Sister Hot, Wife Not

Janet (who'd found a seat eventually, over by the door) had a few more stops to go. Jessica grinned and ruffled her sister's hair as we left the train. "See you tonight, Dumpy," she smirked, loudly enough for others to hear. Tittering and a few guffaws from the carriage: Janet looked down, horribly embarrassed.

My building was on the way to Jess's bank so we strolled along together. It was a lovely sunny day. When we got there we stopped and kissed. Kissed long and passionately. My cock stirred and I wished I was about to go to bed with her again rather than into the office. I told her this. "Patience, Mr Taylor," she giggled, giving my erection a quick surreptitious squeeze. "You can wait till later, can't you?"

"Guess I'll have to, baby, won't I?"

"Bye, sugar," she smiled, and she kissed me again before walking off. I stood there watching her. Fuck, she looked outstanding in that hot little skirt! Jessica knew I was watching, of course, and she wiggled her sexy butt around for me. She turned and waved, blew me a pouting little kiss, then she disappeared round a corner. I remained standing on the pavement, not quite ready to enter my building. What I was thinking was that the next ten or so hours before I could see my gorgeous sister-in-law again were going to seem like a very long time.

What if somebody had come up to me there and then and told me that the sight of the luscious Jessica Sanchez rounding the corner a few seconds ago was to be my last?

Well I'd have laughed, asked what they were on. And if they persisted with such nonsense I'd have probably hit them.

14.

I couldn't resist calling her a couple of times from the office but she didn't pick up. Probably some overflow from her meeting, I thought. I left a message the last time -- just basically saying that I couldn't wait to get naked with her again -- and left it at that, tried to focus on my work. With some success, in fact. Now that me and Jess were up and running, as it were, I felt reasonably relaxed about life. More than relaxed, I felt pretty damn peachy. My thoughts returned more than once to the previous night. It had been incredible. And I hadn't been lying when I said what the best bit was for me. Jess's idea not mine, but using my now utterly subjugated wife to get me ready to fuck her sexy little sister, having the poor cow down on her knees licking my dick before I rammed it into Jessica's glistening wet cunt ... that had been just horny as hell! And then lying there afterwards and Jessica making her sister grovel at the end of the bed kissing our feet as we drifted off to sleep. Amazing. I couldn't wait to find out what other stuff the evil bitch had in store. Maybe she could move in permanently, forget about getting her own place, and Janet could either leave or (perhaps even better) if she didn't want to leave she could stick around and we'd keep her as a servant. Yeah, Jessica would just love that, I reckoned, and I resolved to run the idea past her when I got home.

I wasn't able to, however, because when I did get home (earlier than usual but only a little) I couldn't get in. My key didn't work. Reason for this is the locks had been changed. I realised straightaway what had happened. We'd clearly pushed Janet too far with our antics of the night before. (Ok, not an enormous surprise. I suppose that sucking her husband's cock to get it hard, then having to stand there watching while he uses it to fuck her sister, hadn't been quite the mind-blowingly erotic experience for her that it was for me.) Further evidence was the bag standing in the porch. I took a closer look, unzipped it -- yes, everything I needed to spend a few days away. Thanks, Hun.

I meant it. Or rather I wasn't too fussed about this development. Ok, so bang goes my plan A but I was already computing plan B and plan B wasn't too shabby. Janet could stay here, fine, and me and Jess would forget about her and bunk up together in some smart apartment in town. The amount we pulled down in our respective jobs (especially her at the bank), we could afford something palatial. Be swell. Divorce? Sure, if that's what Jan wanted. Modest maintenance (just enough to keep the wolf from the door) and apart from that no ties. Maybe I'd marry Jessica. We could have kids even, Jess being only 31. Yes, believe it or not, I was thinking all this. I called Janet's phone and she answered immediately. "Hi, Hun, it's me," I said.

"Oh it's 'Hun' again, is it? What's happened to 'Dumpy'?"

"Er, well ..."

"Or 'Ugly Sister'?"

"Um, ok, got a bit carried away, I guess. I'm sorry."

Janet laughed. "Don't be sorry, Mark. It just confirmed what a horrid little man you are. Thought that for a long time, actually, didn't you know?"

"Look, Janet, it was mainly Jessica."

"Ah yes, of course. Little 'Miss Gorgeous'."

"Whatever. She got off on all that stuff."

"And you didn't?"

"No, not really," I lied.

"Bullshit," she snorted.

"Jan, are you in the house?"

"Yes. Where else would I be? I live here, Mark, remember? Or should that be 'Marky'?"

"It's Mark. Ok, fine. So I'll leave. No problem."

"Yeah, leave. Go to your little slut," she snarled.

"Janet, c'mon, she's your sister."

She chuckled. "Yes, Mark, she is. And she always will be. Maybe you should have thought a bit more about that."

"How do you mean?"

"Oh never mind. Just forget it."

"So, where is she? Where's Jess?"

"She's not here, Mark. I asked her to leave. She's packed up and gone."

"Gone where?"

"I have no idea. But she left you a note."

"A note?"

"I put it in your bag. Don't worry, I haven't read it."

I killed the call and rooted around the bag and found it - found Jess's note. "Marky' it said on the envelope. I opened it with trembling hands and a thudding heart, fearing the worst, but what I read changed that, had me grinning from ear to ear: 'Baby, we'd better make plans. By the time you read this I'll have checked us in at the Waldorf. A nice big room with a nice big bed! Just ask for your key at reception and come join me. Hurry, sweetie, I need you to make love to me ... Jess xxx'

Oh yeah!

I called Janet back. "Look, Hun, I need the car keys. Have to drive back into town. Can you pass them out to me?"

"No. Take the train."

Her tone brooked no argument. I turned and headed off back to the station with my bag, caught a train into town, then got a cab to the Waldorf. I went to reception and said my name, said I should be already checked in. "Ah yes, Mr Taylor," smiled the girl. (She was extremely pretty. About one tenth as attractive as Jessica.) "Sixth floor," she said, giving me my key. "Porter for your luggage, sir?"

"Nope," I grinned, showing her my one and only bag. "Travelling light."

"So I see, sir," she pouted. Bit of a flirt. I checked down at the number on the key. Room 666. There was an elevator waiting - good news since I was mad keen to get up there and into Jessica's arms. And her cunt. All the rest (discussing our 'plans' etc) could wait. When I got to the room I didn't bother knocking, I fixed a debonair smile on my face, opened up and strolled in. I kind of just knew she'd be lying naked in bed and waiting for this moment. But she wasn't. There was no-one in the room. My smile froze in place and I felt a touch foolish. Ah well, she must be out and about. Maybe she'd gone shopping or something. I settled in a chair to wait. Then it struck me. The room wasn't only empty, it looked unoccupied. No stuff anywhere, just the furniture, everything all neat and pristine. I got up and checked the wardrobe. No clothes. The bathroom ... nothing. The bed was made up and hadn't been disturbed at all. Very odd. I called down to reception, a female voice answered, the flirty girl. "This room. My girlfriend checked in earlier, right? Miss Sanchez?"

"Yes, sir. About noon. But she left again pretty soon after."

"How soon?"

"Um, dunno exactly. Maybe ten minutes?"

"Oh right. Listen, did she have any luggage?"

"No, sir. Nothing. Just a flying visit she said."

"A flying visit?"

"Yeah. Literally a flying visit -- we had a laugh about it."

There was a hollow feeling in my stomach. "How do you mean, had a laugh about it?"

The girl chuckled. "Well, she was off to the airport. I called her a cab." I went silent, mind reeling. "Mr Taylor? You still there?"

"Y-y-yes. Err ... where was she flying to, did she say?"

"No. She just said she was going somewhere hot and a long long way from here." I hung up and then I lost it. I knocked the phone off the table and sat there bubbling with anger and confusion. What the fuck was all this? What was the little bitch playing at? I looked over at the bed as if to make absolutely sure this was really happening, that Jessica wasn't actually lying there under the duvet. She wasn't. There was nobody in the bed. There was, however, now I looked closely, something ON the bed. Or one of the pillows rather. I went over and picked it up. It was a photograph - a photograph of Jessica. I recognised what she was wearing (the little black dress she'd worn for our 'date') and I recognised where she was (standing in her bedroom at our house). She was posing sexily for the shot, hand on hip, pouting at the camera. She'd pulled her dress down over one shoulder -- right down -- and was displaying one of her luscious breasts in all its glory. The left one.

I stared for a long time at the photo. I knew even then it would become an instrument of torture, would be something I'd torment myself with every day for as long as I lived. The expression on Jessica's face (amused, taunting) said she knew this too. I turned it over and read what was written on the back: 'Something to remember me by, sweetie. My darling sister is a great photographer, don't you think?'

My 'darling sister'? Oh god. What was this? I called her. I called Jessica's 'darling sister'. "What's going on? Where the fuck is she?" I screamed down the phone. "Where is who, Hun?" asked Janet. Cool. Mocking. "Your fucking little sister!"

"Jessica, you mean?"

"Yeah, fucking Jessica. Where is she?"

"She's gone on holiday, Mark. A nice long one."

"Holiday?"

"Yes. She deserves it after everything she's done, don't you think?"

"Janet, I don't understand."

She laughed. "No, I guess you don't. Poor thing. But don't worry, you will soon enough."

"What about her new job?"

"What new job, sweetie?" (She was sounding very like her sister now.)

"You know, over here. The one at Head Office."

Janet just laughed. "Bye, sweetie," she said and hung up.

15.

The next day, Tuesday, I went to work. Don't know how I managed that, but I did. Quite proud of myself, looking back. It's about the only aspect of the whole affair for which I feel a pat on the back is in order.

First thing I did in the office was call Jessica's bank in Hong Kong. Yes, Miss Sanchez still worked there. No, I couldn't speak to her. Why the hell not? Well, because she'd taken a year's sabbatical. Wanted to travel a bit, apparently, see the world. Ah ok, thank you. Bye.

I called Janet too. Any chance of me moving back in? Bury the hatchet and start again? No and no. Fair enough, worth a try. Only thing my wife sounded at all interested in was where I'd be living for the next few days (Room 666, Waldorf, I told her).

Which is where the divorce papers were delivered to about a week later.

I had no great problem with her suing for divorce (I was expecting it). What I didn't like -- what hit me like a punch in the solar plexus -- were the terms. She wanted everything. The house, the car, the bank accounts, the investments, the lot. Plus eighty per cent of all my future earnings.

I called her in a rage. "Speak to my lawyer, sweetie. He'll explain," was all she said.

So I did. I called the guy, told him what a crock of shit this was, told him that half the house plus ten percent of earnings was my best and final offer.

"Mr Taylor, I don't think you appreciate the situation," comes the smarmy response.

"What the fuck do you mean?"

"Have you seen the cited reason for your wife's suit?"

I hadn't actually read the fine print. "The reason?"

"Yes, Mr Taylor."

"Infidelity presumably. Or adultery, I guess. Same thing, though, right?"

"I'm afraid you presume wrong. Adultery is one thing, even with your wife's sister, but mental cruelty is quite another."

"Mental cruelty?"

"Yes. Mental cruelty. We have a full written statement from your wife describing your recent treatment of her and we have an affidavit from Miss Sanchez which backs it up in pretty much every detail. As do the photographs. Oh and they're both prepared to testify."

I felt numbed. Sick to the stomach. "Jessica is prepared to testify?"

"She is, Mr Taylor, yes."

"Fucking unbelievable!" I spluttered.

"Look, Miss Sanchez is not proud of her role in this. She says she lost her bearings for a short while, says she was infatuated with you, says ..."

Bad line surely: I couldn't be hearing this right. "SHE was infatuated with ME?"

"Yes, exactly. And now she's come to her senses, she's keen to atone." Nope, nothing wrong with the line. On the contrary, the jerk sounded like he had a megaphone. "This is grand larceny! This is a fucking set-up!" I yelled. The guy let me emote, blow myself out, and then he calmly explained to me that if this went before a court they'd find the same as any reasonable person would, that it constituted about the worst case of mental cruelty in a marriage that one could imagine. They'd grant Janet the divorce and I'd be lucky to even get the deal she was offering me. And then there'd be the publicity. It'd cost me my job at the very least. Did I really want that? Wouldn't I be better just accepting the terms? I could live on twenty per cent of what I earned, couldn't I?

My anger grew as I listened to this. My defiance too. That I'd been played for such a fool only fanned the flames. No way was I going to let Janet and Jessica get away with this. Fucking bitches. "Screw you!" I snarled, and I ended the call.

Half an hour later I called him back, half an hour in which my lawyer's brain wrestled furiously with my blackly scheming heart. It was quite a closely fought contest but a clear winner duly emerged.

"Mr Taylor?" (God, what a smarmball the guy was.)

"Yeah, me again."

He remained silent. Just waited for me to continue. Thankfully he seemed in no hurry because I needed a few seconds to stop my voice shaking. It was important to deliver my message - say what I planned to say - in a strong and confident manner. Important to me, anyway.

And I did. I spat it out no problem.

"Ok."