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Tess stretched her arms out in front of her, aching with need, and decided she was definitely not above begging.
“Now, Pat? Please. Fuck, please.”
But Patrick could never be rushed. Patrick was slow and steady and ten pounds of patience in a five pound bag. Tess, their parents had been fond of saying, would have been born a month early if Patrick had let her, and Patrick might have been born a month late if Tess hadn’t been in there with him to drag him out.
But now they were no longer sharing a womb. Just Patrick’s room, in their parents’ house, while Mom and Dad were gorging on the cruise line’s idea of a buffet and Tess and Patrick spent their spring break housesitting and . . . other things.
It was mostly other things.
Patrick was behind her. He was looking at her. Just knowing that, knowing he was back there watching her prostrate herself like that, lifting her ass in the air and offering him the sight of it, just like he’d ordered her to, was so fucking hot that Tess’s cunt flexed and drooled, oh holy fuck, how fucking embarrassing that would be if it were anybody but Patrick, who at age two had literally toilet trained himself and then her, because once Patrick knew how to do something he considered it his sworn duty to teach Tess to do it, too.
She whimpered, aching, wanting to beg, knowing it would do precious little fucking good.
Patrick would touch her when he was ready.
Tess was expected to wait.
It was good for her, Patrick said, to learn a little self control. He enjoyed teaching it to her.
“Tell me,” he said quietly, “how wet you are right now.”
She could have torn the rug up with her own teeth from frustration, but she fought the urge back under control. Focused on Patrick, and his voice, and the thing he’d told her to do.
“I’m dripping.”
“Mmm. Why?”
Tess craned her neck, trying to see him without changing position. He would be leaning casually against his desk. Button-down shirt and jeans, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, arms folded. Patrick knew damn well how to make patient look like all kinds of right now. His legs would be casually crossed at the knee, the toe of one expensive leather slipper braced against the floor, because Patrick was the kind of guy who wore leather slippers and actually looked after them, really looked after them, with the oils and conditioning or whatever the fuck you were supposed to do to leather slippers. Tess didn’t know. Tess never knew shit like that. But she sure as fuck knew why she was wet, and she told him.
“I want you to fuck me.”
“Has anybody ever told you, Teresa,” he mused, “that you have an absolutely filthy mouth?”
“You fucking know they have!” she whined, wiggling her ass in desperation. “You tell me that all the time! And then you tell me if I like to have a dirty mouth so much I should wrap it around your cock so you can actually get some use out of it, and I do. And I like it. And I would do it again right now, if you wanted, only Jesus Christ I need you to fuck me.”
Patrick laughed low in his throat. She heard him shift his weight and cross the floor, his pace slow and measured, until he was standing beside her.
“Reach down and touch yourself.”
She obeyed, greedy for the contact with her clit. Her cunt. Christ, she was wet. She rubbed herself attentively, felt the pleasure spark, and build . . .
“That’s enough. Hands off.”
She obeyed him, she always obeyed him, but she was a fraction too slow for his exacting standards. His hand whistled down through the air to strike a punitive blow on her flank. She yelped but managed to keep both knees planted firmly on the rug, like she’d been told.
An expectant pause. Then the reminder, “Manners, Tess.”
“Thank you,” Tess breathed.
“For?” Patrick prompted, still so patient and unperturbed. A rush of fevered impatience took hold of Tess in that moment. She dropped her head to the ground so she could look up at him out of the corner of her eye, eyes wide and limpid, and whispered baby-soft and lisping sweet,
“Thank you for my punishment, Daddy.”
“Jesus, Tess,” Patrick muttered, and Tess felt the rush of triumph that always accompanied breaking Patrick’s composure, even for a second. “All right. That mouth can definitely be put to better use.” He strode behind her and she listened to the squeak and rattle of his desk chair wheels. Then he dropped into it and said, coldly, “Come here.”
She started to rise, but he stopped her with a word.
“Crawl.”
So she turned and crawled. Slow and sinuous, the way he liked her to, never breaking eye contact as she reached the space he’d made between his legs, as she sat back on her haunches, posture perfect, always perfect for Patrick, and awaited his permission to take out his cock.
He released her with a nod. She reached forward with all due reverence and awe. She loved taking her time with this part, drawing down the zipper, eyes flicking up to his face like she was nervous, like this was new. Like this was only their first time, when really their first time had been three years ago, when she’d come to his dorm room freshman year and somehow, with the right combination of alcohol and intimacy borne of a lifetime sharing each other’s space, they’d fallen into . . . this.
This was the way she blew through every other part of her life like a hurricane, but with Patrick it was safe to be still and quiet (well, okay, quieter) because he would never make her feel too small. How she could say yes sir to him in that sweet, gentle voice and take his discipline and his dick and come, holy fuck did he make her come, just from the pleasure of knowing she could use herself to please him.
This was the way Patrick, who kept an iron clad control on every other part of himself, every part of his life, would lose control with her in a way she had never imagined was even possible for him. How he’d run rivers of sweat down his back, fucking her into the sand at their cousin’s beach wedding like something inside him had snapped, broken, like she’d cut his strings and there was finally nothing to hold him back.
This was the way he looked at her now, watching her fondle his half-hard cock, worship it with wide eyes and gentle kisses and her tongue, he loved it when she used her tongue, loved to watch her lick slow, perfect lines up the side all the way to the top. Then she would press a kiss to the head, flick him a sweet, bashful smile (Patrick liked shy girls. She’d never been a shy girl, but she would pretend to be, for him) and return to the base to begin again.
It always felt like a victory, making her brother hard. She still couldn't figure out why. It wasn’t like she’d dreamed of this day for years, doodling his name in notebooks or what the fuck ever you usually did. He was just Patrick. She knew him. She’d always known him. And now that they were this, now that she could make his cock stand up hard and ready in front of her, now that she could wrap her lips around him and bob her head up and down with pretty, mewling little whimpers and cries so he could hear how big he was, choking herself on the size of him until his eyes shifted out of focus and she knew he was about to unload down her throat . . . well. Tess supposed it was like she knew him better than anybody else ever would.
And she liked that.
She swallowed as he came, sucked him through each spurt so he’d know how grateful she was for the opportunity, and then she sat back, posture perfect, to await further instruction.
Patrick cleared his throat. His eyes came back into focus, and he looked down at her cunt.
“Touch yourself. Stop before you come.”
Tess leaned back to give him a better view. She didn’t make too much of a show of this; Patrick preferred to see her desperate. So she just rubbed, feverish, frantic. Rubbed her clit until it was red and stiff and standing forward for her brother to see, and just in that moment that the sweetness pressed up inside her, just in that moment before she clenched and clutched at the wrongness of nothing inside her, she broke contact, gasping, dropping her hand and looking up to show him what a good girl she could be when Patrick was giving the orders.
He was already up, she saw. Both standing, and . . . the other thing. His cock was hard again and he was lowering his jeans, nodding behind her at the bed.
“Lie down. Legs open. Beg me for it.”
She flew to obey. Flung herself down on the perfectly-made bed, disarranging the soft blue duvet cover with the dent her body made. She parted her legs as wide as she could, looked him in the eye and begged.
“I need your cock, Patrick, fuck, I need it. Can you put it in me? Please. Please, I need you inside me. I need to feel you split me open, Pat, nobody can make it good as you. Patrick!” his name drew her voice higher; tighter. Her need bled through the begging, into her tone, her eyes, the way her hands were starting to shake as she held her legs apart and showed him everything she longed for him to claim. “Please, fucking please.”
He moved toward her, unclothed now, breath coming in tight, barely controlled gasps. How he found the resolve to stop at the side of the bed and stare down, waiting for her to continue, she would probably never know, but she found a resolve equal to it as she begged him again.
“Patrick don’t make me wait anymore, please, fuck.” She cast around frantically for any reserves of inspiration. “You can hurt me with your cock if you like. I know you love to make my cunt hurt. I love it too. I love feeling you there, even after you’re gone. I love the ache I get when you’re not inside me, it makes me miss you more. I miss you now. Please, Patrick, fucking please!”
She was so far outside her own understanding of the words coming out of her mouth that by the time he climbed on top of her she wasn’t even sure which plea had been the one that did it. She only knew she was crying, really full on sobbing, as he drove his cock inside her and she screamed. If she’d thought she was ready for it, Patrick soon showed her what ready was. He set a pace fit to make her eyes roll back, pounding her into the blankets beneath her until the driving, domineering force of it was all she could feel, filling her, claiming her, making her his. When she came around him, cunt clenching greedily at the thick cock that filled it, it was with tearful pleas that she begged him to forgive her for it, she knew he hadn’t said she could yet, she was sorry, she was so greedy, he could spank her for it, she didn’t mind.
In answer Patrick paused, stilled his drive, and kissed her. Once on each cheek, chasing her tears just as he had the first time he’d pressed into her, so gentle, so hard, and she’d known what it felt like to be filled.
“You’re allowed to come, Teresa,” he said softly. “Your pleasure is mine, too. You know that.”
Then he resumed his pace.
Tess shut her eyes and felt him there. The thick, dominating drive of him, the size of him, the way she never wanted this to end and already missed it as if it had. She belonged to Patrick in a way she could never belong to anybody else, and nothing mattered more to her than that he know it.
So she parted her legs even as her cunt ached, still oversensitive from her climax, and she let him use her. She revelled in the feeling of being used. Of knowing her cunt was his, made for his cock, made to take it, to be used by him, filled by him, owned by—
She had almost no warning. One moment she was sore and split by a cock that felt too big for her cunt, and the next moment a wave of pleasure was building, cresting, about to crash over her again. She barely had a moment to gasp out her plea, determined not to make the same error twice:
“Please may I—”
“Yes,” Pat growled, just as she did, as the second orgasm rolled through her, proof of how completely she belonged to him, how much a part of him she was, and he of her. She was still crying, or had started crying again, she wasn’t sure. Her cunt milked him so perfectly, so gratefully, she was absurdly proud of it. As she was still coming she heard his grunt, his gasp, and then felt him fill her too.
Tess sank into the bed beneath her brother, stuffed, sore, still. Patrick blanketed her with his weight, kissed her eyelids, and sighed.
“Manners, Tess,” he murmured, and she stirred beneath him, instantly contrite.
“Thank you, sir,” she said softly. Was it her imagination, or did his cock actually stir inside her at the honorific? She decided to test it. “Thank you for using my cunt, sir.”
Okay definitely not her imagination. Which meant she had a few minutes’ respite, tops, and then he’d be ready to go again.
Meanwhile, though, he rested on her, an arm curled around her head, his mouth against her ear. Patrick didn’t say thank you, not when they were doing this, but that was all right. He knew what she needed to hear.
“Good girl, Teresa,” he murmured. His breath warmed her ear. “That’s my good girl.”
Tess sank into the praise, warmed by it from the inside out, and . . . well that definitely was not her imagination. Her aching cunt had fluttered happily in reply, around the stirring cock that still filled it.
Made for each other.
Tess shut her eyes, sleepy, content, and smiled.