Based on the Story: A short story of depravity
By Unknown Author

I cannot believe I'm in this predicament. My damned sister and those stupid photos. Sneaking into my bedroom and planting that babysitter camera on my bookshelf. Who would know? I even knew what it looked like and never noticed it. What makes it worse, is she's so damned young!

It started two months ago when she waltzed into my bedroom on a Wednesday morning. School was out and Mom and Dad had already left for work. I'd been out late the night before with Becca, and of course, had a hangover. I'm only 19, but I always find a way to drink.

Prying open one crusty eyelid I grumbled: "What do you want?" Then I opened the other crusty eyelid. "What are you doing in my top?"

Amber had on my very favorite top as a nightgown. The one I'd worn last night to the club. Without my permission, which I never would have given anyway.

You are in so much trouble, I thought angrily. But, before I could blast her from the misery of my hangover, Amber plopped something down on my pillow, which I pulled away from instinctively. It looked like a handful of photos.

"What's that?" I demanded.

"Look at them," she said.

I didn't want to look at them. I wanted to sleep. Right after I paddled her little behind for wearing my favorite top.

"You are in so much—" I started to say before my eyes focused on the top photo. I gasped. My eyes flew open and so did my mouth. I cried: "Where did you get these?" But I already knew where she'd gotten them from. I even knew where to look, though it did me no good now.

"You little—" I choked out, sitting up. My little sister, smiling smugly, crossed her arms confidently over her chest. My heart clawing at my throat, my eyes blinking rapidly, my insides going watery, I stared in horror at the half-dozen photos of Becca and I in bed.

Oh, God, I thought in despair. The top photo showed us locked together in an embrace, our mouths glued in desperation, our legs entwined like a complex sailor's knot. The one below that, three-quarter's visible, showed me quite plainly licking between Becca's legs. I wanted to die. I wanted to melt away into my sheets.

"Amber, no," I moaned.

With a trembling hand I moved the two photos aside to reveal the one beneath. My face was completely buried in Becca's crotch. The photo below showed exactly where my tongue was, and what it was playing with. In the next one, my legs were butterflied, I was up on my elbows, a look of intense concentration on my face as Becca ate me out. My hands were fisted into balls and my toes curled under as an orgasm racked my body. The last picture showed Becca and I in a sixty-nine position, faces buried.

My hands trembled too badly to hold the pictures anymore; they fell in a scatter on the bed. I felt like throwing up. The pictures were stills from a video. At least three were clear enough to leave no doubt who we were.

"You weren't even home," I complained stupidly.

"I didn't have to be," she answered arrogantly. "The camera was."

Numbly, I looked at the spot on the shelf where the camera must have sat. What dust jacket had she used to disguise it, I wondered? One of my Twilight series books? I had them all in hardback.

The worst, was what she hadn't shown me. Tied to my bed, face down, three pillows under my hips to elevate them, my rear end a livid red from my own belt, used against me by my gleeful lover as she punished me for flirting with a girl at the club.

Certainly, I'd been bad, bad enough to warrant my discipline. Bad enough to beg Becca not to spank me any more, bad enough to plead with her over my shoulder as she held the belt aloft, bad enough to feel shame for the tears I shed. Bad enough to agree to the belting I'd get, next time we met. This had been held in reserve. In case I didn't cave as expected. Heartsick, I caved.

"What ... do you want?" I asked.

Her smile, haughty as that of a dominatrix with a whip in her hand, widened into a horrible grin.

"Everything," she purred.

The weekend of the pictures Mom and Dad had gone to Aunt Sara and Uncle Phil's house in Pennsylvania. Amber—the little bitch—was attending a weekend sleepover at her friend Carly's house. Everyone was gone from four o'clock Friday afternoon, until four o'clock Sunday afternoon, when Amber got home. Mom and Dad got back just after six. I had no idea that the start of my term as Amber's slave was only three days away.

Becca and I spent the entire weekend together. We'd been best friends from elementary school on. We'd kissed the first time in 8^th grade, made out at every opportunity by the time we were in10^th, went to bed together the first time in the 11^th. We'd spent the better part of our senior year glued to each other every chance we got. After high school, things became more difficult. I went to the University of Maryland at College Park, and Becca went to Frostburg. We saw each other rarely. Our weekend together had been a wonderful homecoming for us both. And Amber had taped it.

"I know what you're thinking," she said. "And you can forget about it. I uploaded the file to three different Internet storage sites; so even if you got to the one on my computer, I've still got three more files I can show Mom and Dad and email to every one of your male friends."

"You wouldn't do that," I muttered dazedly. The truth was, I was too stunned and breathless to think about anything. My brain was a mass of scrambled eggs and coffee grounds.

"I'll do anything I like," she said mildly, leaning forward to say it into my face. I cringed away and put a hand down to steady myself. I was shaking all over. I had nightmarish visions of every guy I knew watching me ass-fucking, doggie-style. I could see them stroking their cocks and moaning in disbelief as I stuck my ass as far into the air and as far out over the edge of the bed as I could for Becca and her strap-on. I'd ached for days afterward and every guy watching would understand why. I groaned now, thinking about it.

"I know what part you just remembered," Amber gloated.

"Oh shut up," I muttered.

Amber straightened to her full, 4'4" height and raised her chin magisterially. "Excuse me?" she said menacingly.

I realized what I'd said. "Nothing," I muttered.

"You told me to shut up," she accused.

Beginning to sweat a little, beginning to feel a twist of panic in my chest, I shook my head and denied saying any such thing.

"And now your lying to me," she said through tightened lips.

I shook my head in consternation and befuddlement, whining pitifully, "No I didn't!"

"You did so. And you're going to be punished for it." Stepping back, dropping her arms to her sides and clenching her fists, she said, "Get out of that bed."

"What?" I mewed in alarm.

Reaching out, she grabbed a handful of my hair and yanked me forward onto my hands and knees.

"Amber! Ow! Stop it!"

I could easily have extricated myself with a swipe of my arm, but muddle-headed and panic-stricken as I was, the courage, or determination, or whatever I needed to free myself wouldn't come. I allowed her to pull me forward, squawking, and complaining and humiliated, to the edge of mattress and off it onto my feet. She held my hair, kept me standing there before her, bent over.

"Amber," I pleaded. "Please!"

"How old are you?" she demanded.

"What?" I was hopelessly confused and humiliated.

She yanked down on my hair. "How old are you I asked."

"Nineteen!" I protested. "Why?"

She yanked my hair down again. "How old?"

"Amber!" I didn't know what she wanted from me. She knew my age.

Patiently, hissing through her clenched teeth, she repeated her question. Finally, I understood.

"Ten?" I asked, fitfully.

"Correct. And how old am I, little girl?"

"Nineteen?" I guessed.

"That's very good," she said appreciatively. "And what happens when little sister tells big sister to shut up?"

My heart crunched and my stomach flip-flopped miserably. "She gets punished?" I guessed again.

"Exactly. And what would that punishment be, do you wonder?"

Desperate, I just blurted it out: "I never did that to you. No matter how mad I got at you or how much you deserved it, I never did that to you." I didn't dare speak the word out loud. Thinking it was bad enough.

Amber was quiet a moment, deciding. Finally, grudgingly, she admitted the truth. "I guess you didn't," she sighed. "But you certainly wanted to."

I nodded, not trusting myself to say something titanically stupid.

She sighed again and released my hair and let me stand up. I swept it back from my face and rubbed my scalp where it hurt worst. I wanted to mumble a meek Thank you, but refused to let myself utter the words. I had to maintain some sense of pride, some self-respect. God knew, I had so little left. I also wanted to rub my rear end, which had expected to be spanked savagely.

"Fair warning," she said harshly. "Next time I'll do what your friend Becca did to you, and I won't stop at fifty lashes. I'll give you the whole one-hundred, like Becca should have done." Her smile turned quite wicked. "Now go back to bed and get some sleep. I have some planning to do."

With that she spun about and marched out of my room. A moment later she was back, stripping off my favorite shirt and pitching it at me. I caught it in a pile against my chest. She stood there naked, save for a pair of incredibly hot pink panties, smiling at me languidly. Though totally flat-chested, she had the cool aplomb of a Scandinavian goddess. And then she was gone, turned on her heel and marching down the hallway to her own room.

Shaking pitifully, close to tears, needing to pee so badly and so suddenly that I did feel like a ten year old standing there, I flew out the door and across the hall into the bathroom, afraid I'd be denied permission waiting even a moment longer.

The rest of the day I spent in a frazzled daze. I started at every sound I heard, either real or imagined, and the only recognition Amber gave me was the scornful type of look I used on her every day. It was as though the morning had never occurred. As though I'd dreamt the entire thing, even though anxiety had twice chased me into the bathroom with diarrhea and I'd broken out in hives for the first time since the age of eleven. Nothing changed when Mom and Dad got home, nor during the remaining hours before I went to bed. The bad things, as I was to discover, began in the morning.

"Wake up, slave. It's four o'clock. Time to get up and get in the shower."

Foggily, I raised my sleep-enshrouded head and gazed at her through half-open eyelids.

"What? What time is it?"

"Four A.M.," she repeated. "Get up and get in the shower."

I stopped myself only in the nick of time from cursing at her and telling her to get the fuck out of my room. Instead, I shook my head and glanced at the red digits of my clock to confirm the time. Sure enough, the clock told me it was 4:00 a.m ... and one minute.

"Noooooo," I moaned miserably. "It's four a.m.; why are we getting up?"

"Never you mind," she said pleasantly. "You just get up, get in the shower, and wash that cute little body of yours."

I looked at her with my best gimlet eye, but did as I was told. This would be horrible ... horrible-horrible-horrible. I just knew it.

This morning, she was dressed sensibly in a light blue, long-sleeve, button-down shirt and a pair of stonewashed jeans with the knees blown out, and the pair of Reebok's that I had bought her for Christmas. I fact, I had bought everything she wore for Christmas. I wondered what significance I should attach to that, if any. Stumbling out the door and across the hall to the bathroom, I reversed myself and stumbled back into my bedroom again, only to be confronted by Amber.

"What are you doing?"

"I have to get underwear," I muttered, heading for my underwear drawer. As I passed, she reached out and grabbed me by the back of my tank top and yanked me to a halt. Then, with the patience of an adult handling a brain defective child, she turned me around again and sent me stumbling back toward the open door.

"But—" I protested, stopping in the doorway and rubbing my eyes.

"I will lay out your clothes," she explained with immense patience. "Underwear included. All you have to do is get in the shower and bath yourself. I'll do the rest. If you can't handle that, I'd come with you and wash you myself. Maybe that would be better. I'm sure you'd get cleaner that way. I'd be very thorough."

"I can wash myself," I mumbled belligerently and stumbled across the hall again. Until I was caught by the back of my tank top again and drawn back across the hall and into my bedroom again, this time stumbling backwards. "Hey!" I protested.

Turning me around, she indicated that I was to remove my tank top over my head. I clamped my arms across my chest.

"No!" I complained.

"Take it off."

"I didn't do anything," I protested bitterly. At the same time, I crossed my hands at my waist, grabbed the bottom of my tank top and peeled it, haltingly, up and over my head. Humiliated, my face burning fiercely, I clutched it across my chest.

Hand on one hip, she held out the other hand expectantly.

"No!" I objected, and then added pleadingly: "Please?"

She stood steadfastly, holding out her hand.

"Amber," I implored. "Come on."

She stood with her hand held out.

"Dammit," I muttered, dropping the top into her hand. I immediately covered myself with my crossed arms. Though I fought against it, my shoulders hunched and my knees pushed together defensively. One reason I hated this was because of my small--OK, let's face it—my tiny breasts. I was no bigger than I was in 6^th grade when I had first grown them. I felt like that 6^th grader now, twelve years old and proud of my new boobies but unaware they would never get any bigger. To make matters worse, my nipples hardened traitorously, whether from being suddenly bare in the cool air, or out of embarrassment, I didn't know. With something like horror, I denied to myself that it was from sexual arousal. That just couldn't be. That was impossible.

"No," I moaned as she indicated for me to remove my pajama bottoms. "Amber ... come on!" I was sounding more like a 6^th grader all the time. It was impossible to get any more red-faced than I was right then, but I did.

Mortified, angry, resentful and supremely embarrassed because I knew what was coming next, I slid my pajama bottoms down my legs, stepped out of them and dropped them into her extended hand and covered myself again.

"Go get in the shower," she commanded. "Now. Before I make you take off your panties and parade you around the house naked."

Dumbfounded, unsure this wasn't a tease but unwilling to stay and find out, I scampered out of the bedroom and across the hall into the bathroom.

"Leave the door open, please," Amber instructed. Her tone implied the courtesy of please tacked on the end was more insult than courtesy. Seething with anger but more afraid than angry, I grabbed two towels out of the linen closet, started the shower and sat down on the toilet to go pee.

What was she planning at four o'clock in the morning, I wondered. Whatever it was, I certainly wouldn't like it. I certainly didn't like the idea of her laying out my clothes for me. It made me want to go hide in the closet, stamp my feet on the floor, and pull my hair out all at the same time.

If it wasn't for those stupid pictures, I wailed mentally. I jumped at the sound of her voice.

"I want you to shave yourself." In one hand she held a Venus disposable razor, still in its package, and in the other, a can of Satin Care shave gel. I just gawped at her.

"Everywhere," she clarified. "I want you smooth and clean as a baby girl."

"Amber!" I choked out, horrified. "No!"

She stepped into the room. In a dangerously calm voice she asked: "Are you refusing to, Sara?"

"No," I answered quickly, casting down my eyes. "I'm just shocked, is all."

As before, my shoulders bunched, my knees pressed together, and I tried without success to keep my hands from wringing. I didn't cover myself because my hair acted like a curtain over my breasts.

She placed the razor and can of shave gel beside me on the counter top and stepped back. I shuddered violently, though whether from her proximity or the thought being ordered to shave myself I don't know. I was fairly clean and smooth anyway; I'd been with Becca the previous weekend. But that wasn't the point. I was being ordered to shave.

Nodding assent, I sighed and pulled down a length of toilet paper and ripped it off. As I wiped myself and reached back to flush the toilet, Amber turned away and wordlessly left the room. Fairly confident of not getting caught, I stuck my tongue out after her. "Damn bitch," I muttered under my breath. Getting up, I grabbed the plastic blister pack containing the disposable razor and wrenched it open. The razor flew out, plummeting, to my horror, directly toward the toilet. Mercifully it ricocheted off the seat and went skittering across the linoleum to bounce off the tub. Frightened, I shot a look out the door.

"Are you in the shower yet?" Amber called.

"No," I replied, cursing silently as I scampered to retrieve the razor. "I'll be in there in a second, though," I assured her.

You're making this too easy for her! I raged at myself mentally. Where is your self-respect, dammit?

"Don't make me come in there," she threatened. "You won't like taking a cold shower, Sara, will you?"

"No ma'am," I replied, cursing myself again.

Grabbing the can of shave gel, I whipped back the shower curtain and climbed in the tub and placed both the razor and gel in the wire rack hanging from the showerhead. Then I plunged my face into the steaming spray and let the water run all down my front, while across the hall in my bedroom, Little Miss Sunshine laid out my outfit for the day.

Twenty minutes later, dried, baby smooth in all the correct places, my hair wrapped in one towel and the other towel wrapping my body, I tiptoed anxiously across the hall to meet my fate. My trepidation was not misplaced. Arrayed crosswise on my bed were the makings of a 14^th Street hooker. There were 6" black stiletto heels (FUCK ME shoes if I've ever see them), a pink, ultra-micro-mini skirt, a pink push-up bra that would barely contain even me, and a shear mid-riff tank top to cover that. And pink panties. HOT pink panties, just like my sister had on.

"How long have you been planning this?" I muttered. The 6" heels alone must have put her back $85. The skirt was $60 if it was a dime, the bra $30. The shear top probably put her back another $30. My sister had nothing like that to spend. So where did she get the money?

"How did you pay for this?" I asked.

Frowning, putting one hand on her hip and impatiently tapping a slender baton against her thigh with the other—where had that come from, I wondered—Amber telegraphed her displeasure with me.

"Sorry," I muttered.

"Apology, not accepted." Lightly, but deliberately, she smacked me on the side of the hip with the baton. "From now on, Sara, you are not to speak unless spoken to. Do you understand?"

Flushing hotly, I muttered "Yes" and nodded at the same time. My arms were clamped across my chest again, my shoulders were hunched, and again, my knees pressed hard against each other. I was such a coward. I deserved to be talked to like this. I deserved to be smacked with the baton, or made to do anything else she thought fit. It's such a blessing that she didn't make me get down on my knees and kiss her toes. I wouldn't even have balked at that.

All because of those pictures. Those damned pictures.

"Get dressed," she said. "It's getting late."

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered, not even bothering to curse myself. Picking up the panties, I prepared to step into the right leg hole when Amber—excuse me, Mistress Amber—reached out and roughly snatched the towel off my body. I started and cried out, hopped sideways on my left foot and tried to cover myself with my right hand, all to no avail. A good smack across the behind was intended for me I think, but I fell on my behind, placing it—at least temporarily—out of reach. While I cowered on the floor at her feet, Mistress Amber glowered down at me and tapped her right foot impatiently. She said nothing as I scrambled up, only watched with her arms deftly crossed.

"Don't do that," she said. Her baton hand reached out and pried my arms away from my chest. A number of light taps positioned my arms at my sides. She looked me over. "You will not hide your nakedness from me anymore." She paused, expectantly.

"Yes, ma'am," I muttered.

"Speak up, slave!"

"Yes, ma'am!"

"From now on, you will obediently and proudly display your naked body whenever I want you to."

"Yes, ma'am," I assented.

"And to anybody I want you to. Without question."

I choked, unable to speak.

"You have a problem with that, slave?"

"No, ma'am," I replied, tears filling my eyes. I felt my lips start to tremble and my bladder mutinously tried to go pee. I squeezed my legs closed, hard as I could.

Taking mercy on me, Mistress Amber allowed: "For the time being, you have nothing to worry about that. Your body, naked or otherwise, belongs to me and I have no plans of sharing it with anybody. Does that make you feel better, slave?"

"Yes, Mistress!" I blubbered gratefully.

For the first time, Amber looked caught off guard. She recovered quickly, however, her look of surprise replaced instantly by a smirk.

"Very good," she said appreciatively. "You know my name. You're learning your place."

"Yes, Mistress," I repeated.

"Now pick up your panties and put them on. Time is getting short, slave. If I have to delay this because of your tardiness, I'll take my displeasure out on your bare rear end. You wouldn't like that, would you, slave?"

"No, ma'am," I agreed. "I wouldn't like that."

"'No, ma'am, ' was sufficient, Sara."

"Yes, ma'am," I agreed. I wondered if her occasional use of my name was an oversight, or planned. I mustn't allow myself to become complacent, thinking her attitude would soften, leaving myself open to discipline. That baton would hurt something fierce on my bare backside. In truth, I was both troubled and surprised that she hadn't whacked me yet. It was not in tune with her new persona of slave holder.

I stepped into the panties and pulled them into place. A glance at my bedside clock told me it was approaching 4:35 AM. Had it been only thirty-five minutes? It seemed like hours. What was she doing with me at this hour? A tap of the baton on my backside convinced me to worry about that once I was dressed.

Picking up the skirt, I positioned it with the zipper on the right, and then realized it went in back, not on the side. I stepped in and shimmied it into position only with the greatest of effort. I had never worn anything so tight. Thank goodness it was made of stretchy spandex. Amber zipped me up, something I was incapable of doing with the placement of the zipper.

The bra came next, and even my tiny breasts looked huge once in it. I revised my estimate of the bra's cost upward to about $50. Finally, I struggled the delicate top down over my head, super-cautious not to snag or tear it inadvertently. No telling what Amber would do to me for that. Adjusting it over the bra, and glimpsing myself in the vanity mirror, I looked either ready to do some serious clubbing, or to go walk the streets downtown. I seriously doubted Option Number One, and prayed silently against Option Number Two. Still, I had to admit, I looked stunning.

"Are you going to look at yourself all day, Sara?" Amber asked impatiently.

"No, mistress," I apologized hurriedly. Grabbing the shoes off the bed I placed them side by side on the floor and then cautiously—and experimentally--slipped my foot inside the right one, and then slipped my other foot into the left. I felt suddenly six inches taller than my normal 5'7", which, of course, I was. I towered over Amber now. Glancing down, I glimpsed a momentary look of alarm in Amber's green eyes and couldn't suppress a smile. Again, she recovered quickly.

"Something is funny?" she demanded.

"No, ma'am," I answered quickly, dropping my gaze to the points of my new shoes. "I—"

"I didn't request an explanation!" she barked savagely. In two steps she was behind me and every muscle in my body went rigid as I sensed her arm draw back. Here it comes, I whimpered mentally. I cringed and closed my eyes and clenched my fists and tightened my butt cheeks and bent at the knees in anticipation of the strike. It didn't come. And still it didn't come. Instead, I heard the staccato tap-tap-tap of the baton hitting her thigh, the tap of her foot on the carpet. I held my breath, afraid to relax, afraid to hope. I cried out pitifully when the point of the baton poked me lightly on the buttock.

"How do they fit?" she asked calmly.

"W-what, mistress?" I stammered. Breath passed in and out of my lungs in frightened little gasps. I had been so scared.

"The shoes," she clarified patiently. "How do they fit?"

"Just fine, mistress," I replied.

"Will you be able to walk in them? We have a ways to go."

That was a question I couldn't answer. I had never been in platform heels before and it felt like being atop a pair of 2x4's. Just standing there, I swayed ominously. I was afraid to take a first step, lest I fall off and break my ankle.

"Walk around a bit. Let's see how you do in them."

"Yes, ma'am," I said. Experimentally, breath held, arms stupidly clamped across my chest instead of extended to provide balance; I moved my right foot forward.

Whoaaaa, I cautioned myself. This will take practice. I lowered my arms and held them tentatively by my side, hands levered up and outwards, fingers splayed, ready to raise them again at a moment's notice like a gymnast on a balance beam. I took another anxious step forward, and then another, still afraid to release my breath. How did people walk in these things?

"Are you comfortable in them yet?" she asked with annoyance.

"No, ma'am," I answered, trusting that honestly wouldn't get me whacked. If it did, then she was just being cruel. It was plainly obvious that I was not faking it.

She sighed. "You are so lame." Her foot started tapping again and she looked at her watch. "It's quarter to five. You'll just have to get used to them on the street."

"On the street?" I echoed. Suddenly my arms were across my chest again and my heart beating wildly against my chest. I had a nightmare vision of myself strutting up and down 14^th Street in my platform heels and my see through, lacy top.

"Sorry, ma'am," I apologized as the switch (I had stopped thinking of it as a baton now), slapped against her thigh.

"Get moving," she said, pointing at my bedroom door. "Carry your shoes until we get outside. No—wait."

Frozen in place, I turned to watch her dig in her back pocket. When it appeared again, the hand held something that made me moan in misery. It was a collar. A dainty, mock-diamond encrusted pink dog collar. With a pink leash.

"Noooo," I whimpered. "Please don't make me wear that."

Tears sprang to my eyes and my nose started burning. My head swung back and forth and I could feel my body shrinking in upon itself. I clutched myself even tighter across the chest and bent at the knees.

"Do we have a problem?" she asked.

"Please!" I begged. "Not a collar, Amber. Please?"

Letting my double-infraction pass without comment, she nodded for me to take to my knees, held out the collar to me and waited imperiously as I waffled myself into cowardly acceptance. Sobbing miserably, I stepped down out of the shoes and picked them up as I knelt down before her. Sensing that not even a good hard switch across my backside would make me put the collar on myself, she bad-temperedly undid the buckle herself, fit the collar around my neck, and buckled it up again. I lifted my chin as she inspected the collar's tightness and positioning.

"I am so pathetic, allowing you to behave like this," she sighed. "Any other mistress would have beaten you black and blue. You had better be grateful for my magnanimity, slave."

"Yes, mistress," I sobbed. I had no idea what magnanimity meant, but I was grateful for it nonetheless. I was also the most pitiful creature on the face of the Earth. Or under it, just as likely. I got up at the slight tug on my leash.

"The leash goes in back," she said, turning me around. I held my hair up out of the way to facilitate the turning of the collar, and then dropped it down my back. I continued to cry softly as she motioned me forward with a snap of the leash. Crossing to the door, I led us outside into the hallway while Amber carefully closed the door behind us. I didn't understand how Mom and Dad could still be asleep. Then again, they both slept like logs and it was only quarter to five.