Owning My Desperate Sister - Illustrated
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete
Chapter 6
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 6 - Kristie is a beautiful single mom who needs money and some favors. Her brother Kevin has a sleazy solution... - - - Includes coercion, incest, prostitution, mild potty play, smoking, alcohol, lesbian/bi girl, and an embarrassed nude female.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Ma/ft Coercion Consensual NonConsensual Reluctant Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Incest Brother Sister Uncle Niece MaleDom Humiliation Analingus Oral Sex Petting Safe Sex Scatology Sex Toys Voyeurism Water Sports Smoking ENF Prostitution Illustrated
Caution – if you don’t like pee / scat / potty play, skip the next three paragraphs.
The porcelain was a stark, clinical white against the dim yellow light of the bathroom, but the view it provided was anything but sterile. I stood leaning against the doorframe, my breath hitching as I watched Carrie settle onto the seat. There was something primal, almost sacred, about the total surrender of the moment. I watched the rhythmic tremor in her thighs, the way her small frame seemed to shrink into the bowl, and the raw, unfiltered vulnerability of her expression. Then came the sound, the sharp, splashing percussion of her urine hitting the water, a steady, splashing stream that echoed in the small space. The scent hit me a second later, a warm musky aroma of urea and ammonia, and her young sweaty skin, that acted like a chemical trigger in my brain, sending a surge of heat straight to my groin.
But the real feast was yet to come. I watched her face scrunch up, her lips parting in a focused, strained pout as her body labored to empty itself. The silence of the room was broken by the heavy, wet thud of her defecating into the water, a sound so visceral it made my cock pulse violently against my zipper. I could see the slight ripple of her abdomen, the way she gripped the edges of the seat until her knuckles turned white. The smell shifted, becoming denser, a pungent, organic musk that filled the humid air of the bathroom, turning the space into a private sanctuary of filth and desire. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my temple; the sheer taboo of it, the biological reality of her functions laid bare before me, pushed my arousal to a fever pitch.
I decided to be crude for a minute, checking how she’d react. “You’re beautiful, Carrie, even stinking to high Heaven, with piss and shit coming out of you,” I rasped, my voice thick with a hunger that felt like it was clawing at my throat.
She looked up at me, blushing, her eyes wide and shimmering with a mixture of shame and an emerging dark curiosity. She didn’t look away; instead, she seemed to feed off the intensity of my gaze. I reached into my pocket and pulled out some hundred-dollar bills, holding them between two fingers. “Tell you what. Since you’re already sitting there, why don’t you give me a blowjob? Right here. I’ll give you a hundred, just to borrow your mouth a few minutes?”
Carrie stared at the money, then at the heavy bulge in my pants. The idea of the transaction, combined with the lingering vulnerability of her position on the toilet, seemed to snap something inside us. My feeling of power and superiority over her quickly swelled my staff to full size.
“Okay,” she whispered, her voice a fragile thread. “I’ll do it.”
I stepped forward and yanked my trousers down, my rod springing free and throbbing with a life of its own. I stood directly in front of her, the scent of her waste still clinging to the air, creating a heady, intoxicating atmosphere of degradation and lust. Carrie leaned forward, her movements tentative but determined. She wrapped her small hand around my shaft, her skin cool against my heat, and slowly guided the head of my cock to her lips.
As she began to suck, the sound of urine splashing into the toilet water beneath her combined with the wet, rhythmic slurping of her mouth to create a symphony of filth. She bobbed her head with a clumsy, earnest effort, her eyes locked onto mine, while her body remained settled on the porcelain throne. Every time she pressed her tongue upward, squeezing me against the roof of her mouth, I felt a jolt of pleasure shoot through my spine. The contrast was unbelievable, the high-class pleasure of her mouth and the raw, earthy reality of her sitting on the toilet, pissing, drove me toward a climax faster than any traditional encounter ever could.
Suddenly, my muscles locked. I groaned, my hips thrusting forward instinctively, burying my head deep into her throat. I felt the first hot jet of cum blast against the back of her throat, followed by another, and another, a violent release that left me shaking. She didn’t pull away; instead, she squeezed her eyes shut and swallowed hard, the audible gulp echoing in the small bathroom. She stayed there for a moment, licking the remaining droplets from the rim of my cock with a curious, focused intensity, ensuring not a single drop of my essence was wasted.
I stepped back and zipped up, looking down at her as she finally stood up to clean herself. I smiled, my voice low and curious. “So, tell me the truth, Carrie. How was it? How do you like the taste of your uncle?”
She looked at me, her expression surprisingly neutral, almost critical. She shrugged her small shoulders and replied, “Two stars out of five. But since I can use the money ... it’s okay, I guess.”
I burst out laughing, the sheer honesty of her critique catching me off guard. “Tough critic! I’ll make it up to you tomorrow. How about we cross the border, and I buy you your first legal beer and first legal pack of smokes?”
She surprised me with, “And um ... a vibrator, maybe?”
“Morning, sweetie,” I said, leaning over to kiss the top of her head. “Did you sleep well?”
“Yeah,” she mumbled, her eyes darting to the living room where the money from the night before still sat on the coffee table. “I was thinking ... about what you said. About teaching me things.”
I smirked, the memory of her critique still fueling my amusement. “Well, since you’re such a harsh judge of my quality, maybe we should expand your horizons before we head to the border.” I guided her back toward the sofa, the air between us thick with a new, unspoken understanding. I didn’t just want her to know about pleasure; I wanted her to know every inch of how her body could be played like a fine instrument. “There’s something called a rimjob, Carrie. It’s when someone uses their tongue to explore the most private part of your backside. It’s a bit daring, a bit dirty, and absolutely incredible if you do it right.”
She looked at me, her brow furrowed in genuine curiosity. “My butt? Why would anyone do that?”
“Because it’s an unexplored frontier, sweetie, and it shows how much you want them to be happy. kissing their dirtiest, most repulsive part. Undress, lay on your belly, and enjoy.”
I didn’t waste time. I knelt behind her, my breath warm against the curve of her backside. As I spread her cheeks, the sight of her tight, pink rosebud made my heart hammer against my ribs. I dove in, my tongue making a broad, wet swipe right across her anus, tasting the salt and the intimacy of her.
Suddenly, she let out a sharp, strangled yelp, her fingers clawing into the couch cushions. “Oh! It feels ... it feels weird, squishy, but nice.”
I didn’t stop. I began to swirl my tongue around the rim, flicking the sensitive ring of muscle with a rhythmic, hungry intensity. While my mouth claimed her backside, I reached around, sliding two fingers deep into her dripping vulva. The combination was lethal. I could feel her inner walls pulsing against my fingers, while my tongue worked her anus into a state of shimmering vulnerability. She was sobbing now, not from sadness, but from a sensory overload she had no name for. “Kevin! Stop! It’s too much! Too good!” she wailed, her hips bucking wildly against my face as I sucked the rim of her hole, creating a vacuum of raw, unbridled pleasure.
“Now,” I grunted, pulling back for a second, my face glistening. “Let’s see if we can both get there at the same time. Sixty-nine. You know how it works, head to tail, tail to head.”
We maneuvered ourselves into the classic position, a tangle of limbs and longing. I settled my head between her thighs, my tongue returning to her clitoris with a vengeful speed, while Carrie’s small, determined mouth clamped onto my shaft. She had learned quickly from yesterday; she used a suction that felt like a warm velvet vice, her tongue swirling around the head of my cock with a focused intensity. The sounds in the room were primal, the wet slapping of skin, the rhythmic slurping of two mouths working in unison. I could feel the climax building in my gut, a tidal wave of heat that matched the frantic pulsing of her own peak.
Suddenly, the world exploded. Carrie’s body went rigid, her mouth tightening around me in a final, crushing squeeze as she peaked, her muffled screams vibrating through my shaft. At that exact microsecond, I thrust my tongue deep into her core and let out a guttural roar, blasting my cum into her throat. We collapsed into each other, two shaking messes of sweat and saliva, the silence of the apartment returning, save for the sound of our ragged, synchronized breathing.
“I think,” she panted, her voice sounding like she’d just run a marathon, “that you get four stars now.”
I chuckled, my heart still drumming against my ribs. “Modest as always. Come on, let’s get the filth off us.”
The shower was a sanctuary of steam and slick skin. We stepped under the spray together, the hot water hammering against our shoulders as we clung to one another. There was no urgency now, just a slow, luxurious exploration. I used a sponge to scrub her small, trembling frame, my hands lingering on the curve of her hips and the softness of her belly. We kissed, deep, wet, open-mouthed kisses that tasted of soap and lingering desire. My hands wandered, fondling her budding breasts and tracing the line of her thighs, but I kept my promise. No more sex. Just the raw, tactile pleasure of skin on skin, the water washing away the remnants of our morning’s filth while we whispered about the day ahead.
Once we were dried and dressed, the morning air felt crisp and sharp against our skin. I took her to a local diner, a greasy spoon with red vinyl booths and the smell of burnt coffee and maple syrup. We sat across from each other, Carrie looking like a proper little girl again in her colorful clothes, though her eyes held a secret, predatory glint that hadn’t been there twenty-four hours ago. She ordered a stack of pancakes drenched in syrup and a chocolate milkshake, eating with a voracious appetite that matched the intensity of our morning.
“I want to see Canada. And uh ... a vibrator. And I really want to see what beer tastes like, a legal one.”
I grinned, the memory of her four-star rating still buzzing in my veins. “Get your shoes on, kid. It’s only an hour drive. I know a spot where the drinks are cold and the view is ... well, let’s just say it’s a different kind of education.”
The drive across the border was a blur of highway noise and the kind of electric tension that only exists when you’re doing something completely illicit. Once we hit the Canadian soil, I didn’t take her to a mall or a toy store. Instead, I pulled up to the neon-drenched facade of ‘The Velvet Grotto,’ a strip club that looked like it had been marinated in cheap perfume and desperation for decades. As we stepped inside, the air hit us like a wall of musk and cigarette smoke. Carrie’s eyes widened, her jaw practically hitting the floor as she looked up at the stage. A woman, completely nude and glistening under spotlights and a strobe, was grinding against a brass pole with a rhythmic, athletic precision that defied gravity.
“They’re ... they’re totally naked!” Carrie whispered, her voice a mixture of shock and a strange, budding fascination. She didn’t look away; in fact, she leaned in, her eyes tracing the curve of the dancer’s breasts and the way her hips swayed.
“Welcome to the real world, sweetie,” I chuckled, guiding her toward a dimly lit booth in the corner. While she remained frozen, mesmerized by the parade of flesh on stage, I made a trip to the bar. I returned with two frosty mugs of lager, the first of her life, and a pack of menthol 120s. I slid the beer and the long, slim cigarettes toward her.
“Sip it slow,” I cautioned. “And have a smoke.”