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Foster Mother 2: The Perfect Sister

A sibling rivalry turns into more

“I hate you and you’re the worst person I know,” I cried out in fury at my foster sister, Samantha.

She was my closest sibling and we were practically best friends. When we were both seventeen, I spent far more time with her or around her than anyone else. We were not blood, but we sure acted like it at times. With her being merely weeks older than I am, it tended to lead to disagreements between us. This anger and contempt I harbored against her wasn’t out of hate or rage but stemmed from jealousy. She was the model of perfection in my mind, and anything I did was futile when compared to her.

She was the epitome of greatness to me; she studied hard in class to earn straight A’s, she trained long hours at the gym to lead the girls’ basketball team to victory, she even had so many friends that I couldn’t remember them all. To top it all off she was a stunning figure of beauty. She had an athletic body I could only dream of. She was toned in all the right places, lengthy brown hair that she always kept in a nice ponytail and developed breasts and backside that when compared, made me look like a two by four with legs.

“No one wants to listen to your dumb classic rock,” she spewed back, switching the station on our radio.

“It’s way better than your pop country bullshit,” I argued back.

With my back turned I mumbled, “You only listen to that because everyone else does,” and tried to hide my retort.

“Listen here, you scrawny ginger rat, you wouldn’t know good music if it bit you in the ass. You’re a total weirdo, everyone thinks so. That’s why guys don’t want anything to do with you. I wouldn’t be surprised if you died alone as a crazy old cat lady,” she barked back with one hand on her hip and pointing at me with the other.

“At least I can think for myself, you bitch,” I snapped, fueled by her harsh words.

She then let out a terrifying scream, like a possessed confederate banshee hell-bent on unleashing her fury. Physically, I was no match for her. Before I could react, she tackled me face down on the bed. She dug her knee straight into my spine and held my red hair in her hand so tight, it felt like the roots were about to exit through my scalp. It was painful, but I could feel my pussy starting to drip. I never really considered myself a lesbian, but I was getting insatiably turned on.

Does she feel it too? I wondered, as Samantha started to loosen her grip. She took her knee out of my back and began to straddle me. Through the back of my shirt, I could feel the lips of her slit on the small of my posterior. She held me down on the bed by the back of my wrists, and whispered in my ear, “Think about all that I could do to you,” with a voice that bordered domination and desire.

“What in the Sam Hell is going on in here?” Mother’s voice conquered the room. As she closed the door behind her I could see the fires bellowing in her eyes. Already in her silk nightgown, getting ready to retire for the evening, she must have overheard the commotion while brushing her hair.

Samantha immediately released me from her captivity. I turned over, trying to conceal my obvious arousal, and tried not to make direct eye contact with Mother.

“She started it,” Samantha whined while giving me a little shove.

“I don’t care who started it, I’m ending it,” she said turning her attention to Samantha.

“You know better than to pick on your sister,” Mother condescended.

Honestly, her assessment that I was a victim was more hurtful than the punishment we were about to receive. I held back a hurricane, knowing full well that she viewed us as unequal. I was just the poor ginger orphan that was defenseless and weak, while Samantha was more like the strong confident daughter she could be proud of.

I was first to go over her lap, of course. To this day, I always felt like she just didn’t like me. Not to mention the fact that I was the one who was attacked. She was going to beat me, not because I deserved it, but because she wanted to.

When the first slaps came, I took them in stride. I knew the only way that I could outdo ‘Miss Perfect’ was to keep my composure during this trial. However, my false bravado faded quickly as she continued to spank me. With each smack, I went from a stoic model of a warrior princess to a wailing schoolgirl.

I slumped my head downward and tried to shield my discomfort, but I could tell Samantha was informed of my distress. Mother’s barrage on my backside continued as she alternated cheeks, and even with the boundary of jeans to soften the blows, the sound of the spanks, bouncing off my ass, filled the house.

When she finished with me I tried to curl up and comfort my roasted buns, but it was no use. She didn’t move from her seat on the side of my bed. More thoughts began to run through my mind, oh my… she’s actual going to spank her. Miss perfect daughter, miss pride and joy over her lap begging for forgiveness. Watching her get what she deserved was going to be the highlight of my day.

Without hesitation or pleading of any kind, she laid down obediently over Mother’s knees. God…Even the way she takes a punishment is sexy. I could see her firm toned buttocks even better once she had gotten into position. To no advantage of hers, she wore skin-tight spandex leggings that outlined her butt perfectly and held it firmly in place.

Smack after smack rained down on her toned ass and the sound of a good spanking once again filled the air. This time there weren’t any sufficient garments to guard her bottom or muffle the noise. By watching her light-colored leggings, I could see the outline of her skin start to turn red.

“Ouch,” Samantha cried as she jerked her head back.

This is it. I thought, finally it was her turn.

“Watch it, Samantha,” Mother warned as she began to spank her harder.

The constant slapping finally transformed my idyllic paragon of a sister into a tantrum-causing brat, whining and crying over Mother’s lap. I knew it wouldn’t end well for her. Crying was one thing, but squirming and bucking around was something that Mother hated.

“Alright! That’s enough!” she shouted.

I was amazed to see Mother slip her flat palm into Samantha’s elastic waistband and pull her leggings down to her ankles. I stirred, for a moment, while I gazed at Samantha’s sore beaten bottom. It was once a nice taut and pale butt that had been reduced to a sweaty and stinging red mess.

With the tears rushing down her cheeks, I no longer saw the powerful, in-charge woman Samantha had always been. In this situation she was completely subservient to Mother’s demands.

 “Abigail! Fetch me the hairbrush,” Mother ordered.

Oh no… the hairbrush. I dreaded the hairbrush. Now, over the years Mother had spanked us with different things, but it was mostly her hand that bore the brunt of the work. I had only gotten the hairbrush once and it was the type of sharp shocking pain I never wanted to receive again. This time she was going to apply it right to Samantha’s bare bottom.

When I handed her the wooden veneer-backed brush, she only acknowledged me with a simple nod.

“Now, you are really going to feel it,” she threatened with the brush held tightly in one hand, while the other held Samantha in place.

CRACK! The first strike pierced my eardrums with its horrifying sound. This spanking was also not “three smacks and that’s it” nor was it slow and methodical. She paddled Samantha as fast and as hard as she could, making sure that the sound of her smacked bottom was louder than her cries.

When she was finished, the hues of my sister’s crimson buns were dark and deep, with definite bruising covering a portion in the middle where the hairbrush had done the most damage.

After that, I reflected on the ordeal we had each suffered, and no longer felt any animosity toward my sister. I genuinely felt sorry for her, and at this point I was willing to compromise. This way neither of us would have to go through this type of torture again. We laid on our stomachs on the bed, with our blistered cheeks in the air. The pain began to subside, while the arousal returned. I watched her glowing bottom twitch in the dim light of our bedroom, speculating and wondering if we could pick up where we left off.

“I’m sorry, Samantha,” I sympathized with her.

“I’m sorry too, Abby,” she responded with a few errant tears in her eyes.

Without another word, I embraced her backside with my arm. I managed to cover the length of her bottom from where I was lying. Right before we shared our first kiss, I felt the simmering steam escape, filling the room.


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