"Yer need a bra Chris," fifteen year old Mark chortled at his fifty six year old uncle, as the lad barged into the tiny bathroom to get his hair gel.

No sooner had he said it, the older man gloomily contemplating his burgeoning breasts in the shaving mirror, than the lad delved into a billowing stinking laundry box and fished out a greying well worn brassiere. He flourished it at a flummoxed Chris, one half of whose pock marked face was covered in shaving cream.

"Don't be so fuckin cheeky," he retorted, trying to avoid the youth slinging the distressed old garment round his chest. "Yer know I'm on 'ormone treatment with the prostate cancer. I'm not tryin to make them bigger."

Mark ignored him and actually managed to clip the back strap together on his slim wiry relative.

"Ere, put your arms in ere," Mark cajoled, extending the shoulder straps of the underwear which threatened to come apart at the seams. "Pack it in Mark, I'm tryin ter shave, I'll cut meself," Chris moaned, brandishing a cut throat razor and waving it at the lad, who ducked although knowing it was nowhere near him and without malice. "I can't get me arms in there now."

"ere, wot's goin' on in there?" came Sharon's voice, shoving the door open. "Fuck me our Mark, yer fuckin' late again. I'll get another letter from school, get out, I want the washin, sorry Chris."

The youth stuck his tongue out at his forty eight year old mother, who aimed a swipe at his ear and missed, making her huge, sagging, braless tits wobble violently under her thin Matalan tee shirt and dodged out of the bathroom cackling with mirth. Chris and his sister exchanged exasperated grimaces and got on with their chores, but then Sharon noticed the brassiere severely stretched round him and giggled.

"Wot you playin at our Chris?" she asked, facing the mirror and attracting his attention by snapping the elastic on him.

"It was 'im," Chris, remarked. "Cheeky fucker, 'ee was on about me tits. I can't 'elp it. 'ere take it off will yer, sorry about yer bra sis?"

Sharon unclipped it, the elastic still powerful enough to ping back and leave a mark on Chris's inner arm and he flinched.

"It's OK, it's our Lisa's and she won't mind. She don't know either does she? Anyway it would fit yer I reckon, if yer need one, puttin it on proply that is," she chuckled.

"Fer fucks sake Shar, do I need a bra? Not like you and yer udders," Chris tetchily retorted, drying his face and nodding through the mirror at his sister's huge bosoms.

She dropped the garment back in the box and stepped close behind him, squashing her chest against his naked back, her arms clasped round his front and hands snaking down inside his Primark underpants. He squirmed at her expert touch, his cock responding instantly.

"I think me udders are just what yer like our Chris," she murmured. "Oh my - mornin' glory eh?"

Chris's donger was vertical in seconds and she smoothed it's seven thick inches, pulling his foreskin down, unveiling his engorged, shiny, purple knob end. They heard a distant door slam.

"Ee's gone, just us now. Yer were late back from the club last night. Pissed were yer? I missed a little visit," she cooed into his hairy shoulder.

"Yeah, rat arsed smashed, a good night at the club. Lisa is 'ere," he answered, swivelling within her grasp and hefting her enormous tits, fingering the near one inch stout nipples through the flimsy shirt. "She awake?"

Sharon was non committal other than a slight shake of her head, which sank lower as she knelt in front of her older brother and stripped his underpants down. Her mouth engulfed his glans as she cupped his big swinging balls, the middle finger of that hand seeking further along his perineum and delving into the sticky crevasse of his arsehole. Chris let her gobble him for a while, then grabbed her head and pulled her up.

"C'mon, I wanna fuck yer," he grunted, pushing her ahead, as they left the room, Sharon insisting on leading him by hanging on to his cock.

In trying to keep level along the landing of the run down council house, his foot hit a bag of old toys, destined for the charity shops and off sounded a wailing, ringing cacophony of mechanical toys. Sharon, turned and shook her head with disdain.

"Mum, that you? I need a wee wee," came the plaintiff voice from a bedroom.