Sister-in-law

Bill found the note and the empty closet. His wife had left with some rich guy and hadn’t bothered to say goodbye. He was still nursing a whisky when the doorbell rang. His sister-in-law stood on the threshold, blonde hair catching the afternoon light, her blouse already straining against the heavy swell of her tits. He told her everything. The words came out raw. She listened without interrupting, blue eyes never leaving his face. Then she stepped closer. Her hand brushed his crotch through the denim, slow and deliberate. Bill froze. She smiled, lips full and certain, then sank to her knees right there on the hallway floor. The zipper came down. Her warm palm freed him, and her tongue followed, slick and hungry. She took him deep in one smooth motion, throat working around every inch while her big tits pressed warm against his thighs. Bill’s head thudded back against the wall. She sucked with steady rhythm, saliva glistening, no hesitation, no pity—just raw, eager need. Every time she pulled back to breathe, a string of spit stretched from her lips to his swollen head. She moaned low, the sound vibrating straight through him, and went down again, deeper, hungrier. The betrayal that had burned in his gut began to blur under the wet heat of her mouth. She never looked away. Her hand pumped the base while her lips sealed tight around the crown, milking him with practiced greed. Bill’s fingers tangled in her hair as the first pulse hit her tongue. She swallowed without flinching, throat working, taking every drop until he sagged against the wall, chest heaving, the taste of her lipstick still on his skin.