﻿Private Dance

by Pan



Published: 2021-06-12
Updated: 2021-07-31
Packaged: 2024-02-16 22:52:30
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,125
Publisher: mcstories.com
Story URL: https://mcstories.com/PrivateDance/index.html
Author URL: https://mcstories.com/Authors/Pan.html
Summary: Whitney demonstrates her skills at erotic dancing, transforming her sister’s life forever.
Erotica Tags: ff, in, mc





TABLE OF CONTENTS


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4



	Chapter 1

Inspired by the video of the same name.

“Thanks so much for coming over,” I said, opening the door. “I feel, uh, pretty embarrassed about this.”

My sister shot me a look, immediately making me feel like a total idiot. “Oh, so what I do for a living is _embarrassing_?”

“No! No, of course not.” I could feel my cheeks burning red, even as she laughed.

“I’m just messing with you,” she said, putting her bag down on my couch. “Where do you want to do this?”

“Right here,” I said, pointing to the arm-chair in the middle of my living room.

My name’s Hannah. My sister, Whitney, is a stripper.

Well, technically I don’t think she strips any more. I mean, she does, but not, like, on the stage.

Whitney told me once that the stage is not where you actually make money—it’s from lapdances. The stage is just to advertise that you’re _available_ for lapdances.

And apparently she’s gotten so good, she no longer needs to advertise.

She’s known at the club as the Queen of Lap Dances. She’s, like, supernaturally good at them. She showed me her savings account once, and I couldn’t believe it. Trust me—any lingering judgment I had for her choice in career disappeared as soon as I saw all dem zeroes.

I have no interest in getting into it, of course. I’m very happy at my job. Interior decorator isn’t the most exciting vocation, but I’m good at it, and I do like it. Way more than I’d ever enjoy being a stripper, that’s for sure.

But for my husband’s birthday, I thought it might be fun to give him a lapdance.

I wasn’t even going to tell my sister about it, to be honest. It’s like…did you know Paul McCartney’s brother was a musician as well? I bet that was a fun conversation. “Oh hey brother who is _literally one of the Beatles_ , I think I’m going to start doing music professionally as well.”

So the plan was for it to be a secret. Something just for my husband, y’know? No need for Whitney to ever hear about it.

But then I’d started watching videos online, and…god, I just _sucked_ at it.

Here’s the funny thing—before Whitney, _no one_ in our family had any rhythm. There’s some footage of the dance floor on our wedding night, and you can immediately tell who’s on my side of the family.

It’s almost weird how good Whitney apparently is at her job, because man, even a few years back she was like me—just, zero coordination. And then, almost overnight, she became the best at what she does. I guess it goes to show—talent really can come from anywhere.

“Great,” Whitney said, and sat in the chair where I’d pointed. “C’mon, sis. Show me what you got.”

What followed was probably the three most embarrassing minutes of my life…and the only reason I knew it was three minutes was because of the song I put on. Honestly, it _felt_ more like an hour as I awkwardly gyrated on around around my sister.

To her credit, Whitney managed to mostly hide her judgment, but I knew it was pretty bad. At one point, I almost fell over.

“So,” I finally said, as the music ended. “I suck at this.”

“You do,” Whitney agreed. It’s funny—she always used to be so afraid of hurting people’s feelings, but now she just says it how it is. It’s kind of abrasive, but I also kind of like it—it was why I’d known I could ask her to help, because she’d be honest with me about where I was at.

“I swear, I did everything the video said.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

My sister tried—and failed—to hide a smirk, and an idea struck me.

“Show me.”

“Show you what?”

“Show me what I’m doing wrong.”

Whitney looked at me through narrowed eyes. “I mean, I can just tell you what you’re doing wrong: everything.”

“No,” I said, dragging her out of the chair and taking her place. “I mean, show me what I _should_ be doing.”

An wicked smile slowly spread across my sister’s face.

“You want me to do a lapdance for you?”

“No,” I replied, rolling my eyes. “Don’t be weird. I just want you to show me what a good lapdance looks like. You know I’m a visual learner.”

“You want me to show you,” she echoed, “by doing a lapdance for you.”

“Yeah.”

I shot her a puzzled look. Like, this was her job. I knew for a fact she wasn’t self-conscious about it—she was super public about what she did on Facebook and Instagram, and she’d even told me stories about some of our old teachers going in to see her work.

Ever since she’d gotten this job, Whitney had been completely shameless. I couldn’t imagine that she was suddenly embarrassed to dance for her sister. Especially since we were all alone—no one would ever know.

“I’m only going to say this once,” my sister replied slowly, staring me in the eyes. It was weird; her iris’s seemed to have some small red flecks in them. “I’m _really_ good at what I do. By the time I’m done, you’re going to want to have sex with me.”

“Ha ha ha,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Just teach me how to turn my husband on.”

“Okay,” Whitney said, a strange look on her face. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Before I could react to her strange comment, she’d changed the music (though I didn’t even see her go near her phone) and “Devil’s Dance” by Metallica started playing, filling the apartment.

It’s funny—I wouldn’t have guessed that something that slow would work for a lapdance, but holy shit…my sister made it _work_. As soon as the music started playing, she started moving her body to the rhythm—not jerkingly like my attempt at a dance, but sensually. Sexily, if that’s a word.

And then she turned and made eye-contact me, and I swear to god, my mouth fell open.

Suddenly, I could see how Whitney made the money she did. I’m as straight as they come, and she’s _my sister_ , but I was completely entranced.

She placed her hands on my shoulders, and starting writhing from side to side. She wasn’t even dressed in anything particularly slutty—jeans to match mine (but without the huge rips in the knees) and a white tanktop.

Actually, we were dressed almost identically—my tanktop was blue, and my bra was red where hers was tan…just normal around the house clothes, y’know?

But as soon as her body started moving, her simple outfit became the sexiest thing I’d ever seen a woman wear.

I awkwardly held my hands up behind her—even when _receiving_ a lapdance, I couldn’t help but feel like I was messing it up. She whipped her short blonde hair back and forth (she’d started dyeing it when she got her new job)—I was surprised she didn’t grow it out, but as I watched her flip it seductively, I realized that its current length was more than long enough to get the job done.

Whitney briefly pressed her crotch into mine, and an alarming realization crept over me.

I’d thought that I’d hit peak shame when I’d shown my sister my total lack of dance moves, but just a few moments later I’d already managed to top it.

I was wet.

Less than thirty seconds into a demonstrative lapdance from my sister, I was wet. No, not just wet—soaked.

My sister’s moves had turned me on more than any woman had before her. Hell, watching her do her thing was making me hotter than, like, even my husband had ever managed. And my husband and I had _great_ sex. Consistently!

“How did you get so good at this?” I croaked, and she grinned.

“I told you; I sold my soul.”

I was too distracted to even smile at my sister’s go-to joke whenever anyone asked about her new job. Her grin vanished, and as she went back into full sultry mode, it was all I could do not to groan aloud.

On paper, she was doing exactly what I’d done. But where I’d felt like a corpse being electrified, my sister was somehow managing to turn even me on. She’d mentioned her huge, loyal clientbase in the past; now, I got it. I really, really got it.

All of a sudden, my hands had suddenly worked out what to do. I hadn’t even noticed myself grasping my sister’s hips, running my hand up and down her blue jeans.

Turning around, Whitney pressed her ass into my lap. I flushed—would she be able to feel how wet I was? Would she know?

Of course she knew. This was her job. She knew _exactly_ what she was doing.

She really was the best at what she did.

My hands moved to her bare arms, then to her denim-clad legs. I was overcome with an urge to touch her—my younger sister, the girl I’d grown up with…suddenly, she was all I wanted.

I wanted her. God, I wanted her more than anything.

She stood up, and I found myself touching her everywhere—her back, her butt. I wanted to go under her shirt, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t, right? I knew strip clubs had rules…and sure, this wasn’t a strip club, but she was my sister.

What we were doing was so wrong. So, so wrong.

A fact that only served to turn me on even more.

She turned around again, and sat down on my lap. My hands were out of control by this point—I wanted to rip her clothes off. I wanted to take her. I’d never had any interest in being with a woman before, but I wanted my sister. I wanted to see her naked. I wanted to touch every inch of her. I wanted to feel if she was as wet as I was, if she wanted me as much as I wanted her.

The way she was dancing told me that she did, but I knew that this was her job. Her role was to make the clients feel like she wanted them. She was playing me, like she played the chumps at her job that she’d tell us stories about.

And it was working.

She kicked up one leg, and her hair never stopped moving, whipping around, dancing as much as the rest of her did. I’d never been turned on by _hair_ before—I didn’t even know you could be—but the way her blonde mop moved was enough to make me moan again, louder than before.

“You like this?” she asked as my hands moved up her back, trying to draw her closer. She was sitting on me, her torso against mine, but still I wanted her closer. I wanted more, more, _more_.

“Mmm-hmmm,” I moaned, and she smiled.

“You can’t resist me, can you?” she gloated. I shook my head. “You want to have sex with me, don’t you?”

“Yessss,” I said, my voice a low moan. I could tell that my eyes were glassy. I was completely under her control. I wanted my sister. I wanted her more than I’d ever wanted any man. It didn’t make any sense, but it was true.

I would have done anything for her. _Anything_.

“I warned you,” she said, pulling her lips up in a smile, revealing her teeth. Had they always been that pointy?

“You did,” I nodded.

Whitney leaned forward, pressing her mouth against mine. My lips parted, allowing her soft tongue entry. I was doing it—I was making out with my sister as she gave me a lapdance. We were engaged in an incestuous embrace, and I’d never been so excited by anything in my life.

The song ended, but the dance continued. My sister never stopped moving as we kissed, soft moans escaping our mouths. My hands moved to her hair, up and down her bare arms, across her back, onto her perfect butt. I wanted to touch every inch of her. I _wanted_ every inch of her.

Whitney’s hands moved to my neck, the exposed part of my chest, my side. If it was all an act, if she truly didn’t want me as much as I wanted her, it was the best act I’d ever seen.

Every now and again she’d pull back, fix me with that stare, as if to remind me of what we were doing, to remind me that she wasn’t my husband, that she wasn’t even a man.

She was my sister. She was my sister, and I couldn’t resist her.

* * *

To support my writing and access my work months before it goes online anywhere else, check out [my Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/panwhowrites)!


	Chapter 2

Before I knew what was happening, I was standing, holding my sister. Any pretence of a lesson had disappeared at this point. She wasn’t demonstrating how I could show off for my husband; she wasn’t even dancing any more. We were just two sisters, making out in the middle of my living room.

I’ve always been stronger than Whitney, so I was able to carry her with no effort. We moved to the wall by my front door. I pressed her into it, so she couldn’t get away. I don’t know what I would have done if she’d gone, but I felt like I would have died.

I’m not exaggerating. I genuinely felt like if my sister had suddenly left, I would have _died_.

We continued to kiss. Her hands moved to my ass, her mouth to my neck. I put her down, still not sure what I should be doing with my arms. I’d started to get more adventurous, occasionally reaching under her shirt, or brushing my hand down past her breast.

God, her breasts. Her ass. Her body was so, so perfect. How had I never noticed that before? I’d spent twenty years with this goddess as my younger sister, and I’d never before noticed that her body was the definition of perfection.

At some point she switched places with me. Now she was the one pressing me into the wall, and I loved it. I could feel Whitney’s torso against mine, her lips making my toes curl.

I was kissing my sister.

I was kissing my _sister_.

I was kissing my sister, and I was the most wet I’d ever, ever been.

My hands were glued to her ass as she held me against the wall, kissing me tenderly, passionately, making me wonder how long she’d wanted this. Was that why she’d offered to dance for me, because she knew that it’d make me lose control?

No, I’d been the one who’d suggested the lesson. I’d practically begged her to dance for me.

How long had _I_ wanted this?

My hand moved between her leg, groping her as clumsily. I felt like a teenage boy: inexperienced, desperately horny. I felt like my blood had been replaced with hormones. All I wanted to do was fuck. All I wanted to do was get off.

All I wanted to do was get my sister off. And my eyes lit up as I felt the heat radiating out from her core.

She wanted me.

Not as much as I wanted her—that, I was sure, was impossible—but her body didn’t lie.

My sister wanted me.

I couldn’t tell you how long we stood there, right beside the couch where I watched TV with my husband, next to the spot where I put my keys each and every day when I got home.

Finally, she pulled back, that look on her face again.

“Do you know my rates?”

“What?” I said, dazed. Honestly, I’m impressed I even managed to get the word out. The idea of my tongue being used for anything other than kissing my sister was, in that moment, difficult to imagine.

“A thousand dollars for ten minutes,” she said. “Five thousand for the full hour.”

My eyes widened. “Whitney…”

“But I’ll give you a discount,” she whispered. “Half price. You know, because it’s you. Because we’re family.”

Before I could respond, she was kissing me again, and I couldn’t think. I couldn’t think, or object, or do anything but want her.

God I wanted her.

Eventually, she pulled back. “The full hour?” she said sweetly, and I nodded dumbly. “Great.”

Realizing what we were going to do—what I’d just agreed to—I began pulling Whitney towards my bedroom, upstairs. It was the bedroom I shared with my husband, but that didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered except that what we were doing didn’t stop.

We were almost at the top of the stairs when Whitney slapped my ass. My knees buckled with arousal, and before I knew what was happening, I was on my back, Whitney’s mouth on mine.

“Oh, Whitney…” I moaned, as she again moved her mouth to my neck, my shoulders. My hands were on her breasts—such firm, beautiful breasts…how had I never appreciated her breasts before now?—and I giggled with sheer euphoria as she ran her hands through my hair.

“Now,” I gasped, my legs spread. “I need you…”

Whitney didn’t respond, just grinned, and straddled my leg. One of her legs was between mine; we were still both wearing jeans. Why were we still both wearing jeans? I wanted to be naked, I wanted my sister to be naked. Always. It felt like the natural state for both of us. We’d been naked when we were born, and it felt like everything from that moment to this had been a mistake.

This was how it was meant to be. I wanted to be naked with my sister, always.

I wanted her so much.

As we necked on the stairs, I was lucid enough to realize that she was probably counting this towards her hour, but I couldn’t stop. It was worth it. It was all worth it. I’d never again be able to leave my bedroom without remembering this, the most perfect time of my life, the time that I had my sister’s tongue in my mouth and her hand on my waist and my hands all over her incredible, flawless body.

Finally, I summoned up the wherewithal to stand, dragging my sister into my bedroom. There was a string of hearts across the headboard; I’d made them my husband for Valentine’s Day, and he’d kept them up because he thought they were cute. Beside the bed was the single red rose he’d gotten me for our anniversary just a few weeks earlier, and the walls were covered with photos of the two of us.

But I didn’t care about any of that. All I cared about was Whitney.

She pulled my top off ferociously, making me feel more wanted than anything my husband had ever done. I did the same, exposing a strange tattoo under her arm that I’d never noticed before. It was in a pointy script that I didn’t recognize, but I was too distracted to care.

All that mattered was getting her as naked as possible, as soon as possible.

Less than a minute later we were both topless. Neither of us are particularly busty. Whitney’s breasts are smaller than mine, but perkier as a result. They were perfect. They were so, so perfect.

I’d never before been topless in front of another woman without feeling self-conscious, but in that moment all I could feel was desire.

My hands roamed across my sister’s exposed back, occasionally moving to my own bare breasts. I just wanted to touch every part of her that I could. She looked fierce and proud as I kissed her mouth, her shoulders, her collarbone.

I had no idea how much time had passed, and I didn’t care. My husband could have come home to find us there, a pair of topless sisters, making out, me paying her for the pleasure.

Would he have been mad, to find me cheating on him, or aroused by our lesbian tryst? It didn’t matter; I wasn’t doing this for him, I was doing it for me.

I pushed my sister down onto the bed. She lay prone, and I found myself worshipping her jeans with my tongue, licking my way up one leg, pausing to nibble the fabric, then repeating the process with the other. Whenever I reached her ass—her perfect, beautiful ass—I’d bite it, then start again.

All the while, Whitney lay on my white sheets, happily earning two and a half thousand dollars for me to tongue the denim of her jeans.

With a crook of her finger, she brought me to her on the bed, and we continued to make out, my hands rubbing up and down the bare skin of her back. She had such flawless skin, and I could have played with it forever.

Whitney rolled over, and my heart leapt at the sight of her breasts. It had only been a few minutes since I’d seen them for the first time, but it felt like an eternity. I knew I could happily spend the rest of my life staring at those small, perfect tits.

Whitney unzipped my jeans, exposing my legs. I wriggled out of them, suddenly naked in front of my sister. A hungry look came across her face, and her lips met mine once more. It felt like I’d kissed Whitney more in the past half-hour than I’d kissed my husband in the entirety of our marriage.

The smell of my arousal filled the room, and Whitney bit her lip in anticipation. She moved one of her hands to my mouth; my tongue emerged to coat two of her fingers in my saliva.

I’ll never forget the moment my sister’s fingers entered me. It felt like an orgasm, minus the orgasm—I gasped, and my entire body thrummed with pleasure. I could have ridden that wave for a thousand years, but just as I felt like I was getting used to it, Whitney began moving her fingers.

My mouth opened, and I let out a long, loud groan. My mind was gone. It had started to leave as soon as my sister kissed me, but as her fingers confidently slid in and out of my wetness, I couldn’t have formed a thought to save my life. All I could do was react, enjoy the feeling of Whitney’s skilled digits, feel the swelling of an orgasm forming within me.

I was nothing but a ball of lust and horniness, and when my sister’s mouth returned to mine, I wasn’t even able to respond. I just lay there, slackjawed, as her fingers began to piston in and out of me and her tongue explored my mouth.

Just as I felt like I couldn’t take any more, like my brain was going to short-circuit from the overwhelming sensations of my sister’s talented administrations, she moved her mouth to my ear.

“Cum for me, Hannah,” she whispered. “Cum for your little sister.”

And I did.

Where my mind had been blank, just a haze of arousal and sensations and lust, it suddenly filled with fireworks. Every muscle in my body tensed at once, and I began shaking uncontrollably.

For a moment, I wondered who was moaning “YES” so loudly, before realizing it was me. My sister grabbed my face, and turned it towards mine. I closed my eyes, expecting her to kiss me again, but she squeezed my cheeks and I realized what she wanted.

She wanted to watch me cum. She wanted to watch her sister’s orgasm, to watch the climax that she’d caused.

Whitney wanted to fully appreciate our first incestuous encounter…and even then, I knew it would be the first of many. I didn’t care what my sister charged, I knew we had to do this again and again and again, even if it meant my brain melted out of my ears. Even if my husband left me, or I had to double my workload.

No matter what it took, I knew we’d do this again.

As Whitney stared into my eyes, I realized that the red flecks I’d seen weren’t just limited to her her iris. They seemed to be in her pupils as well, and they weren’t just flecks.

They were flames.

Two dancing flames, filling my vision, as my body was wracked with orgasm after orgasm, coming so intensely that I couldn’t keep up.

The flames filled my vision as I blacked out, overwhelmed with the pleasure caused by my sister.

When I came to, Whitney was putting her bra back on. She smiled down at me, laying naked on the bed, staring at her in awe.

“That was fun,” she said with a smile. “Fortunately, you passed out just as your time ended.”

I just stared at her, lost for words.

“You’ll venmo me the money, right?”

I nodded, not trusting my mouth to form speech.

“And if you want to do this again…—“

“I do,” I immediately responded, my words slurred. “Please.”

“I thought you might,” she nodded. “Just let me know when, and I’ll come around.”

“Uh huh,” I said, mentally trying to work out the earliest day I could possibly make this happen again. I knew I’d struggle to think of anything else in the meantime. Whitney slipped her shirt on, and strolled to the bedroom door.

“Oh,” she said, turning back. She smiled, revealing her pointed teeth. “And I’m going to be honest—I don’t think you should give your husband a lap-dance. Not everyone can do what I can do. Although…”

“What?” I asked, my head still spinning from what had just happened. We’d just…I’d…

And I’d loved every second of it.

“If you want, I could come and dance for him. I wouldn’t even charge you.”

My eyes widened, envisioning my sister dancing for my husband. It felt like my whole body pulsed at the idea.

“For the dance,” my sister continued. “But if you two wanted anything after that, well…he’s my brother-in-law. The family rate would apply.”

“Yes,” I said, my mouth dry, and my pussy oh so very wet. “Please. Please, yes.”

Whitney nodded, and slipped out the door. As soon as she left, I felt completely empty, like I’d just lost something great. I knew I’d be thinking about what we’d just done, until the moment we did it again.

I couldn’t tell my husband. He wouldn’t understand. Not until he felt the same way, of course.

A smile slowly spread over my face. It didn’t satiate the feeling of emptiness, but it helped.

This was going to be a birthday my husband would never forget.

* * *

To support my writing and access my work months before it goes online anywhere else, check out [my Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/panwhowrites)!


	Chapter 3

“Oh, hey Whitney,” my husband said, a little confused.

It was the night of his birthday, and I’d been teasing him all day.

No, longer than that. I’d been teasing him for _weeks_.

Ever since my sister had given me a lapdance lesson, it was like a fire had been lit inside me. Like the flames I’d imagined in Whitney’s eyes had been transferred into my body, and were using my soul as a wick.

Since that day, I’d been insatiable.

At the time, I’d been worried that the complete, overwhelming lust I’d felt for my sister had…turned me gay, I guess? Not an unreasonable fear, you’ve got to admit—after decades of pure heterosexuality, I’d had the most intensely satisfying sexual experience of my life with a _woman_.

And not just any woman: my younger sister. I’d cum so hard that I’d passed out…I feel like “Okay, so am I gay?” is not an unreasonable thought.

But when my husband had returned home that night, he’d found a changed wife. I’d dropped to my knees and taken out his cock, getting him hard with my mouth, coating his erection with saliva, and then insisting he fuck me long and hard.

He hadn’t taken much convincing, as you can imagine.

And I’d been somewhat relieved to discover that yes, I still liked men. Maybe that was why I’d been so hungry to feel him inside me: to prove it to myself. If I’d managed to feel empty inside while he was literally filling me up, that would’ve been a huge red flag, y’know?

But as my husband responded to my far-from-subtle advances, pounding me hard, I’d felt my arousal crest, and soon I was cumming, climaxing in response to my husband’s thrusts.

Faster than usual, even.

My encounter with my sister hadn’t turned me gay. Almost the opposite. It had heightened my arousal. I was more than suddenly bisexual; I was hypersexual.

It was like I’d been turned from a loving wife into a total sexpot. From that day onwards, I felt like I lived and breathed sex.

My husband and I had been married for two-and-a-bit years, and we’d been dating for a year before that. In all that time, I’d never so much as looked at another man. Or woman.

But the day after my sister’s lesson, I cheated on my husband again. It was the first time I’d been with another man since getting married, but I knew for sure it wouldn’t be the last.

His name was Laurence. He was one of my clients. About a decade older than me, give or take. We’d known each other for a few months now. I guess I’d known he was attracted to me, but he’d also known I was married, so he’d never made a move or anything like that.

We weren’t exactly close, but when you’re an interior decorator, you end up getting to know your clients’ tastes. I’d like to claim that I had no intent of doing anything when I went to his apartment that day, but looking back, I’d clearly, clearly dressed up for him. Most of my wardrobe is black and white, but I’d dressed in one of the most colorful outfits I owned.

Laurence liked colors.

I’d worn a form-fitting sweater, the kind I’d seen his ex-wife wearing in the few photos of her he had around the place, and a skirt that ended just above my knees, showing off my legs.

Not, honestly, that it particularly mattered what I’d worn. I hadn’t been in his apartment for more than a few minutes before I led the conversation into the bedroom. That had been the first room I’d reworked, and there was no real reason to revisit it.

As soon as we crossed the threshold, I pulled him to me, pressing my lips against his. I’d never kissed a man with a beard before (my husband is clean-shaven, and none of my ex’s had been able to grow facial hair). I liked how rough it felt.

I liked imagining how it would feel against my thighs.

Laurence hesitated, but only for a moment. Soon, he was returning my kiss, not resisting at all as I pulled us onto the bed.

I’d never cheated on my husband with another man—I’d never intended to cheat on him at _all_ —but I just couldn’t help myself. My sister had awoken something within me, and I couldn’t stop.

I didn’t want to stop.

I only stopped kissing Laurence long enough to shuck my clothing. Before long, I was laying in front of my client in nothing but a pink bra and soaked panties. He unconsciously licked his lips as his eyes ran up and down my frame. I’d never seen any evidence of another woman in Laurence’s apartment. He was attractive, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him handsome.

Not that I needed handsome. I just needed to be touched, to be wanted. I needed to make him hard, to have his hands roam my body.

I needed to be fucked. I needed to be fucked more than my husband could possibly give me.

I didn’t want Laurence, not specifically. I wanted him because he was there.

“Fuck me,” I groaned. “Please. I need it…”

Laurence’s eyebrows rose in response to the lust in my voice. Not surprisingly; when we’d last seen each other a week ago, I’d been nothing but professional. Now here I was, visibly wet, all-but-naked on his bed, begging to take his cock inside me.

I felt so alive.

“Please,” I said again, and my plea snapped him out of his trance. He stepped out of his pants, and I made short work of his button-up shirt, revealing a hairy chest beneath. He wasn’t even forty, but I could already see some grey hairs.

“Fuck me,” I repeated, and Laurence nodded wordlessly, pulling my panties to the side and slipping his hard cock inside me.

Just like with my husband the previous night, it only took a few thrusts before I could feel a delicious orgasm rolling over my wanton body. Laurence wasn’t far behind—further evidence that he hadn’t been laid since his divorce.

After we were done, we lay in bed, breathing heavily. I could sense that Laurence wanted to talk about what had just happened, but that held no appeal, so as soon as he began speaking I moved my mouth between his legs, sucking my own juices off his limp dick until it hardened once more.

In my experience, men are much less interested in heavy conversations when sex is on the table. Before I let him cum down my throat, I made him go down on me, sucking his own cum out of my pussy (hiding the evidence, in a sense)—his beard tickled, but not in an unpleasant way.

When I returned that night, I rode my husband to another long, luxurious orgasm.

Like I said: insatiable. It’s not like I fucked every one of my clients…I’m attractive, but definitely not everyone’s type. When my husband and I had a day at home alone, I’d fuck him dry. We’ve always been a sexual couple, but since my sister’s dance, I’ve felt like a bottomless well of need.

But on days when I couldn’t spend all my waking hours with my husband inside me, I found pleasure anywhere I could. _Anywhere_. I bought a SIM card for one of my old phones and joined Tinder—under a fake name, of course, with a profile full of revealing photos that didn’t show my face.

I’m sure a lot of guys thought they were being catfished, but if you cast a wide enough net, it’s not hard to set up day dates. Well, “dates” is being a little generous. I basically used Tinder as sex on demand. When I wasn’t working (and fucking my clients, as often as not) or milking my husband dry, I was going over to stranger’s houses and riding them to orgasm after orgasm…

Of course none of it—my husband, my clients, my secret second life as what was essentially an unpaid sex delivery service—compared to what I’d done with my sister.

Or what I’d continued doing with my sister.

My husband and I have separate bank accounts. And maybe I should’ve budgeted a little better, but within eleven days, mine was empty.

I swear, I held out for as long as I could. Between my husband, Laurence, my other clients, the random guys from Tinder, the teenager who lived next door, his father…I did all I could to get my fix elsewhere. But as good as the sex was (and believe me, it was _good_ ), it didn’t scratch the itch in the same way as my sister had.

How could it?

When I’d felt Laurence’s dick slide into me for the first time, my toes had curled. The feeling of being wanted, of having someone off-limits, the sensation of a new cock entering me for the first time since I’d met my husband…it had filled me with lust.

As my husband pounded into me that night, my back arched with pleasure. He knew my body better than I did. He knew exactly how to touch me, to please me, precisely what would get me off. He fucked me so hard, so powerfully—when I came, it was like all my nerve endings lit up, and I collapsed onto his strong body, panting with need.

But when my sister danced…

God, it was indescribable.

When my sister danced for me, it was as though everything else faded away. The room we were in, my marriage, that she was my sister…the fact that I was _straight_.

None of it existed. All that I could see, all I could breathe, all I could think about was her.

Her, and how much I wanted her.

That was the difference, I guess. When someone else fucked me, I was getting off on being wanted. But when my sister was there, I was the one wanting her.

God I wanted her.

So after just four days of fucking everyone I could as much as I could, I called my sister. She sounded amused when I did, and didn’t even question what I wanted.

Instead, she just asked when and where, and told me to have cash ready.

When she arrived, I don’t know what I expected. A smug look, perhaps, like she delighted in how much I wanted her. That even her own sister couldn’t resist her.

Or a face filled with lust, with want, as mine surely was.

Instead, she just looked…professional. Like she was there to do a job.

She counted the money I’d withdrawn that morning, sat me down on the bed, then danced.

And as she danced, the world disappeared. All that remained was my sister. Her movement.

Her body.

One hour later, I was $2500 poorer, but for the first time in four days of almost non-stop sex, satisfied. My sister’s tongue, her fingers…at one point, I think she managed to get me off with nothing but an intense stare.

When my husband arrived home a few hours later, for the first time since my sister’s previous visit, I didn’t jump him. I think he was grateful for the break, to be honest.

The next day, I had another appointment with Laurence. This time, I didn’t dress up. I didn’t _need_ him, as I had during our last encounter. I wasn’t filled with that desperate need to get laid. My sister had gotten me off for almost half an hour straight the previous day, and while I knew it wouldn’t last, the fire inside me was tempered.

I knew my soul would continue to burn away. The flame may have been low, but I knew it would never go out.

Don’t get me wrong—when my client made a move, I still let him fuck me. I still came, as he drove himself into me, grabbing my breasts and thrusting into me like an animal. But it was a passive orgasm. I was happy to be used. Happy to let Laurence use me.

But I wasn’t the one driving.

My urge, my desperate need to feel wanted didn’t return until the next morning, when my husband was surprised to find me waking him up with my mouth.

The next two weeks continued in the same pattern. I’d pay my sister for an hour of her time, she’d wear me down with the most intense sex I’d ever experienced, and I’d be sexually sated for the next forty hours or so.

And then my libido would return in force, and I’d fuck anyone who would let me.

My husband never suspected a thing, of course. Why would he? I was his loving wife—more loving than usual, in fact. I was more responsive, wetter than I’d ever been. He had no way of knowing that half the time, that wetness was the seed of other men, most of whom he’d never met.

Even when we were apart, I’d text him. Photos of my bare tits, my naked ass. My pussy. The accompanying messages said I was wet for him, which was sort of true.

I was wet for my husband, in that my husband was part of…everyone.

I was wet for everyone. When the flame grew tall inside me, I felt like I wanted to fuck the world. There was no one, nothing I wouldn’t say yes to.

On the day of his birthday, I’d been teasing my husband more than usual. Even as I impaled myself on a Tinder date, a man visiting from Ireland, I pulled out my phone and texted him some filth, telling him about how I was going to change his world that night, how things would never be the same.

I’d spent my last five hundred dollars on ten minutes of my sister’s time the previous day—compared to the full hour, it had been like a single drop of water to a woman dying of thirst. If anything, it had mainly served to remind me what I didn’t have.

She’d agreed to dance for my husband for free that night.

As the muscular Irishman thrust inside me, grabbing my hips with his strong hands, I closed my eyes, imagining what would happen when Whitney turned on the music and began to sway.

* * *

To support my writing and access my work months before it goes online anywhere else, check out [my Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/panwhowrites)!


	Chapter 4

“Hey you,” my sister replied, moving past my confused husband and into the living room.

As my hubbie had answered the door, I’d gotten the chair ready. The same blue, studded chair that had changed my life less than a month ago.

“Sit here,” I said with a smile. He shot me a look. I couldn’t blame him for his confusion. The messages I’d been sending him all day had implied that I’d be rocking his world.

And sure enough, it wouldn’t be long before everything was changed forever.

Just not in the way he’d expected.

I can only imagine how my face looked in that moment. It must have been a mixture of anticipation, desperation…and lust.

I was about to see my sister dance. And I wasn’t even going to have to pay for it.

God, I couldn’t wait.

My sister bent over to put a song on the stereo—“Runnin’ with the Devil”, an old Van Halen track—and when she stood up, shot me a saucy glance.

I realized that my husband was staring at me, a strange look on his face. When Whitney had bent over, I hadn’t been able to look away from her perfect ass. She was wearing a black strapless tank top and a flowing black skirt, the same outfit she’d worn for each of our visits past the first one.

Her work outfit, I assumed.

The guitar started playing, and my husband’s gaze was torn away from me. Instead, he was staring at my sister, who had begun her magic.

I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that her ability to dance truly had a supernatural source; as soon as she began to move, it was impossible to turn away. I felt the familiar warmth appear between my legs; I’d been wet for days imagining this, but now that it was happening, now that my husband was bearing witness to the same hypnotic sway that had so radically transformed my life…

I couldn’t have been more excited.

My husband’s arms tensed as he watched Whitney’s blonde mane move.

“Touch her,” I hissed. “Do it…”

His eyes widened, but he obeyed, awkwardly moving his arms to her waist. I could have instructed him further. I knew he would have obeyed, eagerly accepted his wife’s permission to go further with her younger sister, but I held back. It was all I could do not to cross the room and press my lips against Whitney myself.

Besides, as my sister’s dance continued, I was certain that my husband wouldn’t be able to resist.

She really was _very_ good at what she did.

The song moved into the chorus, and Whitney pressed her body against his, rubbing her chest against my spouse’s, grinding her crotch against my husband’s rock-hard cock.

I let out a long moan—without even noticing, my hand had moved between my legs. I was wearing a pair of yoga pants (my husband loves what they do for my ass), and they were soaked. I could feel my arousal; my panties and yoga pants had completely failed to contain my wetness, and as I watched my sister grinding on my husband, I began stroking myself through the layers of cloth, twitching in pleasure at the sensations coursing through my body.

Soon enough, my husband’s hands had started to explore my sister’s body, grabbing her firm ass to prevent her from pulling away from his cock. With anyone else, his action would have filled me with a variety of emotions. Jealousy, most of all, but also arousal. My husband showing off his assertive side, even if it had been with someone else, would had me biting my lip in the memory (and anticipation) of when he’d demonstrate that same dominance in the bedroom.

But when my sister was dancing, that was all I could see. It was all I could think about. The way her body moved, her hair’s fluid motion, the way she managed to make her skirt seem like it was part of her, like a black flame flickering around her body, entirely within her control...

I gasped as my sister’s lips moved forward and met my husband’s. Much like Laurence’s reaction when I’d first kissed him, there was a moment of hesitance, of disbelief. But his resistance lasted no longer than my client’s had, and my entire body thrummed with pleasure at the sight of their passionate embrace.

I sat in the corner, touching myself as I watched my sister and husband make out, I knew I should be conflicted, but I wasn’t. When my sister danced, everything in the world just felt _right_. Of course her body was wrapped around my spouse’s; of _course_ his tongue was veraciously exploring her mouth.

Everything was exactly as it should be.

The song ended, and the world came hurtling back. My sister pulled away, and glanced at me in the corner.

“My rate for couples is eight thousand per hour,” she said simply. My husband’s jaw fell open—I’ve no idea if it was because of the price, or the shocking sensation of returning to reality. “But since you’re family…”

I nodded. I didn’t have the money—I’d spent my last penny on one-on-one sessions with my sister—but I knew my husband hadn’t burned through his savings.

Yet.

“Do you have four thousand?” I asked him, and he blinked twice, still adjusting to what was going on.

“Uh…yeah. I mean, in savings,” he said, looking back and forth between Whitney and I, confused.

My sister grinned. Her teeth were a blinding white, and appeared even sharper than the last time I’d noticed them.

“Then let’s go,” she said, grabbing my husband’s hand and pulling him towards the bedroom.

When my husband proposed to me, I’d felt…safe, I guess. Secure. I knew he was the love of my life, and I’d never want anyone else. We’d found each other, and that was all we’d ever need.

I’d known that for as long as we lived, we’d be each other’s everything. I never thought our marriage would be anything but exclusive…and I never, ever suspected that I’d be out-of-my-mind aroused by the idea of watching him fuck my sister.

But I was.

I’d like to say that part of it was because I loved him. I loved him, and wanted to see him experience the same joy I had. The incomparable experience of sex with my sister, the brain-bending orgasms, the feeling of having your spirit lit on fire. I was always taught that sharing is caring, and I’d love to say that’s why I was so excited by the prospect of watching his cock slide into Whitney for the first time.

Honestly, though, I don’t think that was it. More likely, it was the knowledge that…I’d be next.

That after my husband came inside Whitney, she’d turn her attention to me.

I’d just watched her dance for my husband. She’d gyrated for a three minute song that simultaneously felt like a lifetime and a single moment, and none of it— _none_ of it—had been about me.

I wanted my sister. I wanted her attention. I wanted her to touch me, to dance for me. I wanted my sister more than I’d ever wanted anything, or anyone.

I wanted my sister more than _anyone_ had ever wanted anything or anyone.

And after my husband fucked her, she’d be mine. At least for the refractory period, she’d be all mine.

I couldn’t wait.

I trotted behind my husband, who was following Whitney. When she got to the bedroom, she once more pressed his lips against his. I wondered if she’d known, at our wedding, that he’d eventually be hers.

That we both would.

Of course, I was the one who’d started this. I’d asked my sister to dance for me, I’d asked her to dance for my husband.

Had _I_ known? At the wedding, on some level, had I known that the man I was marrying would eventually fuck my sister? Was that why I’d been drawn to him in the first place; to give him to Whitney?

She deserved him. She deserved anything. Everything. She deserved the eight thousand dollars per hour she charged, and more.

Because she was my sister, we got the family rate. An hour with my sister at half price; it was the greatest gift I could possibly have given my husband. It was the best gift I could give any man.

Some of my clients had money; people don’t really hire an interior decorator if they’re broke. Perhaps I could introduce them to my sister, in exchange for a finder’s fee. Another way to make money…money that would be poured straight back into my sister’s bank account.

Not that she exactly needed referrals—from what I understood, she could work twenty-four hours a day and still have a queue out the door.

Having seen her dance, I understood why.

To my delight, my sister pulled away from my husband’s face, and turned to mine. As she kissed me, I could taste my husband’s breath on her lips. It didn’t detract from the perfection of my sister’s kiss; if anything, it added to it.

For the next few minutes, Whitney alternated between which of us she kissed. Just like her dance, each kiss was simultaneously infinite…and far too short. Finally, when I felt like I was going to burst, Whitney pulled off her tank top, and I did the same.

I’d never kissed another woman for my husband’s pleasure before. I knew he would have liked it, but before my sister’s dance, I was a firm 0 on the Kinsey Scale. Besides, it wasn’t like I needed to work to turn him on. I could have shown up in bed wearing a burlap sack and still gotten him hard.

But at the sight of my tongue dancing with my sister’s, our naked tits pressed against each other, I heard my husband groan. He’s always been a tit man, and despite neither of us having much more than a handful, I could tell this was fulfilling a number of his unspoken fantasies.

“Now you two,” my sister instructed, and we obeyed immediately. Even after knowing my husband for almost half a decade, his kisses never fail to thrill me…but given the situation, it felt a bit like taking nothing but salad on steak night.

Still, Whitney had been very direct, and just following her orders was enough to add spice to the marital kiss. When we pulled away, we were delighted to learn that during our embrace, she’d taken off the remainder of my clothes, and my sister’s perfect body was completely on display.

“Fuck her,” I groaned, unable to tear my eyes away from Whitney’s glistening pussy-lips. “Please…fuck her.”

My husband’s eyes looked like they were going to burst out of his head. The sight of my naked sister, the look of desperation I knew my face held…it was far more than he’d been expecting from his birthday surprise.

The man I married is many things, but ‘stupid’ is not one of them. With a soft groan, he unbuckled his pants, lowered his boxers, and frantically positioned his hard cock at my sister’s entrance.

As he thrust forward, I was surprised by my body’s reaction. Although I was two feet away, wantonly rubbing myself at the live sex-show in front of me, it was almost as though I could feel him entering _me_. I don’t know if there’s a word for it, but seeing my husband—the man I loved more than anyone else in the world—receiving what I was certain was the greatest pleasure of his life…god, it was almost enough to make me cum.

Almost.

Barely lasting longer than Laurence had, my husband groaned loudly. It was a sound I’d heard more times than I could count; he was cumming, filling my sister up with his hot, thick seed. She had a devilish grin on her face as her brother-in-law ejaculated inside her. It wasn’t one of lust, or mischievousness. It wasn’t the professional look she had on her face whenever she came over to dance for me.

It was a look of power. As he came inside her, she knew that my husband was hers now.

She owned him. Just as she owned me.

* * *

To support my writing and access my work months before it goes online anywhere else, check out [my Patreon](https://www.patreon.com/panwhowrites)!


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