Clarence
Copyright© 2024 by P. Tango
Chapter 7
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 7 - When his father died, he went to live with his mother and sister... and their Master.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa Fa/ft Consensual Slavery Incest Mother Son Brother Sister Daughter DomSub
Anastasia was in her bedroom, thinking. Her orders were clear: relieve Clarence from his virginity. You’ll do it tonight, her master had said. It sounded easy, but for the little fact that he was her brother. She wasn’t worried about the taboo of it, she was a slave and her duty was to obey. What troubled her, deep in her bones, was the sense that Clarence would not go along with the plan. Anastasia had met him one-to-one just a few times, one of them at the lake. Despite their apparent closeness, she knew there was a coolness in him, not only to her but to the whole situation.
Anastasia ran scenarios in her head. Maybe Clarence would turn her down flat, with a single, unyielding word. Maybe she’d laugh, or worse, cry. Maybe he’d see the whole thing as a test—her mother’s attempt at control—and react with the stubbornness of the truly powerless. Or maybe, and this was the scenario Anastasia hated most, Clarence would let it happen and feel nothing, treating the whole experience like a vaguely unpleasant hospital visit. Anastasia was not interested in being anyone’s medical procedure.
But her orders were her orders, and she had no intention of failing. She stood and walked to her closet, considering her inventory. Nothing frilly. Nothing too sharp. She settled on a plain tank top and jeans, the uniform of the unremarkable, and spent fifteen minutes applying makeup that made her look as if she wore none at all. In the bathroom, her reflection was blank, but her eyes burned with the anticipation of the hunt.
As Anastasia walked to Clarence’s room, she rehearsed lines in her head, jokes she could make about school, observations about the weather, small kindnesses meant to draw out the shy or the wounded. She imagined Clarence sitting in his room, hands folded in his lap, already expecting her, already dreading this.
When she reached Clarence’s room, she found herself outside the door with her hand poised to knock, but she hesitated for a moment. Something nagged her, but she quickly dismissed it and knocked, three quick raps. The door opened slowly. Clarence stood behind it, wearing a T-shirt and flannel pants. There was nothing welcoming about his posture, but nothing forbidding either; he was simply there.
His eyes dropped to her lace bodice, then snapped back up, jaw tightening.
“Mother’s busy.” Anastasia leaned against the doorframe, letting the hall light outline her silhouette through the sheer negligee. She smelled like vanilla and something muskier underneath. “Thought you might want company.” Her fingers toyed with the ribbon between her breasts.
Clarence stepped aside, wordless, and gestured for her to enter. The room was dark, the only light coming from a single lamp in the corner, and the air smelled faintly of soap. It was evident she had caught him after his night shower.
Anastasia sat on the edge of the bed, hands still in her lap. She could not remember the last time she had been so nervous, and she hated the feeling. She wanted to say something clever, but the silence was so thick it seemed like any word would shatter it.
Clarence stayed planted by the door. He watched her for a moment, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. Finally, he asked “What do you want?”
The mattress dipped as she perched deliberately close to where a textbook lay open. She traced a finger over it. “You still think we’re prisoners,” she said, not looking up. “But the chains...” Her hand drifted to her own throat, where the silver collar with the hanging figurine sat. “We took them off years ago.”
Clarence’s throat worked. Her perfume clung to the humid air—sweet, but with that dark undercurrent that made his stomach twist. “Bullshit,” he muttered. “You don’t even pick your own clothes.”
Anastasia laughed, soft and low. She stretched back on the bed, making the springs whine, and the ribbon at her throat came undone with one lazy tug. The negligee gaped, revealing the smooth dip between her breasts. “You think Master dresses me?” Her fingers touched the figurine. “He likes watching me choose. Today it was this. Tomorrow?” She shrugged, the fabric slipping. “Maybe nothing.”
Clarence was shocked, although his face didn’t betray his feelings. He simply nodded, as if he’d expected this response. And in a way he had, after his talk with their mother.
Anastasia decided there was no sense in pretense. Opening her blouse, she released a beautiful pair of young breasts. Then she leaned forward and met Clarence’s eyes. “Would you like to get started?” she asked, keeping her voice light, as if proposing a game.
Clarence did not look away. He looked at those tits. They were perfect, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but to think that the price to pay for sucking them would be too high. For a moment he seemed to consider the proposition as he would a homework assignment, a problem to solve rather than an experience to savor. After a moment, he shook his head. “No,” he said.
She sat up abruptly, knees pressing together. For the first time, her smile faltered. “You’re fifteen,” she said, quieter now. “Boys of your age brag about handjobs behind the bleachers. Don’t you want—”
“I want it to mean something!” The words burst out louder than he intended. Silence pooled between them, sticky and thick.
Anastasia’s expression softened. She reached for his hand, stopping just short of touching. “It would,” she whispered. “For me.” The earnestness in her voice unsettled him more than the lace. “You’re a virgin, Clarence. I would be very honored if you give your virginity to me.” Her thumb brushed his wrist, feather-light. “Let it be family.”
Clarence recoiled. “Jesus Christ.” He kicked the door shut with his heel, cutting them off from the hallway’s light. The click of the latch seemed louder than his heartbeat. “You’re sick.”
She stood, letting the negligee slither to the floor. The moonlight through his blinds painted her in stripes—pale skin, shadow, the pink of her nipples hardening in the AC’s draft. “Am I?” She stepped forward, bare feet soundless on the carpet. “Or am I the only one brave enough to admit we’re both pretending?”