Taking Care of My Sister
by Hayes Whitfield
Copyright© 2026 by Hayes Whitfield
Incest Sex Story: Three days into Ryan's ten-day work trip, his wife Kendra is staying with Mason and Hannah — the brother and sister-in-law he trusts most in the world. A standalone story from the world of No Brakes.
Caution: This Incest Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Consensual Romantic Incest Brother Sister AI Generated .
Ryan had been gone three days, and the three of us had barely slept.
His trip was ten days — a new territory, eight cities, the kind of schedule that had him texting Kendra airport codes instead of sentences. Before he left, he stood in our kitchen with his bag over his shoulder and asked me to take care of her while he was gone. He meant check the porch light. Water the plants if she forgot. He’d thanked me for it, this man who trusts me with his life.
Kendra is my sister. Hannah is my wife. And for three days, in the house Hannah and I share, the three of us had been doing things that would end every one of those sentences if the wrong person ever heard them in the right order.
I wasn’t going to be the one to explain how it started. Some things you arrive at after twenty years of not arriving, and by the time you get there, nobody in the room wants a history lesson. What mattered that Saturday morning was simpler: we were exhausted in our bones, all three of us, used up and aching and sore in the good places — and not one of us was done.
I woke to the sound of the shower.
Early light, gray and thin at the edges of the blinds. The bed was a wreck. Kendra’s pillow was still on the floor from the night before, where it had ended up around two in the morning for reasons nobody could have reconstructed. She’d gotten up without waking us — or woken us and not cared. The shower ran, stopped, ran again. She was taking her time in there.
Beside me, Hannah stirred. Then her eyes opened, and she looked at me, and I watched the whole three days come back to her in about two seconds — every bit of it — and settle into a smile so slow and so pleased with itself that I felt it in my stomach.
“She’s in the shower,” Hannah said.
“I heard.”
“You know what I was just dreaming about?” She rolled toward me, onto her side, one leg sliding over mine, her hand finding my chest and then not staying there. “Yesterday. When she rode you.”
Hannah’s voice went low and unhurried, the way it does when she’s decided to take something apart slowly.
“I can’t stop thinking about it,” she said. “The way she was on top of you. The way she looked at me while she was doing it — like she wanted me to see exactly what she could do with you. And you — God, Mason. When you came inside her. I’ve watched you come a hundred times and it has never done to me what it did yesterday. Sitting right there. Watching my best friend take my husband all the way in and feeling how much I loved it.”
She was telling it to me while her hand worked me to full hardness under the sheet — not hurried, just certain, the way you stir something you know is already warm. The shower kept running down the hall. My sister was twenty feet away, naked under our water, and my wife was in our bed telling me how much she’d loved watching me come inside her.
There is a thought I have had every day of this trip, and I had it again then, lying there with Hannah’s hand on me: I cannot believe I’m living this. I waited twenty years for a life I was sure I’d only ever imagine. I’m fucking my sister, and my wife — my wife is the one talking me into the day.
Hannah kissed me, once, unhurried, and then she propped herself up on an elbow and looked down at me with the particular focus she gets when she already knows what she wants and is deciding how to make me give it to her.
“Get the big one,” she said.
“The big one” lives in the second drawer of her nightstand. It’s huge, it’s lifelike, it’s black, and it is — by a margin I have never challenged — her favorite thing in the house that doesn’t have a heartbeat. I got it. The shower was still running. I came back to the bed and Hannah was already on her back, knees up, watching me with an expression that made the drawer, the errand, and my obedience to it all feel like parts she had written for us.
“Now your fingers,” she said. “You know the ones.”
Magic fingers. That’s what she calls them — has called them for years, long before there was a sister in our bed to hear it, back when it was only ever the two of us and a life we were building on purpose. Two fingers inside her, curled, patient, finding the place that makes her breathing change. She took the big one from where I’d set it and lined it up against herself, and the moment it started into her I pulled my fingers out — there’s no room in Hannah for everything at once, whatever the last three days had tried to prove — and moved my hand up top, rubbing her clit with my fingers while she worked the big one in her own hand, fucking herself with it slow at first, finding the rhythm my hand set.
She can come over and over like that. It’s not a figure of speech. It’s a system. My fingers build it, my hand up top keeps it climbing, the big one drives it home, and Hannah — who came out of a first marriage where nobody had ever once asked her what she wanted — Hannah just opens her hands and takes it, one after another, like a woman collecting something she was owed.
The first one rolled through her while the shower was still running. Her back arched off the bed, her free hand fisted in the sheet, and she made the sound she makes when it takes her by surprise even though we both knew it was coming. She barely rested. She re-set the big one against herself, looked at me with her eyes glazed and her mouth open, and said, “Again. Don’t move your hand.”
I didn’t. My other hand slid underneath her — I’d learned the geometry of this the way you learn a song — and one finger pressed there, at her ass, and pushed in slow, and her second orgasm hit harder than the first, her whole body bowing, her thighs shaking around my hands. I could feel the big one moving inside her against that finger through the thin wall of her, and I thought, not for the first time, that there was nothing in the world I would trade for being the man who gets to do this to her.
It still undoes me, what she is like now. I knew Hannah when we were kids, and I knew the shape of the life she went into after me — fifteen years with a man who treated her wanting anything at all like a character flaw. I heard about that marriage in pieces, the way you hear about a house a friend used to live in. And then she came back into my life with all of that locked up in her, and I got to watch her unlock it, room by room, year by year. Nobody who met the woman from that first marriage would know the woman on this bed — greedy, unembarrassed, collecting orgasms with my finger in her ass and my other hand rubbing her clit while she worked a cock the size of a forearm into herself on a Saturday morning. Every time I see her like this I hold her in higher regard than I did the time before. It isn’t despite. It never was despite.
She was working on the third when Kendra came in.
She had a towel wrapped around her and nothing else, her dark hair wet and slicked back, water still beaded on her shoulders — and she stopped in the doorway with one hand on the frame, because what was in front of her took the walking right out of her.
I was on my back. Hannah was on her back beside me, our legs tangled, my left hand between her thighs working her clit around the plunge of the big one she was driving into herself, my right arm trapped under her, one finger still buried in her ass. Hannah’s head turned toward the door. So did mine. And Kendra just stood there, looking at us looking at her, and whatever she’d been about to say — something ordinary, towels, coffee, morning — died in her mouth and was replaced by something else entirely.
Hannah came. The third one took her all at once — no climb to it, no warning — her hips bucking up into my hands, a cry tearing out of her that she’d clearly tried to hold back for dignity’s sake and lost. And through all of it Kendra didn’t move. She watched my wife come apart with my hands inside her, and her own breathing went ragged in the doorway, and her fingers, I noticed, had stopped holding the towel quite so tightly.
Then she let it drop.
No speech. No are you sure, no preamble, none of the scaffolding people build around wanting something they’ve decided to want. The towel slid off her and pooled around her ankles, and my sister walked around the bed naked and wet from the shower, and climbed up like she’d been aimed. She got between Hannah’s legs. She wrapped one hand around the base of the big black cock Hannah was still holding inside herself, and she drew it out — slow, watching Hannah’s face spasm as it left her — and she set it aside on the sheet like an instrument being put down by someone picking up a better one.
Then she put her mouth where it had been.
Hannah made a sound I’d never heard in the shower-warm-up or the night before or any of the three days — a sound with no dignity in it at all — and both her hands came down into Kendra’s wet hair. I was still on my back with my right arm pinned and my cock standing up between us doing nothing but aching, stroking myself slow with my free hand because I had to do something with the sight of it: my sister, on her knees, bent over my wife’s body, eating her out like it was the thing she’d crossed the whole house to do. Hannah’s legs had gone over Kendra’s shoulders. The bed was moving in small rhythms. The light had come up another shade while I wasn’t looking.
I got up. My arm tingled back to life as I pulled it free. I went around the bed and I came up behind Kendra, and I didn’t ask her — there are things between people that get asked once, in a kitchen, with everyone’s clothes on and everyone’s eyes open, and then they are settled law — and I didn’t take my time. Her back was arched and her ass was up and she was soaked, three days soaked, and I found the spot and I rammed into her hard, all of it, one thrust that took her whole body forward into Hannah’s lap.
Kendra’s mouth tore off Hannah with a wail that wasn’t a word. Hannah answered it like she’d been struck: “Oh baby. Oh baby — you’re fucking your sister so good. You’re gonna make me come, you’re gonna make me—”
Kendra dragged her mouth back down onto her — stubborn, starving, three days past any thought of stopping — and Hannah’s hips came up off the bed to meet it, and that was the end of her. She came the way she’d promised to: loud and helpless, her hand fisted in Kendra’s hair holding her there through it, wave after wave, while I kept fucking her best friend above her — and Hannah watched it happen through the whole thing, eyes open, like she refused to miss a second of the reason.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.