Owning My Desperate Sister - Illustrated
Copyright© 2025 by CreepyUnclePete
Chapter 7
Incest Sex Story: Chapter 7 - 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 embarrassed nude females.
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 Anal Sex Analingus Exhibitionism First Oral Sex Petting Safe Sex Scatology Sex Toys Voyeurism Water Sports Smoking ENF Prostitution Illustrated
Carrie imagined the scents of oregano, pepperoni, and cheese, though the pizza was still on the way. Kevin leaned back in his comfortable recliner, the silence of the apartment humming with the residue of their afternoon, the ghost of silicone vibrations and the metallic tang of spent adrenaline. Beside him, Carrie was draped across the loveseat like a discarded silk scarf, her legs swinging rhythmically, eyes glazed with a drowsy, post-cunnilingual satisfaction. She was chewing on a piece of gum, her small frame still radiating a faint, shimmering heat.
Kevin pulled out his phone, his thumb hovering over Kristie’s contact. He didn’t want to talk about the weather or the car; he wanted to negotiate. He dialed and after two rings, the line clicked open.
“What do you want, Kevin?” Kristie’s voice was sharp, filtered through the crackle of a cheap speaker.
“Just curious,” Kevin said, his voice a low, predatory drawl. “What size is that TV in your living room? The one you’re always complaining is too small.”
There was a pause, then a sigh of genuine annoyance. “I don’t know, twenty-five inches? Maybe thirty. Why are you asking about my electronics, you freak?”
Kevin smirked, glancing at Carrie, who was now watching him with an inquisitive tilt of her head. “Because I’ve got a lead on a hundred-inch screen. Massive. It would practically be your entire wall. A cinematic masterpiece for the whole family.”
“A hundred inches!” Kristie sounded intrigued despite herself. “Where did you even find something like that?”
“Don’t worry about that. It’s yours,” Kevin whispered, his eyes darkening. “On one condition. You come over here this weekend. You bring the camera, the good one, and you hold it steady. I want a professional angle while I take Carrie’s virginity. I want to see the exact moment she breaks, and I want you to film every single thrust of my first real fuck with her.”
The silence on the other end was deafening. Suddenly, the line exploded. “ARE YOU INSANE?!” Kristie screamed, the volume peaking and distorting the speaker. “You want me to film you deflowering my daughter? You absolute monster! You’re sick, Kevin! Truly, clinically sick!”
Carrie jumped off the stool, her face flushing a mix of shock and sudden, sharp indignation. “Uncle Kevin! You can’t just ... you can’t just trade a TV for that! That’s gross! I mean, we did the toys, but ... a movie with MY MOM watching?”
“It’s a fair trade,” Kevin countered, ignoring the outburst. “The screen is breathtaking. Think of the kids. Think of the luxury. All you have to do is stand there and record the truth.”
“The truth is you’re a pervert!” Kristie yelled, though the anger sounded strained, as if she were weighing the absurdity against the allure of a giant screen. “There is no way in Hell I’m playing cinematographer to your incestuous fantasies!”
Kevin didn’t flinch; he just leaned closer to the phone, his voice dropping into a silky, transactional hum. “Let’s sweeten the pot, Kris. I know that mattress of yours is a disaster, sags in the middle, smells like old cigarettes and desperation. How about a brand new, plush king-size bed? Memory foam. A proper sanctuary where you can actually sleep instead of tossing and turning with springs poking you in the back. A king-size bed and a hundred-inch TV, just for holding the camera a while.”
He paused, his gaze sliding over to Carrie. “And for the star of the show,” he added, glancing at the girl, “the red car. Not just any car, but a beauty with leather seats and a sound system that’ll make your friends jealous. All I need is for the two of you to agree. One night. One recording. No extras, no crowds, just me and Carrie, and you, Kris, acting as the invisible witness behind the lens.”
The silence that followed was heavy, pregnant with the sound of Kristie’s internal struggle. He could almost hear her calculating the cost of her dignity against the luxury of a memory foam mattress. Finally, a ragged sigh escaped her. “A king-size? Really?”
“Brand new. Delivered and installed,” Kevin promised.
“Fine!” Kristie snapped, though the venom was gone, replaced by a defeated, transactional coldness. “Fine, you creep. I’ll do it. I’ll record the damn thing. But only if you actually buy the bed first. And don’t think this means I like you.”
Carrie looked up at him, her eyes shimmering with a mixture of apprehension and a strange, burgeoning excitement. The idea of a great car was a powerful drug, and the thought of her mother being in the room, even as a silent observer, added a layer of forbidden electricity to the whole arrangement.
“Okay,” Carrie whispered, a small, daring smile playing on her lips. “But I want a car with a sunroof.”
Kevin laughed, a low sound of triumph. “Deal. This weekend, we’re making a masterpiece.”
The little camers’s viewfinder was a cold, rectangular window into a world of curated transgression. Kristie’s knuckles were white as she gripped it, her breathing shallow, the lens zooming in and out with a mechanical whir that sounded like a countdown. She didn’t look at them with her own eyes; she watched them through the digital ghost of the screen, framing the shot so the lighting hit the curve of Carrie’s hip just right. There was no one else in the room, just the humming silence of the apartment and the heavy, artificial weight of the camera.
Kevin didn’t waste time. He stepped into the frame, his presence filling the lens, and pulled Carrie toward him. The kiss was slow and deliberate, a wet, sliding friction that echoed in the quiet space. He could feel Kristie’s gaze through the glass, a silent, voyeuristic pressure that made the seduction feel like a performance. He was curious, was Kristie angry he was taking her daughter’s innocence, or jealous of her?
As he whispered arousing filth into Carrie’s ear, his hands began a slow, methodical exploration, sliding under the hem of her shirt and kneading her breasts with a raw, possessive intensity. They undressed in a frantic, staggered dance, fabric hitting the floor with muffled thuds, until they were both stripped bare, their skin glowing under the harsh living room lights.
Suddenly, the mood shifted from the romantic to the ritualistic. Carrie reached for the pack of cigarettes on the coffee table, her fingers trembling slightly. She lit one, taking a deep, lung-filling drag that made her cheeks hollow. She didn’t just exhale; she blew the grey, swirling smoke directly into Kevin’s face, a hazy veil of nicotine and desire. With a playful, knowing glance toward the camera, toward her mother, she sank to her knees. The smoke curled around her blonde hair like a halo as she wrapped her lips around him. She worked him with a slow, rhythmic suction, her eyes locked on the lens, making sure Kristie saw every slide of the shaft and every flicker of her tongue.
“Look at her, Kris,” Kevin groaned, his voice vibrating through the room. “Look at how much she likes it.”
Kristie didn’t answer; she only adjusted the focus, the camera capturing the glistening saliva and the way Carrie’s throat bobbed with each deep, guttural swallow. The air was thick with the scent of tobacco and sex, a heavy, intoxicating perfume that filled the apartment.
“Faster, baby, and smoke more,” Kevin commanded, his fingers threading through Carrie’s hair, pulling her head in time with his thrusts.
Carrie responded by sucking a huge drag from her thin white stink stick, then expelling a cloud over his genitals. As it dissipated, she licked the head of his dick, then sucked in another big puff.
Through the minicam’s viewfinder, Kristie watched the grey haze swirl around her daughter’s head, acting as a translucent curtain that only occasionally parted to reveal the wet, sliding motion of the blowjob. She didn’t blink. The digital zoom whirred, bringing the glistening, saliva-slicked skin into a sharp, clinical focus. She tracked the movement with a robotic precision, framing the shot so the smoke of the cigarette mingled with the froth of the oral sex, creating a gritty, voyeuristic tableau.
The camera captured every detail: the way Carrie’s cheeks hollowed out, the rhythmic bobbing of her head, and the occasional, sharp exhale of smoke that billowed across Kevin’s thighs. Kristie’s finger remained steady on the record button, her eye pressed hard against the rubber eyepiece, transforming the raw, visceral act into a flickering image of high-definition transgression.
“God, look at that,” Kevin groaned, his voice echoing in the room. “Look at the cig, Kris. Look at how she sucks on it, the same way she sucks my cock!”
Suddenly, Carrie paused. She took one last, deep drag of the cigarette, her eyes narrowing with a sudden, mischievous glint. She didn’t pull away; instead, she blew the smoke at his balls, creating a miniature fog bank between them, before slamming her mouth back down on him with a ferocity that made him gasp.
“You’re a beautiful little fuck monster,” he whispered, his fingers tightening in her hair. “So beautiful, so hot!”
Kristie’s breath hitched behind the camera. She wasn’t just recording, she was witnessing a slow-motion collapse of boundaries. “Are you done yet?” she asked, her voice sounding distant, muffled by the equipment. “This is getting weird.”
“Not even close,” Kevin replied. He looked up at the lens, his expression predatory. “Tell me, Kris. Does the picture look good? Does it look like she’s enjoying herself?”
Kristie didn’t answer, but the camera tilted slightly, a subconscious movement that betrayed her fascination. She zoomed in closer, past the smoke, past the hair, until the screen was nothing but a wet, pulsing, rhythmic void of flesh and saliva.
Carrie shifted, her knees scraping the hardwood. She reached up, her small hand guiding Kevin’s hips, urging him to push deeper into her throat. The sound was wet and guttural, a raw, animalistic noise that filled the void where conversation used to be. She looked straight into the lens, her eyes wide and challenging, as if she were daring her mother to look away.
“I want to see more,” Kevin commanded, his voice dropping to a low, vibrating hum. “Get the angle lower, Kris. I want to see the smoke curling around her lips while she works.”
Kristie obeyed, the camera descending toward the floor, capturing the scene from a submissive, grounded perspective. The smoke drifted upward, a ghostly column of nicotine that framed Carrie’s focused expression.