In-fucking-sane. Love that word, if it's a word.
About a year ago, my wife's sister left her husband. The guy was just this shitty drunk. Not a wife beater, this guy, but one of those liar drunks.
Ann, my sister in law, she'd find empty bottles of vodka in the strangest places—underneath a couch, tucked away under the sink with all the cleaning supplies, in a sock drawer, behind the damn washing machine. Weird. But anyways, he'd lie about it: "I don't know where that came from." "Ain't mine." "Someone must have left that there." Like I said: weird.
The thing that ended their marriage, though, wasn't the drinking. It was a lie about graduating college. He said he did before they got married. He didn't. Turns out he almost graduated. You know how college alumni associations are always pestering you for money? You know how they send you their alumni magazine? Ann never saw any of that shit for her husband. She dug into it and got the truth.
So, Ann, she just couldn't handle the lies anymore. She called us, packed up her shit, and moved in with my wife and I.
Ann didn't have family or friends around other than my wife, Jen. The two had moved out here together to be in the city for jobs and fun. I got to know Ann real well when Jen and I were dating.
Jen, she's the best. Love her. But, she isn't like Ann.
Ann is hot. Tiny hot. Tiny volleyball setter hot. Skinny hot. Tight hot. A brown eyed, light-haired blonde—not platinum—her skin is the kind of shimmering tan that screams exotic to a kid from the prairie like me. Everything about her is small: small face, small arms, small legs, small tits, small ass. She must be under five feet, and I bet she weighs somewhere in the low nineties. Small, but fit.
Now, my wife Jen is not hot; she's pretty. She's a yellow blonde with blue eyes, about five feet two, but she's built. Jen has cannons on her chest. Cannons. Her tits fire out of her chest like those pointy bras from the 1950's, but hers don't end in points. Hers round off perfectly. Jen's got a booty, too, a two-hand booty.
The sisters are a lot alike. They laugh the same, got the same smile. They glance the same, if that's the way to put it. Their heads and eyes are going one way, and then, the next second, the eyes—just the eyes—turn to you. It's incredibly sexy, incidentally. Anyways, having spent a shitload of time with both of them, I even know that these sisters freakin' fart the same.
Where I suspected they were different, and this was mostly from rumor and innuendo, was in the bedroom. I only knew one of them from experience.
Jen is pretty straight-laced in bed. Don't get me wrong, she's generous. But, she's not a freak. Put it this way: with Jen, doggystyle is a special event.
And, not to sound selfish or anything, but she uses her hands to finish blowjobs. Maybe I shouldn't care about that. Anyways, Jen just wants to be efficient. She can catch it all on her hands and arms and then wash it off. "Saves the mess," she says. I can think of some better ways to save the mess, but, whatever.
As to Ann, I'm not saying I knew for sure she was a freak. I had no direct evidence, but I did have some telling info. Check it out.
First, Ann wears sexier stuff: smaller two-piece bikinis, shorter skirts, higher heels. She puts on the sexier make-up: the glossier lipstick, the longer painted nails, the fuck-me eye shadow. So, there's that. Oh, and Ann has got what must be the greatest single collection of panties in the history of hotties—more on that later, though.
Second, it's some of the things Jen drops about her every now and then. You know how tight sisters can be on secrets. I don't ask, but Jen sometimes gives hints. She'll say shit like, "Ann is such a little slut," and I know the two aren't—at the time—in a fight or something. Jen once called Ann a "Cum Queen"—and that time, the two really were pissed at each other. I know this isn't open and shut stuff, but it gets a guy thinking.
Third, and this one plants me firmly in douche bag territory for most people: I rifled through Ann's room one time when Jen and I were dating. Jen went to work without her phone one day, left it at her and Ann's apartment. Ann couldn't help because she was leaving for her parents, but Jen had Ann drop off the apartment key with me—I was on the way; Jen was on the other side of the city. So, I was at work and Ann slipped into my cubicle, handed me the key, smiled and said, "Don't go snooping around in there."
Basically, that smile guaranteed that I would snoop around.
I found some of that sexy hot-cold love lube and a little blue vibrator in the back of Ann's nightstand drawer. I told you Jen was straight-laced on sex stuff. Never in a million years could I imagine Jen buying that stuff, but Ann was different, and the proof was right there in her nightstand.
I also—couldn't help it—took a hard look at her panty drawer. Got wood pretty quick. Rubbed a couple of her panties on my cheek for feel. Stuck one down my pants. For feel. Thought hard about jerking off. That fucking drawer was chock full to the brim with tiny, sexy panties, hitting every color on the erotic rainbow. Left the apartment and almost forgot Jen's freakin' phone.
So, there's my evidence. I think it adds up.
Anyways, Ann was getting a divorce, didn't want to leave the city, and wanted to come stay with us. I suspect she had several reasons for coming to our place. For one, Ann worked a shit customer service job; she didn't have the money on her own to get a place like she would want. Two, she didn't want to be alone, thought it might encourage her liar husband to come a-knocking after drinking all the vodka that "someone else had drank." Third, I was a Marine, got out about three years ago. I could handle her husband, and he would know better than to fuck with me, Jen, and our house. Fourth, they're sisters. Jen and Ann, they're practically Irish twins, the two—thirteen months apart. They're tight. Ann was getting a divorce; she needed her sister.
Jen asked me if it would be okay. We had the space. I said sure, and 95 percent of me said it for the right reasons. Five percent said sure because having a tight, tiny potential sex freak hot blonde with a drawer full of sexy undies in the empty bedroom seemed like it would be okay.
Now, I can only guess about this, but for whatever reason, not long after Ann moved into our guest bedroom, the house—the air, the atmosphere of the house—shifted in a big way. It was as if the mood of the house got a big jolt of sexual energy. It wasn't just because of having a super hot babe in the house, though that was pretty cool: I'd see Ann wrapped in a towel walking back to her room from the shower. I'd see Ann in just a tank top and super short shorts in the kitchen making herself a cup of tea. Yes, the visual improvements were nice. It was more than that, though.
