By popular demand, I've written a third and final part to this story. In part three, Peter deals with some necessary changes to his and Francis' life.
Content warnings/tags: incest (sister/brother); explicit nonconsent and coercion; captivity; verbal degradation, including slut-shaming, whorephobic language, and animal comparisons; clit torture/abuse as a form of punishment; oral; anal; public humiliation; exhibitionism; cuckqueaning; medical abuse; systemic misogyny.
Peter found himself quite comfortable in the role of his sister's caretaker.
After the incident with the groundskeeper, he had been obligated to call in a psychiatrist, capitulating to his parents' concern for their reputation; he had worried, briefly, about the outcome, but Dr. Melville--the same psychiatrist, of course, who had originally provided his signature on the paperwork which rendered Francis legally insane--had been more helpful than anything else.
It turned out that Dr. Melville didn't believe in such a thing as the female climax. He declared that what the groundskeeper had witnessed in the garden was a paroxysm of female psychosexual delusion: a physical convulsion inspired by a frailness of the mind, which he felt should be avoided at all costs.
To that end, he provided Peter with an extremely useful item of clothing, something that the doctor called a waistcoat-restraint or a straitjacket: a sort of blouse which confined Francis' arms in the sewn sleeves, keeping them wrapped safely around her stomach and away from the temptation of her sex.
Peter had to admit that it was much more practical than his solution of cuffing her to the bed each night.
The good doctor also introduced another item into their household: a noisy little massager, not unlike those that Peter had known to be used by fellows on his university sports teams for sore muscles.
The doctor, of course, was not using it to treat muscle strain.
During special treatment sessions--which Peter was invited to observe, as Francis' primary caretaker and loving brother--Dr. Melville would apply the rattling wand of the machine to the mound of her sex while slipping a lubricated finger up her rear.
The finger, he explained to Peter, allowed him to feel the contractions in her body, so that he could pause the treatment as soon as she was at risk of suffering another paroxysm. In this way, he was able to provide some mitigation of the symptoms of her illness without making it worse.
"Only mitigation, doctor?" Peter asked, staring down at a red-faced, sweating Francis, who was sucking in great, heaving breaths and letting out long groans as she recovered from a short two-minute span at mercy of the doctor's machine. "There's no hope for a cure?"
"Not at this stage, I'm afraid," Dr. Melville said, sounding truly grieved. "Once a young woman reaches such a state as this, I have never seen her recover herself."
He switched the noisy machine on again. Francis immediately began to breath faster, her thighs shuddering and hips twisting as if she couldn't help but respond to the promise of more sensation, even knowing that it would be ripped away once again and leave her on the edge of release.
The practical effect of Dr. Melville's treatment was that the heavy pounding of the machine, applied carefully over the course of a half-hour or so, left Francis' delicate parts quite numb.
The session would only end once Dr. Melville could tease the machine's wand directly against her clitoris for five minutes or so without risking one of the dreaded psychosexual paroxysms. At that point, it was quite safe to leave Francis entirely unsecured for a few hours, as there was absolutely no risk of her bringing herself to climax through physical touch.
This was meant to allow for a bit of time where Francis might be able to participate normally in family life--going for walks without scandalizing the staff, for example, or eating dinner with their parents.
Once Dr. Melville departed for the day, Peter put this safe period to better use by making Francis kneel on the floor and suck his cock while inviting her to touch herself. He chuckled at the wet sound of her fingers working against her numb clit and the frantic little whining noises she made whenever she was able to delude herself into thinking that she was getting closer to climaxing.
"Did you hear the doctor, Frannie?" he asked as he rocked his hips, rubbing his cock against the roof of her mouth. "No cure for what's wrong with you. He has a facility for the treatment of women suffering from psychosexual mania, you know. An entire sanitarium full of women strapped in straitjackets day and night--except after he's pulverized their clits with that machine, I suppose."
Francis whimpered.
He tugged at her hair to press more firmly into her throat, chasing the vibrations. "I wonder if the doctor ever takes liberties? Would the women even complain to find a cock slipping between their lips or up their behinds? You certainly don't complain any more."
"Mmmnn," Francis responded pitifully, her body trembling as she sucked at him and worked her hand desperately between her legs. Then her throat clenched against the head of his cock and she swallowed, her eyelids fluttering and hips jolting, as if she had managed to squeeze some sensation from her pulverized cunt.
"Looks like you're enjoying that a bit too much. Hands off," Peter instructed sharply.
Francis whined pleadingly, but lifted her hands away from the wet mess between her thighs and reached behind herself to grab at the bedsheets. His thorough and attentive training of her had paid off; she was fully obedient to his every command, no matter how desperately frustrated she was.
"Don't fuss, now. Aren't you embarrassed?" he reprimanded, pumping his hips harder to fuck her mouth more roughly. "So many people who know what a hopeless harlot you are--and still, you're always begging for a come. Day in and day out you beg, even after the way you embarrassed yourself in front of the groundskeeper."
His sister whined and squirmed, tears gathering in her eyes, though it wasn't clear whether it was from the shame of his words or from the discomfort of how he used her.
"I would think a proper lady would never want to be seen that way again," he continued, his voice low and silky. "But we both know that's not what you are, is it? Here you are, humping away at the doctor's machine, at your own hand, at anything that will hold still long enough, all in hopes that you'll get a chance to finish."
Francis swallowed hard around him, her fingers twisting in the bedsheets.
"If that doctor weren't so set against it, you'd be squealing for him in every session, wouldn't you? You'd just lie there and ride that machine like a depraved bitch, screaming your head off--mm," he grunted, feeling his balls tighten and spasm in response to the increasingly distraught tone to his sister's whimpering cries and the way she began to suck more eagerly. "That's it, Frannie, finish me off--yes," he groaned, leaning forward and planting a hand on the bed as he started to come down her throat.
Then he grabbed a handful of Francis' hair and pulled her off of him, rocking his hips to rub his hard shaft across her face as he shuddered and pumped out another spray of seed across her forehead and into her hair.
"Oh, God," she cried hoarsely, barely flinching away. "Peter, please!"
