I first met Claire, my wife Lana’s younger sister, when she was 22 or 23, her vibrant energy pulling me in like a tide. Claire cycled through relationships, including a brief lesbian fling, and every encounter with her sparked something electric. It wasn’t just attraction; I wanted her to feel desired, to see the confidence she deserved mirrored in my gaze.
One day at their place, I overheard Claire arguing with her boyfriend, Richard, their voices sharp through the walls. His words floored me: he refused to go down on her, didn’t even want to see her naked. My jaw dropped. What kind of man says that? Claire’s sex life seemed stuck in a dull, uninspired past, and I couldn’t shake the thought that she deserved better—someone to set her body and soul ablaze.
That night, a reckless fantasy slipped out.
“Lana,” I murmured, heart racing, “I’ve been thinking…
"A threesome with you and Claire.”
I admitted it had haunted me since Claire’s early twenties, before her marriage. Lana’s eyes narrowed, her tone calm but sharp.
“You want to fuck my sister?”
I stumbled, confessing, “With you there, or just her, yeah… I’d love to.”
Lana’s curiosity flickered, but her hesitation was palpable.
“Why?” she asked.
I said Claire needed something mind-blowing, to feel truly desired. Silence hung heavy, the fantasy left as a tantalizing “maybe”.
Friday nights were our ritual—KFC dinners with Claire joining us. I’d toss her sly compliments, teetering on dangerous ground, her small, perky breasts catching my eye in a bright sports bra. One evening, the color hugged her curves so perfectly that I couldn’t look away.
“That color makes you irresistible,” I said, voice low.
She didn’t flinch; instead, she adjusted her bra, teasing me, knowing I was watching. My arousal was undeniable as I stood, her glance flicking to the bulge in my jeans. Later, in the bedroom, I left the door ajar, emboldened. Stroking myself, lost in thoughts of her, I heard Claire’s soft “sorry” as she grabbed her phone from the charger.
My release hit hard, cum spilling into my hand as she smiled, whispering, “Lana told me about your fantasy.”
Then she said goodbye and left, the air still charged.
Another evening, Claire’s flirty mood was electric. In her shed, she flicked her hair seductively while I lay on her bench press, drinking in her curves as her dress clung to her body. Her smile showed she loved the attention, and I reveled in making her feel desired. Later, recovering photos from her hard drive, she leaned close, adjusting her bra to flash her cleavage, fully aware of my gaze. High on no sleep and a dose of Viagra, I pushed too far, mentioning risqué photos of myself I’d accidentally included. Her reaction—part intrigue, part discomfort—left us in awkward silence. I never told Lana the full extent of Claire’s flirting, only hinting at her enjoyment.
Then came the humid weekend. Claire asked me to fix her shower tap. In her cramped, old bathroom, the tap valves were seized, water trickling from the showerhead, soaking my shorts. I stripped to my tight tradie boxers, my semi-hard cock straining against the fabric. Claire popped in, her eyes flicking to my bulge with a curious grin. She lingered, pretending to tidy, stealing glances in the mirror. I let her look, my arousal growing under her gaze.
At one point, she stood pressed against the shower door, pointing to a spot I needed to reach. I leaned in, my body brushing hers from behind, my hardness grazing her. The contact was electric; her breath caught, and I felt her tremble. She murmured she’d be back and slipped out, leaving me throbbing. As I finished the tap, I couldn’t resist touching myself, imagining her watching.When I demonstrated the fixed tap, still in my boxers, Claire’s gaze lingered, torn between curiosity and restraint. I asked for a towel, and as she handed it to me, I boldly slid off my boxers, revealing my semi-hard cock. I gave it a slow stroke, knowing she was watching.
Instead of leaving, she lingered at her bedroom door, a finger in her mouth, eyes locked on my smooth, groomed body—shaved arms, armpits, and pubes gleaming under the bathroom light. The air crackled with forbidden desire.
A soft moan drifted from her room. Peering in, I saw Claire kneeling on her bed, hand down her pants, rubbing herself in front of the mirror, unaware of me watching. Her eyes flicked to the door, as if daring me to enter. Wrapping the towel around my waist, I stepped in. She froze, her gaze seductive, pulling me in without a word. I dropped the towel, standing bare before her.
Claire took my cock in one hand, a finger to her lips. “Shhh,” she whispered.
She sucked me slowly, guiding my hand to the back of her head, urging me to take control. I pushed gently, feeling myself hit the back of her throat. She pulled back, gazing up. “Are you okay?” she murmured.
I nodded, breathless. “Are you?”
She closed her eyes, pulling me onto her. I hesitated, guilt clawing at me—this was wrong, yet her lips met mine, soft and gentle. My hands explored her body, her hand on my chest as she bit my bottom lip.
“Make me cum,” she whispered.
My heart raced. I pinned her wrists above her head with one hand, the other trailing through her hair, down her shoulder, to her breast, gripping it firmly. My lips brushed her neck with hot breaths and soft kisses, working down her body. Releasing her wrists, I kissed the inside of her thighs, her heavy breathing fueling my desire. She grabbed my hair, pulling me to her wet, hot pussy. Her taste was intoxicating, my tongue tracing her clit, down to her anus, savoring her juices. I slid two fingers into her tight pussy, sucking her clit as she shook, nearing climax.
“Fuck!” she cried, her body trembling through an orgasm.
As she lost herself in pleasure, I slid my cock slowly into her, pausing to let her adjust, her muscles gripping me tightly. I thrust gently at first, then deeper, harder, matching her rhythm, the intensity building. Her tight pussy pulsed around me, each thrust driving us closer to the edge. I couldn’t hold back any longer. Grabbing a fistful of her hair, I pulled her head back, kissing her neck with feverish hunger as I fucked her deeper, her back arching, moans echoing like a primal song. Her nails dug into my shoulders, sharp and desperate, scratching down my back as I pushed as deep as I could, holding there, every muscle in my body taut.
“Oh, fuck, yeah!” I roared, my release exploding, filling her pussy with hot, pulsing waves of my cum.
Her body tightened, milking me dry, her own climax crashing through her.
“Oh my!” she gasped, her grip relentless, her pussy clenching around me as we rode the aftershocks together.
I thrust slowly, savoring the slick heat, until my cock slipped free, spent but still solid. I rolled back, collapsing beside her, the reality of what we’d done sinking in. Silence blanketed the room, heavy with guilt and unspoken questions. We couldn’t meet each other’s eyes—afraid of the guilt, afraid of falling too deep into something we couldn’t name. I gathered my clothes, dressed in a haze, and left, the weight of it all pressing on my chest. Driving home, my thoughts churned. How would Lana feel if she found out? Guilt gnawed at me, but it took two to tango, and Claire had wanted it as much as I did. I walked into the house, and Lana’s voice greeted me.
“Why did you take so long? I’ve been trying to message you.”
“Sorry, babe,” I said, forcing a casual tone.
“Testing the shower, hands were wet. I’m home now.” The air felt thick with secrets, the thrill and shame of Claire’s touch still burning under my skin.
To Be Continued…
