Edited as ever by shygirlwhore. All characters within are 18 or over.
I decided to post this entry in the series under Incest as that seemed to be the salient feature of the story, despite the D/s theme; the two previous installments are under BDSM. If you want to know what the background to this one is, you should give them a look.
* * * * *
It was during the summer holidays, when his older sister was home from university, that Carl was caught one Friday morning stealing a pair of her knickers. He'd been dreading this moment for weeks now, and it came as the culmination to a regular series of previous transgressions; to think he'd been relieved when she'd returned, not for the 'usual' reasons but simply because it became a lot more credible to sneak an odd pair of her underwear into the wash every week when she was actually in residence and so he had been running out of clean pairs. That, and he now had a much larger selection to choose from.
It came as quite a shock to Helena Simmons herself, particularly in light of the otherwise inexplicably decent and downright respectful manner with which her little brother had been treating her since she'd returned to the family residence a week or so before; he'd been unfailingly polite every time he'd broken the bashful quiet that he'd adopted around her. The paradox was astonishing.
Several months before Carl would have been equally astonished to learn that he'd soon be caught with a hand in his own sister's underwear drawer, but then the last few months had had a profound effect on the eighteen year-old. Ever since Miss Hunt began his 'special' regimen of instruction in their after-school sessions at his sixth form, his horizons (among other things) had been decisively widened. His girlfriend Jodie, his other Mistress, was also well on board with the new curriculum; helping reinforce the lessons to great effect outside of the classroom. And for every session of instruction on a Friday afternoon, at college or latterly over the holidays at Miss Hunt's apartment, Carl was required to wear a pair of women's knickers, specifically his sister's by Miss Hunt's decree. After all, he was still too pathetic a specimen of unreconstructed masculine conceit to be allowed to own his own.
So, Carl had settled upon a particular routine: on Friday morning, before college or now during the holidays whenever he plucked up the nerve, he would slyly sneak a pair for his later use. Conscious of their contraband nature, he'd settled on Friday morning as the latest possible point for the heist to minimise the amount of time the incriminating knickers were in his possession every week. Carrying them with him, a guilty secret that he was commanded not to think of as a trophy, he would change into them around lunchtime or later whenever he could retire to a restroom for a little privacy, to be ready for his afternoon's instruction.
Of course, mindful of the humility this lesson was supposed to be instilling and eager to demonstrate his newfound compliance, he'd taken to actually putting on the knickers sooner and sooner since the holidays began in order to wear them for longer. One slight extra complication with this initiative was having to hide the strident stiffening of his prick whenever he allowed himself to luxuriate in the feel of wearing the feminine garment. His Mistresses had not been slow to notice his strange mix of excitement and embarrassment, and each had their own ways of dealing with his shameful erections; notably, neither woman had tried to discourage them.
He was already trying uncomfortably to conceal a semi-hardness as he stole into his sister's bedroom that morning. It was a risk attempting the theft while she was in the house, but at least their parents were already out for the day. He'd waited for the most opportune moment, satisfying himself that Helena was safely ensconced in the bathroom for her leisurely morning shower, then psyching himself up to do the deed; realising that he was less likely to be discovered while wearing the knickers rather than just carrying them, he'd resolved to put them on then and there. Thus his belt was already loosened and he wore no underwear of his own as he crept into Helena's room, over to her chest of drawers, drew open the one in the bottom right corner to reveal its hidden bounty...
Helena had decided at the last minute not to wash her hair today, and had wandered back across the upstairs hallway to grab a hair band to keep it out of the way in the shower.
The contents of the drawer were an undiminished marvel to Carl, although this was the third time he'd experienced it. It was only since Miss Hunt began to teach him the proper respect for the women in his life that his outlook had changed in this way; he would never have been so astounded by the contents of his own sister's underwear drawer beforehand. But now each of these pairs of knickers, from the provocative lingerie that Helena kept concealed underneath to the plain old cotton items that covered them, were articles of wonder and laden with promise as tools of his instruction. And of course they were still young women's underwear, sister or not, and he was an eighteen year-old boy. Feeling too humble as yet to attempt the lingerie (and frankly terrified of getting caught in them), Carl had just lifted out his chosen pair: a modest fully-covering pair, nevertheless they were new and of quality manufacture in a soft maroon fabric. He got them up to his face, managed to catch a sniff of the pleasant, fresh scent of the detergent from their recent washing...
"What the fuck?!"
Carl's trousers, pre-loosened, peeled open at the crotch and began to fall down as he jerked around to face his incandescent sister. He bent over, slouching awkwardly to grab their waistline in his free hand to avoid them slipping down entirely. He froze there, hunched forward and with guilt all over his face, his nakedly erect penis peeping from beneath the hem of his shirt and Helena's knickers clutched incriminatingly in his other hand.
His sister managed to put the full weight of her scorn and disgust behind the slap that snapped his head sideways. Carl's cheek burned, his eyes began instantly to water. He hobbled backward, trying to placate or evade, but there was nowhere to go; he was trapped in Helena's room with her entire disbelieving fury between him and the door.
"What are you doing, you sick..."
It was only as she waded in, catching him with another ringing slap that built on the stinging foundation of the first, that Carl realised his sister was clutching a towel around her with the arm not assaulting his face. Helena seemed to remember her own nakedness at just the same moment, and there was a pause in the onslaught. She gazed at him silently, her eyes molten and ferocious, uncertain how to proceed or even process what she was seeing: her own brother with her stolen underwear in hand; trousers down, dick hard and swinging all over her room. She thought back to last week, when she had thought she might be missing a pair of knickers after the wash; at the time she'd dismissed it as the work of her imagination. Now she could only wonder otherwise.
Perhaps hoping for an opening by which he might escape, Carl tried to stumble forward. No luck. He earned himself another punishing slap, whimpered and fell back, dropping to his knees in a tangled heap of his own fallen trousers and bowing low, grovelling.
"I-I'm sorry, Mistr-"
He cut himself off, shocked at the word that had tried to escape his lips. It was too late.
"What... What did you call me?"
Helena's voice had gone quiet. Like a vengeful Valkyrie, she stood astride the doorway with legs braced apart as if against a storm. She shared his sandy blonde hair, but without the desired hairband it hung in a silken fountain around her shoulders. She still held the towel around herself, but the fingers of her free hand flexed as if eager to further assert their force upon Carl's battered cheek. She stilled them for a moment by reaching behind her and closing the door with a sinister, decisive click.
It felt to Carl as though he had no choice. He assumed the prescribed position: knelt down, bent forward, forearms flat on the floor and forehead pressed into the carpet. He let the crimson knickers fall from his grasp before him, an offering of appeasement; a signal of submission.
"P-please, forgive me," the boy snivelled as his eyes leaked sullen tears of shame and reaction to the pain still throbbing in the side of his face, "I h-have to. I'm not w-worthy to have my own..."
Helena struggled with her own embarrassment, acutely uncomfortable in the circumstances, but found relief in seeing her brother humbly avert his gaze. Along with relief, a certain empowerment welled up inside her and she moved over toward her bedroom cupboard to hunt out a set of clothes. With a quick dart of her foot, she hooked the underwear from the floor in front of Carl's cringing form; it looked like they were still clean, and they were the most expedient option right now.
"Your own...? Euch, you mean your own knickers? You mean, you wear them? Fuck, when did you become such a sick little..."
