Do You Think My Sister is Hot?

"Mmmmm I'm thinking about you baby."

"Oh I know you are. But what else?" She didn't give me a chance to respond before continuing, "are you thinking about Jess? That slutty bartender? She wanted you so bad."

"Mmmmmm."

"You could see it in her eyes. She wanted this cock," with this she stroked me firmly for emphasis, "she wanted this big cock inside her. What do you think her pussy would feel like? What do you think it would be like to fuck her?"

"Oh god baby I'm not going to last long. It's so good. So fucking good."

Sarah was stroking me more intently now, repeating her triple-motion but focusing more on the shaft of my cock as I built towards climax.

She whispered again, "or maybe you're thinking about Megan. Did you see how great her tits looked tonight?"

I simply groaned. I had been hoping Sarah would talk about her sister again.

"Did you check out her ass in those white pants, Cory? No lines. Do you think she was wearing anything underneath?"

She was stroking me gently as she said this, and I was doing my best to hold off, to make it last as long as possible.

"Oh and Cory. Look what I found," and she held out her left hand, from which dangled a tiny, bright red, g-string, "whose do you think these are?"

"Oh god. Baby. Did you . . ."

I knew these were not my wife's underwear. I only hoped and prayed that they belonged to . . .

"Yes Cory. When I went to the washroom in Megan's bedroom I took these from the hamper." And then she stroked me more intently as she said "these are my little sister's panties."

"Unnnnngggghhh" I moaned, almost pushed over the edge by these words alone.

"My little sister's dirty panties. These were pushed up right against her pussy, Cory. Pushed up against Megan's pussy and her ass. Take them." I took the tiny little scrap of material as Sarah, her left hand now freed, moved both her hands to my crotch, one stroking my shaft and one cupping my balls.

"Do it, Cory. I know you want to. Smell them,"

I did immediately, inhaling deeply and flooding my brain as the distinct aroma of fresh, sweet pussy filled my nostrils, and Sarah said "smell my sister's wet little cunt."

"Nnnnnnnggghhh," I moaned as I turned to my side and came, hard, shooting jet after jet of my cum all over Sarah's tits, painting her neck, chest and nipples with my semen.

...

Lately on Saturdays, Sarah and I have been trying to do at least one new thing in our city, go out on some interesting adventure before inevitably winding up at a restaurant somewhere for lunch or happy hour.

Today, this took us to the Similion Gallery of Modern Art. Sarah and I held hands as we wandered through the exhibitions. There were some very inspiring collections and we took our time wandering through, commenting and discussing as we went.

We aren't really 'art people' but we enjoy it nonetheless. There was a collection of super moody paintings of ominous-looking trees that we both loved, although a quick Google revealed that we wouldn't be affording any of those originals anytime soon (we vowed to find a print online once we got home.)

One collection of nude photography, called 'Elasticity' was particularly evocative, with floor-to-ceiling enlargements of naked women of all shapes and sizes in various casual poses, huge swaths of naked flesh filling the room. It was arousing, causing me to speculate as to whether I was 'supposed' to be getting aroused by this, or whether the intent was simply to appreciate the art intellectually. I shrugged to myself, thinking 'hey, boobs are boobs, what's a guy gonna do?'

We spent a full two hours exploring the gallery and browsing the gift shop, which was an eclectic collection -- the usual cheap gift shop crap -- but also a selection of local, hand-made items, some of which were spectacular. Sarah picked out a pair of opal earrings, paid, and we made our way out to the foyer.

We were wrapping up and chatting about where to head next when from directly behind us we heard a little girl's voice call, "Mommy! Mommy!"

Sarah whipped her head around to see a young girl, probably five or six, who ran past us and into the waiting, open arms of her mother, just a few feet away.

It was a small, inconsequential interaction but for Sarah, it immediately brought on a wave of emotion and disappointment. All the pain and sleepless nights of our years of struggling to have children of our own came flooding back. Her hand tightened around mine and I saw the tears welling up in her eyes.

Wordlessly, I pulled her to me and held her tight. Sarah sobbed into my shoulder quietly for just a moment, then quickly composed herself, wiped the tears from her eyes and took a deep breath.

"It's okay. I'm okay," she reassured. "It just kind of hit me, you know? But I love our life. I love you."

"I love you too, Sarah."

"Let's get out of here. You can prove your love to me by buying me a glass of wine and a plate of French fries."

...

The incident at the art gallery had been just a minor blip on the radar. Sarah and I had accepted our path, and had in many ways truly embraced our child-free life. The emotion of that period of our lives had been so intense that it naturally bubbled to the surface occasionally but it wasn't catastrophic. Shit's hard, you move on and make the best of it. That's life.

A few weeks later we had the opportunity to see Megan again, this time via a very interesting invitation: an afternoon boat cruise up the river.

The Sanataka River was a sorry excuse for a river: narrow, shallow and slow-moving, but it did provide some lovely views and so there was one lone riverboat, the Sanataka Steamer (which, incidentally, had never been steam-powered) that did tours up and down the river on weekends between April and September. Sarah and I had never taken a ride on the Steamer, figuring it for a lame tourist sort of event, but Megan had been so enthusiastic we agreed.

I was starting to struggle to keep the two Megans separate: there was the Megan of our sex life fantasies, hot and forbidden and whose image I had orgasmed to countless times at this point, and then there was the Megan of reality, the one with whom I had a completely, purely platonic relationship. I secretly wondered if an opportunity to cross the Megan of fantasy over into the Megan of reality at some point, but I also absolutely was not going to do anything stupid and jeopardize my incredible marriage to a firecracker of a wife.

However, walking up to the Sanataka Steamer and taking one look at Sarah's sister I knew that resolve was going to be tested.

She was stunning. Her strawberry-blonde hair was down, curled and buoyant on her bare shoulders. She was wearing the tiniest, most alluring bright pink sundress I have ever, or will ever see again. It had thin little spaghetti straps, a lacy bodice embroidered with little yellow flowers and a it was cinched at the waist with a thin belt, tied in a bow on Megan's hip. The skirt was loose and flowy and short -- gathering well above Megan's knees.

The dress could not have been more perfect on Sarah's younger sister.

Her medium-sized, firm breasts curved out the top of the dress in a most tantalizing fashion, the cinched belt drew attention to Megan's thin waist and the short, loose skirt both revealed a pair of spectacular legs and also forced me to think about what was hiding underneath. The look was completed by a pair of strappy white sandals with heels, Megan's perfectly pedicured toes capped with bright pink polish and her small, delicate feet on display.

As we approached Megan, who was waiting for us on the dock, Sarah gave words to what I was thinking, calling out, "goddamn sis. You look good enough to eat."

"Why thank you Miss Sarah. You're not too shabby yourself!" She was right: in an oversized sunhat, designer sunglasses, a tight white tank top and cutoff jean shorts, my wife was a knockout too. "What're you waiting for? All aboard!"

I have to say: the cruise was a lot of fun. We climbed the stairs and took seats on the upper deck, out in the fresh air, and were afforded an opportunity to see our city and the surrounding countryside from a whole new perspective. The tour guide piped up with tidbits of trivia and history from time to time, and Sarah, Megan and I chatted and laughed and enjoyed one another's company thoroughly.

Megan opened up to us about feeling like she was a bit . . . stuck. At twenty-nine years old, as Manager of the restaurant she worked at, she felt like it was a turning point for her, career-wise: start something new, which was always intimidating, or accept being a lifer in the hospitality industry, which brought with it its own set of challenges.

We talked through it with her, each adding our own perspective on how we'd landed in our careers and the positives and negatives of both.

Megan also lamented her lack of meaningful romantic relationships, owning up to a string of one-night stands, short-term flings and hookups that were fun but ultimately had left her feeling distinctly unfulfilled. She admitted to preferring older men, sometimes significantly older, both for their maturity and often more advanced position in life, but also saying, "some men just seem to get hotter and hotter as they get older, you know? Men in their twenties are mostly just projects. Uninteresting and unrewarding projects. Men in their forties and fifties? Fuck yeah baby, all day long." When she said this Sarah looked directly at me and gave me a sly little grin. My pulse quickened at the thought of my wife's younger sister being most attracted to men my age.

"Oh sure but that's not fair at all," complained Sarah jokingly, "you think this dumbass has always been so handsome and charming? He was once a project too, you know, and I put in the time. I put in the work. I put in the years. Then it's the same old story, some young, sexy girl in a pink sundress comes along and 'bam' he's gone, just like that."

"Hahaha yeah right sis, I've seen the way he looks at you, he ain't goin nowhere."

"I would protest," I chimed in, "but so far this is all completely accurate."

We sipped lemonade and chatted for a few more minutes as the boat started making its return voyage to the dock downtown.

Megan stood up and strode a few paces over to the railing. She grasped the railing in both hands and looked out over the rolling hills just beyond the riverbanks. It was a gorgeous view.

A few seconds later, we were treated to another gorgeous view: the wind suddenly kicked up and blew the back of Megan's sundress completely up, flipping it over her waist, revealing a bright green thong disappearing between the cheeks of one of the most incredible asses I had ever had the pleasure of seeing.

Round, tight and high, aided by the heels she was wearing and her position, bent over the railing, Megan's ass was nothing short of spectacular.

Also catching the display, Sarah grasped my arm, fingers digging in to my forearm. She almost seemed as excited by the revelation as I was. It was only a couple of seconds before Megan frantically pushed down her skirt, but it was more than enough for us to get an eyeful.

"Well," she called over to us, clearly flustered and embarrassed, "I don't suppose you two happened to be looking in the other direction just now, did you?"

Sarah and I laughed as Megan blushed. "I remember you promising us a boat ride, Megan, but I don't remember you promising a show."

"Shut it."

"But I do have to say, whatever your workout routine is, I wouldn't change a thing."

"Oh my god Sarah shut up."

"No seriously sis, you could bounce a quarter off that thing!"

At this, Megan crossed over to Sarah and gave her a playful swat on the arm. We moved past the accidental exposure and got back to chatting. We talked over all sorts of stuff, and it all felt incredibly natural and enjoyable as we cruised back into the city.

The trip was nice, but I could only think about one thing, burned into my memory forever: Megan, bent over, hot coral dress pulled up, her tight little ass sticking out towards me in nothing but a tiny green thong.

...

The next Friday afternoon, just as work was beginning to wind down for the week, I got a text message from Sarah:

Come home soon. Your services are required.

I got a bit of a tingle in my stomach at this, hoping I was correct in interpreting the sexual nature of her message. I replied:

Oh? Which services would those be?

She replied almost immediately:

Your wife needs to be serviced immediately.

I grinned to myself in my office. I didn't reply, just immediately grabbed my coat, said a few hasty goodbyes and made my way out of the building and to my car, where I paused to send Sarah a tracking pin so she could see my progress as I sped home to her.

All the way home I thought about what would await me once I arrived. We'd had a busy week and hadn't had sex at all, so I had started the day horny to begin with and was getting more and more so thinking about the possibilities -- when Sarah is that forward and direct it usually means she is absolutely on fire one hell of a sexual encounter is about to happen. I couldn't wait.

I didn't have to wait long: when I arrived home and opened the front door, I gasped at what I saw in front of me.

It was my wife Sarah, all right, but she was wearing a wig -- a strawberry blonde one -- and she had on the exact same bright pink sundress that Megan had worn on the boat.

I simply stared, mouth gaping, brain flooding with thoughts and sensations as she crossed the room to me, kissing me hard and rubbing my hardening cock through my pants. We kissed frantically, tongues exploring and lips mashed together. I kissed her neck, biting it just a little and she moaned deeply.

Sarah pulled back, still rubbing me through my pants, and I drank in the sight of her. She looked like a fucking bombshell in Megan's dress, and with the wig the resemblance was uncanny. The two sisters, despite being nine years apart in age, looked similar to begin with -- with the change in hair colour, they looked convincingly alike.

Despite the similarities, Sarah's significantly larger breasts were absolutely spilling out the top, her small waist cinched neatly in the belt, and her broad hips just hidden below in the loose fabric. I couldn't wait to fuck her.

"Follow me," she breathed, turning and leading me. I undid my shirt buttons as I followed her, eyes fixated on the swishing back and forth of the pink fabric, desperate to get my hands underneath it. I unbuckled my belt and pulled it through its loops, dropping it on the ground as I walked behind her, into our bedroom.

Sarah surprised me by walking right past our bed and into our large ensuite bathroom. Inside the bathroom, I quickly understood why. My wife slowly -- maddeningly slowly -- bent at the waist and grasped the steel towel bar in both hands. She was recreating the moment with Megan grasping the railing on the boat, thrusting her ass out at me.

"Oh my god. Holy shit Sarah," I gasped, but she quickly corrected me:

"No. That's not my name. You know my name."

I took a deep breath. I knew what she wanted. It was what I wanted, too. But it was definitely crossing a line. "You look so . . ."

"Go ahead Cory. Say it."

"Oh my god you look so fucking hot Megan."

"Mmmmmm," Sarah moaned. That had had a major impact. "I want you Cory."

I put my hands on my wife's hips, bent over the towel rack, practically begging me, and I said "I want you too, Megan."

Sarah was breathing heavily now, clearly awash with desire, and said "I have wanted to fuck you for years."

I played into it, saying "I want to fuck you too. I want it so bad. But wouldn't it be wrong? I'm married to your sister."

"Ungh," Sarah grunted in response to the inflammatory words, "It would be so wrong. But so good. I want it. Do it. Fuck me, Cory. Fuck your sister-in-law."

"Oh god yes. It's so wrong but I want you so bad Megan," and with this I grasped the hem of Megan's sundress in both hands and flipped it up onto her back, revealing my wife Sarah's delicious ass . . . in a tiny, little, green thong.

I was aghast. I could hardly believe that she had recreated the outfit right down to the underwear. I took a deep breath. This was all almost too good to be true.

I put my hands on the cheeks of Sarah's ass, rubbing and exploring the soft, round orbs. It was then that I noticed a distinct dark patch on the green cotton thong: she was soaking wet.

As I stroked her ass, I slid my fingers lower, onto the fabric of the thong, gently stroking the wet spot between her legs. Filled with lust now, and getting into the role play I said, "oh you're wet for me, aren't you?"

"Yesss. So wet."

"Your pussy is wet for your sister's husband. You're such a little slut."

Sarah responded to this, moaning softly.

"Well then you are going to get fucked like a slut," I said, and I grabbed her thong in my fist, pulled it to the side, and pushed my hard cock into her soaking wet cunt.

"Nnnngggghhh," Sarah moaned in pleasure at the sudden penetration. I didn't hesitate, pulling out and ramming back into her pussy. She was so incredibly wet I slid in easily.

"Yes. Oh god yes."

I grabbed onto her hips with both hands and thrust into her, hard. Again. And again.

We were both moaning and grunting now as I fucked her hard with her little panties pulled to the side. I was incredibly turned on and wasn't going to last long, so I wanted to make the most of it, and said "oh Megan, your pussy is so tight. Just like I imagined it."

Sarah's right hand had left the towel rail and was rubbing her clit as I fucked her hard from behind.

"Oh yes. Yes. Cory your cock is so big. I knew it would be big. Fuck it in me. Fuck me. Fuck me!"

I was close. I thrust into her again and again. Her cunt was so warm, so wet, so tight. I knew it was the familiar pussy of my wife but in my mind I was envisioning it as something new, something altogether different -- I was feeling myself fucking her sister. "Ungh. I'm gonna come."

After I said this, Sarah's response took me aback and pushed me to climax. She said four magic little words, words she had never said to me before:

"Come on my face."

I pulled out of her frantically and grabbed my cock as she spun and sunk down onto her knees on the bathroom floor, just barely in enough time to catch the first spurt of my ejaculation as I groaned and pumped my cock in my fist, the spurts of my come spattering across the blonde wig, across her eyelids and her cheeks, and as my orgasm subsided, the droplets of cum dripping down my wife's face onto the fabric of her sister's pink dress.

...

The malaise and general discontent Megan had expressed at her party came to a head a few weeks later when she called Sarah to ask for our help with moving.

I was beyond annoyed. We had just helped Megan move not four months earlier, and more times in the past ten years than I cared to count. Even though I found Sarah's sister both hot and captivating and was eager to spend as much time with her as possible, moving just plain sucks.

"What happened this time?" I asked after Sarah hung up the phone.

"A falling out with her roommates, apparently. Something about a secret pet ferret. I didn't really want to get into it."

"All right," I sighed. "At least she's a minimalist. I hope she hasn't accumulated much stuff since the last time we helped her move."

Sarah was pleased that I was willing to help out, saying "you are a good husband, Cory. Thank you."

...

The next Saturday we drove over to Megan's condo and surveyed the situation. I have to say, Megan was pretty organized. The vast majority of her stuff was in a neat stack of labelled boxes at the front door, and really it wasn't all that much to begin with. Her bed belonged to her roommate, as did the other large furniture so her entire move would be one trip in our two vehicles. I was encouraged -- maybe this wouldn't take up our whole Saturday after all.