Use your hands

You feel awkward and nervous looking down on your moaning sister. You know what must be done, but you are nevertheless loathe to do it.

“Sabine,” Brigette whimpers. “Please.”

You shudder and kneel at her side. You do not speak, not trusting yourself to do so. As gently as you may, you reach to her breasts and take hold of them. They are thick and firm, like ripe fruit. You have seen farmers do this on their cows, though such comparisons make your shame yet more acute. Gently, you begin to knead the firm flesh, massaging as gently as your calloused fingers may. At first it is too hard, and her thick milk squirts and splashes your neophytes robes repeatedly, but in time you develop a rhythm and your gentle touch sends her milk dribbling in rivers down her jade breasts to pool on the floor between her legs. You flush deeply at the whorish moans your sister makes as you milk her, and the musky scent of her arousal as her pre leaks from her cunt does not help.

In time, the flow from her nipples is reduced from a stream to a trickle, and finally only the rare tear of milk shines. You release her breasts and lean back, exhausted emotionally, and you are not the only one. Brigette has fallen asleep where she lies against the stone, wallowing in her own thick juices. You cringe and remove your robe, trying to dry her. You manage, somewhat. By then you can barely keep your eyes open. Surrendering, you lie down next to Brigette, careful not to touch the pools of her milk on the floor, and spread your robe over you and her as a sparse blanket. As the fire burns low you eventually find sleep, but it is a long journey, and the reward is fitful and haunted by dreams.