I came home early and caught my wife on her knees in our living room, her lips stretched around some guy’s cock while she moaned like a whore. She didn’t even stop when she saw me. She just looked up with that same bored expression she gave me every night and kept sucking. That was the moment everything snapped.
I didn’t yell. I didn’t fight. I turned around, got in my car, and drove straight to my sister’s apartment across town. Rachel was twenty-eight, two years younger than me, and the one person my wife had always hated. “She’s too close to you,” my wife used to say. “It’s weird.” Now that same “weird” closeness was going to destroy her.
Rachel opened the door in a thin tank top and shorts, her dark hair messy from sleep. One look at my face and she knew. She pulled me inside without a word. I told her everything in short, ugly sentences. She listened, eyes narrowing, then stepped closer until her tits brushed my chest.
“Fuck her,” Rachel said. “Fuck her by fucking me.”
I grabbed her. No slow build, no gentle shit. I shoved her tank top up and sucked hard on her nipple while my hand went down her shorts. She was already wet. I pushed two fingers inside her and fucked her with them until she was grinding on my hand and cursing. She yanked my belt open, pulled my cock out, and dropped to her knees right there in the hallway.
Her mouth was hotter and hungrier than my wife’s had ever been. She took me deep, gagging, spit running down her chin, eyes locked on mine the whole time. “This is what you get for marrying that bitch,” she said between sucks. “Your own sister on her knees for you.”
I pulled her up, spun her around, and bent her over the kitchen counter. I ripped her shorts down and slammed into her from behind in one hard thrust. Rachel cried out, pushing back against me. I fucked her like I wanted to break something. Every slap of my hips against her ass was revenge. Every time she moaned “big brother” it was another knife in my wife’s back.
We moved to the couch. She climbed on top and rode me, tits bouncing, telling me how much better my cock felt than any other guy she’d had. I reached up and wrapped my hand around her throat, not hard enough to hurt, just enough to remind her who was using who. She came first, clenching around me, soaking my balls. I flipped her onto her back, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and pounded her until I was ready. When I pulled out and painted her tits and stomach with thick ropes of cum, she rubbed it into her skin and smiled like she’d won.
We didn’t stop there. I took her to her bedroom and fucked her again, slower but still filthy, her face buried in the pillow while I held her hips and drilled her. She begged me to come inside her this time. I did. Deep. We lay there afterward, breathing hard, my cum leaking out of her onto the sheets.
The next morning I texted my wife one photo: Rachel asleep with my handprint still red on her ass and my cum dried on her thigh. Then I blocked her number.
Rachel rolled over, reached for my cock again, and said, “Round three before breakfast?”
I was already hard.
