An Arrangement

I hate being called a slut. It really stings, especially when I consider the facts.

He knows that it enrages me and says it just to get me fired-up. I finally figured it out, when he told me that my blowjobs were so much better when I was angry. He enjoys antagonizing me and watching as my emotions rise suddenly to the surface and I'm about to explode, specifically towards him, then a bright red light flashes in my mind, reminding me that I placed myself in this horrible position and I'm now forced to deal with the consequences, and on his fucking terms!

When he steals behind me in a crowded room and slips his hand inside the waistband of my panties; calling me crude names and hinting at what he might do next, then pulls his fingers out wet and fragrant with my fluids, then announces to the room that he has chocolate or something sugary on his fingers and wants me to taste it, I have to suck his sticky digits into my mouth like it's a treat and humiliate myself infront of people who believe that he's really doing something so sweet. In a crowded elevator when everyone is facing forward and consciously not making eye-contact with strangers, he cups my breast or squeezes my ass and just smiles like the cat who ate the canary. Once, when I protested this exact scenario, he laughed in my ear and implied that he might just rip-open the front of my blouse. Even if I had some recourse or someone to help me, my shirt would still be in tatters and my full chest exposed.

I am always forced to just simmer and stare helplessly as he exerts his control over me, and then I wonder to myself why I never fight back. I could scream or slap his face, and ofcourse he could hurt me but I could run to the police. And then I'm faced with the uncomfortable situation between my legs. Since the beginning, he has known just the right buttons to push to spark the stimulation in both my mind and my pussy. Why on Earth I have always wondered, does this sexual degradation and coercion excite me so much? How did he figure it out when I had no idea? And does it truly exhilarate me to the point of orgasm, to be a submissive consort to such an overbearing, manipulative, rapist? I am facing a harshly uneasy feeling that I'm close to an answer.

Invariably, I am the one who apologizes for not responding quickly enough or not thanking him for the generous attention he has paid to me. And in the car ride home, I am sucking his cock or promising some other deviant form of submissive behavior when we get home. I don't want to grovel at his feet, but sometimes I literally do. My heart and pulse rates soar in that instant just before I begin to beg for his affection. I feel both greedy and insecure when I'm around him but I can't break away. There are moments when he is spanking my bare butt or pulling my hair while I plead that "I'm your fuck-slut and I'll do anything you say," when that little voice inside of me is screaming for me to speak-up and speak-out. Then I hear myself moaning while my pussy erupts, and I'm pleading for more.

In a contemplative moment while still shivering after throwing a hissy-fit or relaxing with a cup of tea and thinking a bit more clearly about it, or just really examining that why whenever he demands it, I'm on my knees or would come quickly running when he snaps his fuck'n fingers, there isn't actually much doubt to the fact of the hateful eponym. And knowing as he does, that I find that name to be naturally demeaning, he not only uses it casually when he's making his crude comments, he also makes me repeat that I am his personal slut and that I will respond in any way that brings him pleasure. And that, mostly involves my body and his cum.

I really hate it when I'm labeled a whore, a term he tosses around if I refuse one of his crude perversions. As if I go from man to man, seeking money for my "virtues." When I protest or shout my objections, he softens his insolence by saying that I'm not some drug-addled, street-walking prostitute, oh-no I'm just his personal whore. Gee, I'm surprised that doesn't make me feel all warm and fuzzy. It all still amounts to the same thing, that being, that he fucks me whenever he wants to. I reason with myself that I'm not accepting money for this deviant behavior so I'm not technically a whore, but then I'm not-so suddenly reminded that he pays the rent, the groceries, the taxes, insurance and practically every other damned bill, just so he can exert his crude privileges towards my tight little cunt. A whore by any other name...

When I hit my lowest point, like when his sticky cum is dripping out of both ends of me and I still have to run and get him a cold beer, I manage to convince myself that things were looking even bleaker a few months ago. I do continue to have a roof over my head. I have a nice car and nice clothes for a job that he arranged, even though some of those clothes are for mature audiences only, if you could actually call the perverted beast mature. Though most of those exotic lingerie or backless gowns and "fuck me pumps" are for his amusement only. And they're not often on my body for very long. He does often insist that I keep the shoes on. I dress-up so that I can strip for him before having to do anything else distasteful and degrading.

He has "requested" that I occasionally await his arrival wearing nothing but a skimpy bath robe and answering the door in that condition. Then he deliberately doesn't appear for hours, leaving me to perform ordinary housework practically naked or to open the door to mailmen, girl scouts or my mother, as if begging for sex. I have obviously learned that I could wear sweatpants under the robe and peer out of the window before I open the door, but then later, he makes me recount fantastical stories of how people found me dripping with anticipation and lust. Plus, he has installed high-tech cameras to, as he says, "safeguard his investment." And I do weave highly-sexualized fictions of my aching, desperate cunt and having to grab my dildo after each false alarm, then we tumble into bed or I get laid over the kitchen table, and the actual sex is rough, dirty and kinky and my orgasms send me through the roof. In my darkest moments, when he not around, I replay some of the videos and masturbate to the most erotic and perverted scenes.

The other evening when I was "permitted" to meet my girlfriends for a posh dinner and a movie, he waited until I was dressed to leave (looking sharp I might add, in a skirt slit to my thigh and a tight blouse hugging my bodacious curves,) before he demanded that I take to my knees and suck his cock until I got a mouthful. He laughed because that required that I act swiftly, using all of the suction and stroking that I have learned to bring him off quick, and to swallow every drop so as not to get any smudges on my skirt. I even needed to kick-off my heels so that they wouldn't get scuffed as I labored over my performance. With a sweaty face and looking like I was in clown makeup with my lipstick smeared across my chin, I was allowed to kiss the "Ruby-Red" lip-sticked helmet of his deflating cock and thank him for allowing me such pleasure. Then I had just enough time to rinse with mouthwash and run a washcloth over my face and under my arms, so that I didn't actually look like a slut as I dashed out the door to be with my friends. I also needed to swipe the washcloth along my damp cunt lips while pressing lightly, to not bring-on the monster climax that was hovering so near to the surface. Its funny though, that as I was rearranging my appearance, he stuck an extra three-hundred dollars in my purse and told me to have a great time.

He gets a special demented pleasure by sending me to the store or if I have an appointment for hair or nails, after he has just fucked me and filled me with his creamy ooze. I know that most people in most situations, cannot smell the aroma of sex on you, and that it just makes you paranoid to think about it or to act guilty of something, but you do act differently. I am told to not wear undies on these missions and while I had discovered that keeping a small towel in the car would help with seepage, he suspected my trick and has begun to inspect me on my return. If I am not "appropriately" sticky and fragrant of his cum, I face a more troubling punishment. So, in my darkest moments, I am faced with the fact that though I am a sex-toy only for him and I don't actually receive cash in an envelope on the pillow, I am a slut and a whore. And yet, the worst was still to come.

My name is Jennifer. I'm twenty-eight years old and unfortunately never profited from a high school education more than becoming a cheerleader and having thirteen offers for dates to the senior prom. I live with my mother Amy in a low-rent district flophouse because mom was simply a housewife to a deadbeat who drank himself to death, leaving us with little more than debts. I have a younger brother Billy, who as he entered his late teens, we regrettably ridiculed over his fondness for video games, dragons, gothic attire and continual masturbation. After his high school graduation, he left our "happy home" and enrolled at a technical school to further his interest in electronics. We never actually formed a nuclear family and visitations were sparse. Months went by with no contact though we sometimes exchanged holiday gifts and birthday phone calls.

Our situation grew more depressing as the bills mounted and we didn't have time to consider his. I understand just how awkward and awful this sounds, and as I reflect on it today, I can see the terrible irony of what was to follow and that what goes around comes around. Naturally, the little monster became wealthy and we needed all of the help we could get. Being a slut and a whore is one thing but an incestuous one is another. My story just keeps getting better and still there were degradations to follow that I had never imagined. This is the story of how I became an incest slut!

If it wasn't apparent yet; it is the little brother with the chip on his shoulder who eventually gained the upper hand with his perverted sexual appetites and the older sister, whose big tits and smug attitude who paid the price. I don't have quite the figure that caught men's eyes a decade ago but I'm still a full D-cup, depending on my diet I fit comfortably at 38 and can squeeze into a 36 bra. My hair falls over my shoulders and is a rich honey-brown with traces of blonde that used to be sun-streaked but now, come from a bottle. I have light-blue eyes that previous suitors said had a flirty glow. Pouty lips that often make me look sad or melancholy until a smile creases my face and the small "laugh lines" make me seem slightly more mature and a bit kinky. And plump "young girl" cheeks that only need a light dusting of powder, my mom called them "chipmunk cheeks" and as Billy claims, "Are just made for a blowjob!"

The real shifting of power and the first upset in the family dynamic, (after the unforced separation,) occurred about a year ago. Mom was desperate because the creditors were circling like hungry wolves. She and I worked at the same diner. She found work first and got me a job, neither of us were exactly skilled labor. Mom's tits are a cup-size larger than mine though gravity had taken effect. Even on cold nights and through her support bra, her nipples could be seen pointing south. Many an older man has gotten a smile by slipping a nice tip into the formidable cleavage that she presents. As a waitress, mom understands that some sexual byplay is necessary, but she has never given-in. Now, I wonder if that was a mistake. Her hair was still dyed blondish but darker roots and streaks of grey showed through. But she could tell dirty jokes and swish her hips with a leering smile, so she made okay tips. Her conscience was clear but the debt mounted.

I was a bit of a clumsy server and slightly absent-minded, but my uniform fit snugly and I knew to bend over a lot and wear the tight bra, so I brought home enough to keep us warm. I got propositioned but nothing to stir my interests and I still had enough of a conservative, religious upbringing to delay gratification. But two people living on minimum wage and tips, have a rough time paying all the bills and having a life, especially when the scales were unbalanced to begin with.

Then one evening as we were closing- mom had left hours before- Billy walked in. I hate to admit to it, but he was looking good. He mentioned that he is some kind of corporate trouble-shooter, whatever the hell that is. Spending money on a stylist and sharp clothes greatly improved his outer look and traveling in corporate circles widened his horizons. He has dark hair and eyes with a stubble on his firm jaw. He goes around 6'2" and 200, but who cares about any of that. He was surprised to see me there and was just out test-driving his new sportscar. After my closing duties, he offered to take me out for a drink and catch-up on the latest family doings. I didn't hate him, and he is my brother, so we hopped into the convertible and found a darkened lounge where it seemed, everybody knew him and fawned over him. I ordered a champagne cocktail.

At last call, I was merely feeling buzzed and we were getting along nicely, plus he said he liked the look of my hair blowing in the wind while he was driving. So I accompanied him back to his apartment. A valet parked the car and a doorman led us to the private elevator. White carpeting and dark furniture greeted us. Billy turned down the lights and poured the drinks. He had a fully stocked bar with champagne on ice, I was so impressed. I laid down on a leather divan and soft jazz played from some wall-mounted speakers. A cool breeze blew in from the penthouses' patio doors. When I kicked-off my work shoes, revealing the gravy-stained stockings laced with runners, he laughed that I'd look better in fishnets and stilettos. When I replied that they'd be difficult to work in, he answered that he could offer me a position where walking wasn't required and that he could get me the shoes. I smiled uneasily but was a bit intrigued.

The next hour drifted into an 80-proof conversation detailing the diner, mom, the house and the crushing debt. Around 4am, we were both sitting on his bed- he had given me a tour of the place. The alcohol was kicking-in and he seemed a kind ear, my mounting troubles spilled forth. When I mentioned our desperation, he reached into the drawer and produced a wad of money. I couldn't hide the reaction of my blue eyes and the gaping gap between my pink lips. With gentle prodding and my slight reluctance, I explained that it would take about four-hundred dollars to pay this month's bills. Without hesitation, he slipped four Benjamins from the roll and with his right hand holding them in his fingers, eased them into the deep cleavage formed by my tightly stretched bra. I smiled widely and was mumbling my blushing thanks, when I detected that his hand was not re-emerging from the front of my outfit. He leeringly snickered while giving a firm squeeze and I slapped his hand. That's when I realized that I had made a big mistake.

Billy just slowly removed his meaty hand from the front of my sweaty, rumpled blouse but not before depositing the cash securely between my musty globes and giving them one more firm squeeze. When the truly shocked expression left my face I muttered a few swear words and exclaimed, "Billy, what's gotten into you? Do you think that lending your sister a couple hundred bucks gives you the right to grope me? Who do you think I am?" He smugly replaced the cash roll in the drawer and leaned back against the headboard. Then he offered his reply.

"Do you think that I've forgotten who you are?" He pointedly pronounced every syllable. I've changed, I guess. I don't know if it's for the better. But you haven't changed at all, have you?" I felt remorseful and small, and the folded paper bills were hot and sharp against my tits. "As for the money...," he continued. That's where I cut him off.

I had thought briefly, in other recent low points of my life, that I could probably still make good money as a stripper. In younger days I could picture my firm tits and long hair in sequins and tassels. It wouldn't be an easy transition. My mind would ponder the morality and my ego would worry about the effects on mom and friends. I could see me with a stack of money like my brother's, then I would look in the mirror. Not just the torturous biblical implications haunted me but the actual reflection staring back. I was now much closer to thirty than to twenty! What kind of drunken, drooling assholes would still stuff my G-string enough to make this a worthy endeavor, because the first guy who said that I was too old, or saggy would cause me to stomp my five-inch heels on his head and storm out the door.

But the implied insult from my brother still hurt. "Did you think you could buy me for four hundred bucks? I'm your sister... your older sister. And since you have money and we need help, it's your obligation to help us. What did you expect? Am I supposed to strip for you? Did you think you could get me drunk and get your jollies with me? It would take a thousand dollars just for you to see my tits." I was now hysterical and just blathering and he put an end to it quickly.

"Jenny, if I were shopping for whores, there are plenty of them younger and sexier than you." I stopped cold. He was just staring at me, his eyes regarding my quivering body like I was meat on a hook. I shriveled under his gaze and his biting comment. "And four hundred bucks to squeeze your tits, are you kidding? It's only because you're my sister that I would offer anything at all. And I won't ever forget the way that my older sister and my mother treated me. Tell me, exactly what obligation do you believe that I am under?" As he was tormenting me, and his voice grew more vociferous, he took hold of my wrist as if I might make a mad dash out into the darkness at five in the morning, barelegged and stumbling drunk.

I was slightly dizzy and extremely tired. His brutal summation cut me down a size and left me shaken. Anything would have been an improvement over listening to this harangue that was filled with bitterness and held more than a little, truth to it. As if I was the younger sibling and been caught doing or saying something wrong, he lectured me until I shook with fright. My head nodded in agreement as he listed my faults and I only wanted to make amends. My mind drifted to the appropriate penance that would excuse my years of bad behavior. I had completely missed the minute that he lowered his zipper and exposed his hard cock.

I only noticed the newest addition to our private party when he placed my hand around the thick shaft of his pulsating organ and with his hand controlling mine, he glided our combined palms along the full length of his sturdy erection. I was transfixed at how briskly this situation had devolved. My mind was reeling and my thoughts were muddled. It was late and we were laying semi-upright, side-by-side on his big bed. At some point in this interrogation, while my fingers nervously plucked at the holes in my stockings, I must have torn them to shreds and ripped them from my sweaty legs. In doing so, I guess that my skirt got lifted above my waist, revealing the smallest of thong underwear and leaving very little to the imagination. I must have conveniently looked the part of the role that I was destined to play.

If I knew that someone would be eyeing my pussy tonight, I may have worn more decent underwear or atleast have shaved closer. Blondish-brown curls lapped up the sides of my damp panties and the fragrance was more than just normal bodily odor. I was obviously filling the room with the scent of my passion. Something about this smothering session with my brother was causing incestuous, domineering fantasies to roil the blood in my uterus. His free hand had worked its way around my shoulders and was again playing with my tits, though this time outside of my blouse. Even as his deft fingers managed the buttons and unloosened my top. I watched in a haze as my own hand, under his grip, stroked the alabaster column of flesh that seemed to grow wider and longer, right before my eyes.