Life with your benevolent sister

What would life be with a sister who lets you act out your sexual fantasies?

It was a peaceful day. My parents weren't returning from work anytime soon, and my sister was hanging out with her friends, so she would come home late. On days like these, it was opportune to fulfill my deepest, most twisted carnal wants.

I rummaged through the dirty laundry basket for my sister's unwashed socks. They were visibly discolored and bore a pungent smell. Regardless, I took deep sniffs, holding them close to my face. The fragrant odor was strangely enticing.

All chaste behavior of mine would be expelled when the prospect of my sister's feet came into the picture. I would obsessively stare at them when possible--when she was unknowingly benevolent enough to grace me with her bare feet. When I felt like I could, I would take photos for later use. But my wonted sniffing of my sister's socks was interrupted when the owner of the foregoing socks entered the room. I had been so caught up in my sexual desires that I hadn't heard her come in.

"Are.. you okay?" she asked, nonplussed.

I jolted backward as a spiky sense of anxiety stabbed through my body.

"Are you like... one of those perverts who like feet...?"

"I-I was just sorting the laundry."

"I saw you, and you were definitely smelling my socks."

I stayed silent, not a word escaping from my mouth. I had nothing to say: no excuses and no explanation.

From then onward, the situation developed very awkwardly between me and my sister. She knew my secret and my degeneracy, and I knew she knew it. She would ask me shocking questions about my fetish, trying to inquire deeper and understand it further. Of course, I tried not to answer so carelessly, but she began threatening to expose my actions to our parents--it was classic blackmail. I felt no option but to elucidate any matter she wished. I told her how I felt about her feet--how I covet to caress them with my tongue and taste them. I told her how habitually I went through her footwear. And she even made me tell her how oft I masturbated to the mere thought of her feet. It was as embarrassing as it sounds telling her all of my forbidden thoughts that never should surface.

Any predicament of this manner could have unfolded for me in a gravely unsavory way. Still, somehow, my sister barely seemed to mind my abominable sexual mishaps, although I found that she would always have her feet covered when near me. Even still, after a certain point, she began offering me her feet in exchange for services, like doing her chores or schoolwork. I, of course, would unquestioningly accept every time. The first time she came to me with such a proposal--I remember it quite well--I was relaxing in the living room with my sister, and our mother had her usual glower, scolding my sister about responsibility. She hadn't done her chores, and to make it worse for her, our mother would superadd many more duties for my sister duly to perform. I suppose she felt it was almost too much for her and, in her absolute laziness, decided to casually offer me time with her feet, but only if I finished up her work. At first, I was taken aback--as anyone would be--but after thinking about it for a second, I realized how much I yearned to grovel at her feet, going away at them without limit, and thus began our mutually beneficial relationship.

Every Saint Valentine's Day, I came home as lonely as any other time. So pitiable I must have been, as my sister generously took it upon herself to attend to me. When she let me at her feet for my lack of a valentine, I felt frustration, yet contemporaneous beatitude. That entire day--or what was left of it--I spent following her feet like an obsessive dog, occasionally licking and, sometimes, rubbing them as I went. She would never admit of this any other time; I usually only had gotten a specific, curt amount of time, for example, 5 or 10 minutes, to engage myself in her feet. And I wrung all potential pleasure from those brief moments as possible. I let my tongue flow along her arch and allow them between her toes with haste, yet not too swift as to lose any enjoyment.

It was an unwillingly expedited process, but at that moment--on Saint Valentine's Day--when she permitted me her feet for an indefinite amount of time, It felt excellent to slowly and methodically experience her gorgeous feet. I worked my way up inchmeal, enjoying every crevice. I gave them deep kisses with more passion than the French. And at the end, I would slowly suck her toes individually until it was time to repeat the cycle. There were necessary breaks when my tongue ran too dry, and in the interim, I simply offered her massages. As I went through my worshiping process throughout the day, she would barely even pay me any mind; she was preoccupied with her phone or any other typical distraction.

By the next Saint Valentine's Day, this had become a tradition. I would come home, disappointed in my dearth of love, and she would give me her feet to amend the situation.

This year, I came home as I typically do. This was partly because I always had my sister; I felt I needed not to find anyone else, for they may disappoint me.

"No luck this year, I presume."

I shook my head.

She sighed deeply and removed her socks, inviting me to my knees and the ground.