide it on his shaft with remarkable precision. The fluid felt warm on his cock, still retaining all the temperature of her mouth.

He found twisted delight in the sight of his little sister's drool on his dick. A strand was connecting the tip of her tongue with the head of his penis, their only point of contact. Her saliva quickly dropped down to room temperature, but more of it was on the way, soaking his entire shaft and balls. He couldn't take his eyes off it. He fervently watched as his little sister, an 11-year-old little tart, whom he had had almost no physical contact with over the past couple of years, was bathing his cock in her internal fluids. The thought was addictive. The excitement, the anticipation blurring ethical protests.

As he got more and more erect, she moved her head up, avoiding contact. Her eyes widened to match her surprise, the insignificant little worm growing up to a considerable size. Having never seen her brother erect—in fact, having never seen her brother naked since her years as a toddler—she was taken aback by the difference adolescence and good genes could make.

She let out a naughty giggle, her view focused on her brother's sizeable appendage. “What a pervert. Getting hard over your baby sister spitting on you.”

He looked away, ashamed of himself. He got caught up in the heat of the moment, and forgot who he was messing around with. She was his own sister, for God's sake. And if that didn't count for anything, she was 11. She had hardly entered puberty. She hadn't even begun menstruating as far as he knew. And yet he was doing things to her. Thinking about maybe doing more.

“We should stop,” he suggested, suddenly apprehensive of the setup. “Brothers and sisters shouldn't do that kind of stuff.”

Susan titled her head. She placed both of her palms on his thighs and used them as leverage to get on the same height as him. “Aww, finally feeling embarrassed? Second-guessing yourself?”

He couldn't face her or reply directly. He just nodded.

“I bet you won't be able to live with yourself now, hm? With assets such as yours, you could have any girl. People flooding you just to get a hand or a cavity around your sausage. Look.”

He looked at her, and saw her using her arm, elbow down, to measure his penis size. Granted, she was still small, and yet the sight was scary: it was almost as long, and almost as thick. Although Peter wasn't sure whether it was fear he was feeling or eagerness.

“I bet you've got a solid ten inches of meat down there, champ.”

“This is dangerous,” he said. And he wasn't being patronising or trying to escape. It was true. If anyone found them like this, they were going to have a hard time explaining themselves. Even if they weren't found, if they kept this up, and things kept progressing, he could injure her.

Susan sat fully upright. She grabbed the edges of her dress astride her legs. “Tell me, how would you describe your first time to the prison therapist?” She lifted her dress up slowly, swaying her hips sensually as she did. “About how the first thing your dick felt that wasn't your palm was splitting your baby sister in half?” Her dress was up to her waist now, exposing her black panties to him, a kinkier replay of earlier that day. She lifted her left leg, and teasingly rubbed it on his right one. “Would you be red with anger, or arousal?”

She let go of her dress, and dropped down to the bed, a soft thud meeting her young body. She raised her left leg, hugging the knee. It was so long, compared to her torso, the skin smooth and hairless. Its slender shape intoned with muscle and bone structures, her thighs as thin as his arms. Her toes moved playfully, nails undyed. “I know what you're looking at, sicko.”

She extended her leg, her foot easily reaching him, touching his shirt. “How typical of you to desire an underage girl's foot instead of her other parts.” She moved her foot up, her sole on his chest. Outstretched like that, her subtle curves were all the more touted, from her thighs to her calves, a perfect limb bridging his body with hers. “I guess this is the sort of treatment perverts like you deserve. I'm happy you exhibit some self-awareness, at least”

She reached up to his neck. He shivered when she touched his skin. He wished his arms were untied, so he could reach out and grab it, caress it, explore her skin. She kept moving, her toe poking his cheek. “Do you want it?” she asked. He nodded, his eyes focused on the limb touching his face. She moved it a bit to the right, and on his mouth. “Give me a kiss.”

He opened his mouth, swallowing all five toes of her little foot. It felt salty and bitter—a taste closer to conditioner and sweat rather than the floor. Had she bathed in preparation of this?

Susan jerked slightly, and let out a laugh. “It tickles,” she explained. He inserted his tongue between her toes, wrapping it around each one, playing around with them. The small appendages moved awkwardly in his mouth, Susan unsure how to feel about what was being done to her. When he was done lubricating her toes, her removed them from his mouth, and directed his attention to the ball of her foot. His sister jerked again to the unusual stimulation, but that didn't stop him. He made sure to cover the entire area with both long, slow strokes, and smaller, snappier ones.

He moved down her sole towards her heel, as she pressed her foot against his face, his own saliva tricking down his nose and cheeks from it. When he was almost done with it, he noticed her right foot was almost touching his face. Changing focus, he assaulted her other leg's ankle. Susan had stopped jerking and giggling, and was now breathing faster. She was enjoying his work. He could make out the metatarsal bones on the top of her foot through her skin, and a few veins adding a blue hue to her beautiful whiteness here and there. When he'd finished enjoying it, she lowered both of her legs, laying them between his thighs.

“That should be enough to help me along,” she said. Her face was blushed, and her eyes glistened. Her breathing was audible. She pressed her left foot forward, laying the sole against his penis. The masculine rod was larger than the underage girl's part. “You truly are something. I bet you'd outdo everyone in the family, and you haven't even finished growing yet.”

She spread her big toe and her long toe apart, and fit his head between them. She took hold of his foreskin, and moved her foot up, the sole rubbing on his shaft as her toes tried to stimulate his tip. The saliva he'd left on her foot mixed with what she'd left on his penis, reducing annoying friction. When she was at the top, she moved down, exposing his glans, and kept going, until her toes touched his testicles. His dick pulsed with want, his pelvis jerking involuntarily, trying to summon more of his sister's touch. His eyes were glued on the connection of these two unlikely parts, his mouth open, trying to keep himself oxygenated.

She repeated the motion, grabbing hold of his foreskin, and using it to get him off, employing similar mechanics to masturbation. She picked up the rhythm, as she got the hang of the necessary motions, using her body parts to pleasure her big brother's pole. Her sole felt so soft against his shaft. He couldn't count the moral boundaries letting his sister perform such perverse acts on him broke. He wanted more.

“How do you like your little sister's footjob, Peter? Your filthy dick doesn't deserve the touch of anything else, even your own touch. You deserve to be stepped on forever. Is it everything you dreamt of?”

“Yes.”

Once again, she pulled down, exposing his glans. A droplet of precum made its appearance out of his urethra. She raised her right foot, touching it with her big toe, and spread the liquid around. “How debauched. To think that such an upstanding student and loved son is getting excited by a little girl's foot!” She rubbed her sole on his glans, then moved it sideways, giving direct friction to the sensitive part. She felt so soft. It was like being wrapped up in velvet. There was no matching the feeling, the knowledge that he was defiling some purity, rubbing his meat on his baby sister's illegal feet as no one had before.

“Your feet feel amazing. It's the best thing I've ever felt.”

Susan grinned, pleased that Peter had begun giving in and was being honest about his affections. An idea crossed her young mind. “When a dog learns a new thing, it's customary to reward it.” She raised her feet from his dick, then placed them on either side of it. “You'll be getting the rarest of treats. Enjoy an 11-year-old's foot-pussy.”

She stimulated him as she did before with her toes, except using her entire soles on either side of his rod. Her toes were touching his glans, teasing it. She squeezed tight, feeling the blood rushing to his organ. She raised her feet, moving some of the skin along with them, and then lowered them back down, until her heels were touching his testicles. She repeated the motion a few times, taking in every contour of his organ, his pulsing veins, the texture of his skin, and the size discrepancy between her parts and his.

Her motions became rougher, faster. Her grip tightened. Her silky feet were pressing down hard on his dick, surrounding it with her beautiful skin and the squishy tissue underneath. More precum was oozing out of his peehole. “Are you gonna come? Hm? Are you gonna let it all out over your little sister's feet? Is that how you're gonna waste your lineage?”

Her movement kept getting faster. She was actively trying to make him come. Some part of him, deep down, felt bad about it. He knew this wasn't the way normal people should have sex. He knew how immoral it was doing it with his underage sister, even. Those thoughts were buried so deep they didn't matter now. He wanted to spray his semen on her feet, her legs. Her own mouth was open, breathing loudly with effort. She wanted him to defile her, he thought. A little girl's feet, on his dick. He couldn't resist the urge any more. He was coming.

“Hold it right there, stallion!” she yelled, instantly stopping her stimulation, and kicking his balls to make sure he wouldn't continue.

“Ow! Ow ow ow!” A couple of drops of semen trailed down his shaft, but his orgasm had been rudely interrupted. “What…?”

“Don't misunderstand. I'd love to use your jizz as skin conditioner, to improve my charms. However…” Her hands reached up to her hips, moving under her dress. She fell back, resting on the bed, and raised her pelvis. Her hands moved back down her legs, taking a black garment with them; she was removing her panties. She dropped it to the ground, her legs closed, barring all view.

“You're liking this, aren't you? You could maybe excuse what's happened so far with being a filthy foot fetishist, but wanting some underage pussy is just too hard to swallow.”

He didn't want to see. He didn't want to hear. Though it sounded hypocritical, she was right. Genital nudity crossed some sort of psychological barrier for him. Unfortunately, getting blue-balled had left his dick aching with desire, a burning compulsion to get release. With both hands tied behind his back, he wouldn't be practising loving oneself for a while.

She raised her legs to the bed, and spread them apart, her knees like two towers guarding her. “Look at it.” He obeyed. The smooth skin of her thighs, her belly, and her butt lead to a tiny pink slit. Her clitoral hood was barely visible. She had almost no labia minora to speak of, her pussy barely inflamed. A tiny hole could be made out, hidden behind her labia. He wondered if even a finger could fit in it.

“This is your little sister's pussy, Peter.” She put a finger right above her slit, guiding his eyes. “So small and hairless…” She used her finger to trail circles on her labia, inviting him. “No one's ever touched it. You may have raped me with your eyes, and deflowered my feet, but I'm still a little virgin down here. Smooth as a baby.”

Juices were building up in her pussy. She lowered her finger on her slit, completely covering it. “See how small I am? It's almost as if nothing's there. And yet…” She inserted the tip of her finger inside her. She closed her eyes for a second, letting out a cute, seductive sigh. “So tight and unripe. My young little pussy is right in front of you, and you can't stop staring. You want to stick it inside, don't you?”

And probably hurt her? “No,” he said, his defiance resurrecting briefly.

“Oh, yes, you do,” she insisted. She stood up, then sat on his lap, her legs open, looking down on him. “You're just offended I kicked you a bit. But you weren't very talkative when I was stepping on you and squeezing your loser spunk out.”

She looked down on his groin. “You're still erect. Your mouth protests, but dicks don't lie.”

“Just because I'm hard doesn't mean—”

“Look.” With one hand, she grabbed the hem of her dress. She lifted the white fabric up, so that her flat stomach and upper abdomen were visible. She moved forward a bit, and with her other hand, she lined up his dick against her belly. “If only your character was as big as your penis. Look how far you go.”

He trailed the length of his dick with his eyes, from the base to the tip. Reaching up from between her thighs, past her pelvis and on her abdomen. “Damn, you're reaching past my navel. How lewd.” He could feel her belly moving with her breaths. He could feel her soft skin against his. The air smelled of arousal and sweat. “Do you think you can fit inside me? You're as thick as my wrist, and I had trouble sticking a finger in.”

She rocked her hips, rubbing herself on his organ. “What do you think would happen if you lost it and stuck it all in? Would you crush my womb? My ovaries? Do you think I'd ever tighten back up?” She let go of her dress, and leaned forward. She wrapped her arms around him, hugging him. Their faces were so close, their noses were almost touching. He could feel her breath and her warmth against his face.

She lifted herself and put her weight on his abdomen. Near the base of his penis, he could feel something soft, warm, and slightly moist. Her pussy. She moved up, grinding herself on the humongous stick. “Or do you think you'd shred me? Bleeding out from my cunny, new holes tearing up my uterus? The big brother, finally giving his irritable little slut of a sister the beating she deserves. Can you imagine the headlines?”

She ground her pussy on his dick, spreading her arousal on the shaft. Her soft, small lips stroked his base, lubricating it anew with incestuous fluids. The anticipation was making him shake. There was no grin on her face, only the same craving that must have filled him. She hugged him tighter, her flat chest pressing against his. She moved her hands up to his head, playing with his hair.

As she was rubbing herself, she whispered to his right ear. “Tell me, which part of this do you like best? The incest, or the child abuse?” She bit his earlobe, her grinding going frantic, stimulating her as well as him.

“Neither. Please stop.”

“Ah, so you're more of a gore person,” she continued. “You want to maim me. Crush me. Shred my insides up. Is the corpse of your little sister exciting for you?”

“No!”

Her grinding had got him near the edge again. He was going to come just from her twat rubbing on him.

“It's okay.” Susan stood up. She towered over him, stepping forward. She lifted her hem up, revealing her slit, now pink with arousal. She knelt, wrapped a hand around his knob, barely getting a full grip. Precum was flowing out of his hole. She lined herself up, her lips touching his glans.

“It looks like your manhood is ready to puke some half-children out.” She rubbed her slit on his cockhead, tempting him like never before. “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You're pushing up! I guess your hips don't lie either.” She giggled.

“No, wait. I'm…” He wasn't able to articulate a proper sentence, his mind filled with other kinds of thoughts. His sister's tiny pussy was literally on his cock. “If I stick it in you…”

She let her dress fall, and touched his cheek with her now free hand, then placed a soft slap. “Let's see how far it can go.” She repositioned her hips, optimising the angle for the penetration. “Here we go.”

Her mouth spread wide open, soft gasps coming out. He felt we was pressing on something wet, soft, and tight. What with the dress being in the way, he couldn't make out much. She didn't seem to be making much progress. She put down more of her weight, grasping his penis tightly, lining it up with her hole. He could see her chest moving, her small nipples now inflamed, and erect, two small lumps on the fabric.

Something gave way. He felt something very warm and very wet with his head. Susan was grunting, clearly in pain, but didn't stop. She kept pressing down, her legs now shaking with the effort. She was making progress. The watery warmth grasped more of his member, first swallowing his head, and then working on the shaft. A good three inches must have been inside. The grip was so tight, like it would chop his dick off. He could not only feel his own pulse—his blood pressure off the charts—but her own, from inside her.

“If I get pregnant, daddy will kill you,” she said, evil grin replacing her wince.

“Susan! Pull out!”

“Why? We still have sooo much to fit inside me. Look on the bright side: you could try making me infertile before squirting.” She kept lowering herself on him, the thought of such a big organ fitting inside of her seeming impossible, and yet it was happening. “Yes!” she yelled, pleasured by achievement. Her walls were contracting and expanding, kissing his cock, synchronised with her heartbeat. He must have been halfway inside of her now.

“I… I'm gonna come!” he shouted. He had already been far too aroused, even before the penetration. He couldn't hold back any more. He was gonna burst. She was too tight, too warm. “I'm coming! Oh my God! Ahh!”

Biology overcoming all resistances with a spasm, he let it go. Semen flowed up his tube and out his peehole with unprecedented force. He kept going far longer than he'd been used to, squirting more than a dozen times inside of her, filling her up with an extraordinary amount of semen. He'd found release, but he'd hated it.

“I… I…” The realisation of what he'd done was sinking in, and it broke his sanity. He was a dead man.

More giggling from Susan. Was she finding this funny? “Silly virgin boy. Calm down. Look at this.” She spread her legs wider, lifted her dress, and showed him her pussy. He wasn't inside of her. His dick was buried between her arse cheeks, semen flowing down from it. “See? I can't get pregnant from here, unless you make a hole in my fascia. But I don't want to be giving you any ideas.”

Peter rolled his head back. His heart was beating so hard, it felt like it was gonna break his ribs and fly out of his chest. Susan lowered her face near his, as if she was going to comfort him. Of course, comfort wasn't in her vocabulary.

“You're in my rectum, Peter. You've bottomed out. Any further, and it's all guts. Do you fancy that? Do you wanna see how far inside my large intestine you can impale me? If we keep going, you're going to rearrange me, push my shit back. My tween arsehole is going to prolapse and never be the same. You hear me? Your little sister is going to wear a diaper, because her anus won't be able to close. I'm always going to be gaping for you.”

Peter didn't seem to understand much of what she was saying, not that she minded it. She petted his neck, and slowly regained enough composure and willingness to pull off the plan she'd just described. With more squeaking and wincing, she kept on pressing down on him, no longer needing a hand to guide the insertion. Though he'd just come, Peter was hard as stone. He was doing his best to pretend he didn't like it, but he loved her arsehole.

“You're stretching me so much,” she said. He could feel pressing down on some sort of turn or curve inside of her. He really was at the end of her rectum. “If holes in my intestines excite you, this would be a good time to push hard. I'm sure the blood would be a passable lubricant.”

In actuality, all the semen he'd squirted out in her shit pipe was doing the job. As she put more weight down and her intestine reshaped itself to accommodate the intruder, his own gametes eased the way for the continuation of the sodomy.

The roadblock didn't last all that long. As she'd described, the penetration was rearranging her. “Oh my God…,” she blurted out, more inches entering her slowly, agonisingly, stretching her further than any turd she'd had. She was getting the sensation of having to use the toilet, hurting in the same way as bad constipation, but feeling excited at the same time. She had her brother's colossus in her butt.

She wasn't going to stop. She wanted to fit the whole thing inside as soon as possible, to be filled up to the brim. Her stretched anus was eating up meat hungrily, swallowing hard inch after hard inch, intestinal fluids and semen flowing down the shaft every so often. Finally, her thighs touched his, having engulfed his dick in its entirety.

She was breathing heavily. “Finally, we are one.” She collapsed on his chest, realising her own tiredness after her achievement. Her intestines were screaming, bruised by being stretched to their limits. “I love you, Peter. No man could touch me so deeply.” She caressed his face, the back of his neck and ears. “It's like you're fucking my soul. I now know no one will match the love you have for your sister.”

His dick was lodged so far inside her. She was incredibly hot and wet. Her intestines were spasming involuntarily, touching and letting go of his shaft, leaving their sticky fluids on it, as if his junk was a big piece of shit that needed to get out. Her villi were brushing him, trying to do something, anything to the intruder. Her body wanted him out, but she wanted him in. He wanted to fuck her so badly, to knock her lights out, but she wasn't moving.

She reached down for his hands, and pulled on the knot keeping him in place. Soon his ties loosened up, then fell to the ground. His feet felt easier to move too. His arms were free, and with a little effort, so were his legs. Susan looked up to him, her eyes teary with the emotional strain the penetration had put on her, looking so cute and innocent, in contrast with her debased arse.

“Do… what you want… to me,” she said between deep breaths, fatigue catching up with her. He looked into her eyes, maybe searching for enlightenment or advice. He found nothing. Suggestions of decency crossed his mind, the option of stopping this madness at least at this late stage, collect what little was left of his honour. On the other hand, this pooper wasn't going to fuck itself.

The decision was fast and easy. He reached for her hem, and pulled the dress off of her, finally getting her fully naked. He did the same to his shirt, tossing the clothes behind him with force. He took off his trousers too, his legs free at last. He wrapped his arms around her, grabbing her arse, and squeezing her cheeks tight, spreading them apart. Fat and trained muscle mixed, a feeling both soft and firm, buttocks small to match her age.

He lifted her up and dropped her on the bed, his dick still inside her. Laying on top of her, he assaulted her mouth, kissing her, penetrating her with his tongue. It wasn't a soft or loving kiss. It was a sloppy one, filled with lust, drool trailing down her cheeks and chin, the same mouth that was spitting on him before. Her tiny preteen tongue sat awkwardly as he forced himself in her.

He ended the kiss, breathing in and heading downward. Her flat chest was heaving, moving visibly to keep up with her breath, her heart. Her ribs were poking out of her skinny body, lines hugging her breasts. He leaned down to kiss her nipples, taking the little things in his mouth, licking them. With his hands, he rubbed her chest, so soft, so uniform, barely any fat on her childish body.

He went on to kiss her entire chest, not just her nipples, enjoying how flat and tiny she looked. He worshipped his little sister's chest. His hands moved to touch the ridges her ribs impressed on her thorax and abdomen. God, she was so skinny. He couldn't believe something so little could be stuffed with so much of himself. He could feel her lungs expanding, her heart beating as fast as his. She was letting out soft sounds with every lick on her chest.

He straightened up. His hands moved down, trailing her belly, her navel, touching her hips. She opened her legs, granting him a better view of her pussy. The little slit was still as tiny and innocent as ever, even as she was wetting herself, her vaginal fluids dripping down to her tortured arse. A great contrast between the child and the slut that made her who she was.

He pulled out. Every sensation of the original penetration, all the contact with her guts, the texture of her walls, the warmth, the moisture, was amplified. He watched as his monster cock was shat out of the little girl's butt. Ten inches of meat hidden inside of her. There was more material in it than a baby, probably. Her anus stuck on it, being pulled out slightly along with him, denying him exit.

Susan was yelping, hanging on tight on the sheets, feeling her guts being pulled inside out. She felt like she was taking the biggest dump of her life, like she was defecating a fetus, giving birth to her brother's rod. He finally pulled all of himself out, save for the tip of his penis. Her anus gradually returned to its normal position, making dripping, squishy sounds along the way.

He looked down on her. His organ almost outside, the little girl squirming at his whims. He was coated in his own spunk, her fluids, and probably whatever remnants of faecal matter she hadn't managed to clean. He couldn't believe how much she had managed to stuff herself with. He was so big, and she was so small. His dick was almost half the size of her body. It excited him. He wanted to fuck her deeper, so deep that there was nothing pure and virginal left in her, to take revenge for all her teasing and bitchiness.

“Do me,” she said. No, she begged. “Fuck me senseless. Show me your love.”

Who was he to deny her? He pressed forward. With much less resistance than before, but some resistance still, he drove his baby-maker in her. Her large intestine spread itself apart, complaining but not preventing his penetration, flesh grazing him from all sides. Susan was yelling the whole way. He dove back in completely, all ten inches hidden in her underdeveloped orifice.

He hadn't noticed before, but there was a small bump on her belly, up and right of her navel. He pulled a couple of inches out, and then back in experimentally. “Ah!” Susan said. It was his cockhead. He could make out how thoroughly he was deflowering her from the bulge in her stomach. He'd never seen anything like it in his life. It was the most beautiful sight imaginable. It excited it him so much, arousing his darkest, most evil fantasies.

“More…,” she said. He pulled out of her, faster now, then forced himself back in, caring little for pace or comfort. “I… Peter…” He began pumping, pulling out as much as he could then burying himself inside. Her guts were opening and closing so rapidly, they'd lost much of their resistance. She was becoming a cocksleeve for his pleasure.

Her stomach was inflating and deflating constantly, mirroring his moves. It was so depraved, the zenith of their heinous act. She put her hands on her stomach, feeling the shape of the bulge, the shape of his dick inside her. “More!” she insisted.

Peter grabbed both her legs, and raised her feet to his face. Putting them together, he licked both her soles at once. The balls of her feet, the heels, and the arch in between. Her tiny toes, which curled and spread every time he pulled and shoved himself in her.

His pumping became faster, her poop chute having lost all resistance and now gaping permanently. He licked her toes, as his hands traced her legs. Her well-shaped calves. Her knees. Her thighs. He grabbed her butt as she rested her legs on his shoulders. Susan was looking at him with only ecstasy in her large eyes.

“Fuck me! Fuck me until you're dried of all fluids and my guts are bleeding!” He squeezed her arse cheeks and pressed forward hard, moving her as well as his hips. He drove into her as fast and as violently as he could. He could smell his sweat, her sweat, his arousal, and her rectal stench mixing into a sweet aphrodisiac.

The lubrication was wearing off. He didn't care. Her shit pipe was rubbing on his dick more, irritating his skin. He could hear the sounds of fluids slapping together. His pelvis hitting hard against her soft bum. Occasionally, the air that left the lock between her anus and his penis. He saw her stomach bulging, her back arched, every rib showing, expanding, her breathing erratic and wild.

“I… I can't…” Her grip was growing weaker. He stopped his pumping for a second, lowered her legs, placed his hands around her rather than on her arse. He hugged her tight, and she closed her legs behind him, locking him into position. He could feel her nipples on his chest, and make out her spine, feel the bones on her back. Her hair was tickling his arms.

“I love you,” she said between pants. He started pumping again, his strokes shorter, but faster, pulling only halfway out of her, though still a significant amount. “I love you,” she repeated. She couldn't even make much noise any more. She just held onto him for dear life.

He kissed her neck. Her cheek. He kissed her mouth, tongue invading her again, but this time she was kissing him back. His mind went blank. He thought of nothing but the sensations on his penis. Then even those disappeared. Thoughts flooded his brain, vile thoughts.

He was fucking Susan's arsehole. His sister's arsehole. A little girl's arsehole. She was trying to moan as almost a foot of dick was stuck inside of her, but wasn't able to. An 11-year-old was having her shit pushed in. A little sister, sodomised by her own brother. He should have shown some maturity, refused to partake in this, but she felt so good. Her forbidden arsehole was so tasty. He wanted to fuck her until they were connected forever, a twisted pair of Siamese twins.

He came, this time with more ferocity than before. He didn't stop pumping as he was coming, he just kept going forever. Even after he was done. A second orgasm hit him mere minutes after the first. He filled her up with so much jizz, it was leaking out, her guts unable to take both his dick and his ejaculation.

He stopped. His lust had been sated at last. He fell on top of her, feeling her chest's movements on his. Feeling her blood flowing in her. Hearing her gasp. Tasting the saltiness of her sweat. He used the last of his remaining strength to stand up and remove his softening penis from her anal cave.

Her anus was gaping. It closed, then opened back up, like it was breathing. Her intestinal walls could be made out. They contracted, trying to close the gap, and then they caved in. They moved to the outside of her arse. Her arsehole flowered like a rose, a red mess of wrinkles showing up, his white material still flowing out from a small hole.

He put his hands under her and lifted her butt. He lowered his head and kissed her prolapsing anus. It tasted bitter and salty. It tasted of iron. He licked the wrinkled, red-hot flesh, so much warmer than her outside. He drank all the fluids flowing out of her. Susan was gasping the whole time. He had no idea how many orgasms she'd had during her anal violation.

He kept licking her arsehole for half an hour, until her prolapse had subsided, her intestines getting closer to their original positions. He was still hard from the activity. He turned her around, placing her on her hands and knees. She let her head fall down on the bed, then used her fingers to spread her arsehole wide.

“Here, brother,” she said, wiggling her butt, inviting him to fuck the red, gaping hole again. “Skewer me. Do it harder.” He aimed for her arse, and penetrated her with one long motion. Susan gasped. He pumped.

They kept fucking until they passed out from exhaustion, late at night. Their parents sent them a text message notifying them they wouldn't arrive until tomorrow. No one cared.