This short novella describes the relationships between a husband and his wife's sister and mother, and how the latter evolved into a master/slave relationship, which eventually included his supervisor at work. It includes oral, anal, and Tantric sex, non consensual m/f and m/m sex, as well as romantic husband/wife sex while they know others are watching. It begins with the disintegration of the husband's first marriage. It's all fantasy (damn) and everyone is over the age of consent. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it. Jb7
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Let me admit right up front, I'm no angel. Yeah, I cheated on my first wife, Carol, with my second wife, Beth, and a few other women of no consequence, and no import to this story; maybe some other time. But my cheating was partly Carol's fault.
From September to the following July, the year before we were married, I spent practically every weekend buried in her cunt from seven o'clock Friday evening until two or three o'clock Monday morning. Then I had to get up and drive eighty miles to be to work at eight-thirty. That last fact didn't seem to matter to her, or the fact that we may have had less than ten hours of sleep since I arrived Friday.
One weekend she counted her orgasms; she hit number sixty-five just before I walked out the door. You get the picture, a fucking sex maniac-- before the ring was on her finger.
We were married on July 31. By October first, unless she was already in the mood, and by that I mean tongue out horny, fuhgeddaboutit. Before we were married, I was cumming twelve to fifteen times in forty-eight hours. By the end of September, the frequency was down to twelve to fifteen times a year. We were married, to the day, seven and a half years. I don't think we screwed a hundred times, and that includes trying to have a baby. Do the math--once a month plus the baby making.
She wasn't serious about getting pregnant, either; without discussion, she decided we had tried enough; that, at the age of twenty-nine, it was getting too dangerous for her to have children. End of effort! No discussion, no negotiation!
At the time, I was in grad school, on a fellowship. working on a doctorate in Clinical Psychology. I had arranged with a sheltered workshop to use some of their clients and staff in my research. That's where/how I met Beth, my second wife. It started with drinks, and some frank conversations, after work. Then one day I accompanied her on a visit to evaluate a short term treatment program for one of the workshop's behavior problems. Thank God it was winter and the car windows fogged up when we started making out. We were swapping tongues and everything else we could do with clothes on in public, as well as a few things we shouldn't have, with no regard for where we were.
That was during year three of my marriage. About the same time, Carol was becoming more uptight about anything dealing with sex. If I told one of her male co -workers a sex joke, she'd chew me out when we got home. If I made an appreciative sound when a nice rack was bared in a movie, she'd hiss at me to be quiet, I was embarrassing her! God forbid I should move when those breasts were visible! I forget the movie, but there were several pair showing on the screen. That's all, nothing sexy. I think it was a shower scene. I moved my leg to relieve a cramp; she got up and left the movie, later to claim that my squirming during that scene had mortified her. I never did learn what happened to the horny piece I married; she just disappeared. After the petting session Beth and I had, we started a long off and on affair. Sometimes we were together for a couple of months, sometimes a couple of hours. Whenever I called, she made herself available, even breaking dates with her other married lover, who was legally separated while his wife decided what she wanted to do. Beth eventually broke it off with him to be exclusively with me, even though I hadn't yet made the decision to divorce.
We lived about a five hour drive from Chicago. The Art Institute was hosting a show of privately owned French Impressionists, paintings which hadn't been seen in public for several years. Carol and I had talked about taking a four day weekend and going to see them, but she never made any effort to get the time off. The last Spring we were still married, she took a week's leave to go to a conference in Cincinnati. Beth had family in Chi-town, so I asked her if she'd like to see the exhibit. We went, stayed with her grandparents, sharing a bed over their objections, which she simply ignored. The show was fantastic, plus we also got to see the Wright exhibit (the architect, not the fliers) they have.
Although I didn't tell Carol who I went with, she threw a hissy fit when I told her I had gone to see the show. When I pointed out it had been there for six months and she hadn't made any effort to get the time to go see it, she just increased the hissy.
From my side, the final blow came when she was invited to show some of her work at an art show in LA, to be held over semester break at the end of January. The show offered to pay transportation and lodging for two, and she invited a female friend from work. One of the vacations we had been planning and saving for was a California trip. She justified not taking me by saying she'd be busy working, conducting workshops and giving presentations. Yeah, right.
Sue, her friend, had told us she had given her husband permission to date and sleep with whomever while he was away on a year long sabbatical, finishing and defending his dissertation, saying that's what she'd do. I knew how the pair would be spending their evenings. I was right.
One night, mid-week, when I called to wish Carol good-night, at eleven PM Pacific time, I heard Sue laughing and a man's voice in the background, along with the sound of glasses and ice rattling. Carol passed it off as an after workshop discussion. I didn't remind her she had told me all her workshops were in the morning. First thing, the next morning, I called Beth and made arrangements to move in with her that day.
I met Carol at the airport when she got home. After a week, I would expect at least a hug and kiss, wouldn't you? Not even, just a cheek to cheek air kiss, and "Hi." On the way to the house, she started nattering about the show, things she had seen and done, and some follow-up stuff she had to do, a possible commission to pursue. No questions about me, how I'd been, what I had been doing; all about her, as usual. At the house, I carried her bags in, then told her I was leaving and would be filing for divorce by the end of the week. Then I kissed her cheek and walked out.
She tried to raise some hell, but when I didn't respond the way she wanted, she gave up. My lawyer told me not to appear at the hearing. Her lawyer gave her similar advice, but she went anyway, and had to listen as my lawyer read my statement detailing how I thought our marriage had failed. She tried to blame me for the embarrassment she felt, especially during the passage where I complained about the absence of a real sexual relationship.
One of the conditions of the divorce was that I had to return the house key I had kept so I could get in, when she wasn't there, to get my stuff. The day I showed up to return the key, she answered the door nude and walked with me around the house, helping me gather the remainder of my plunder. Just before I was set to go, she asked if I'd give her one last back rub. I agreed, and as I was finishing up, she turned over so her C-cups were under my hands. Then she spread her thighs and asked if I'd like one for old times sake. I slipped a finger in her pussy; dry as a friggin' bone. I kissed her on the forehead and told her good-bye. As I left I could hear her crying, but, at that point, I was beyond caring.
Five months after I walked out, the divorce was finalized. Two months later, at the end of August, Beth and I were married. A week after that I got to meet her family. I had met her grandparents during the Art Institute trip, and had sort of met her family in passing when I dropped some books off one Saturday when they brought her younger sister down for a two week visit.
But the first long exposure to them was an experience best forgotten. Sean, her father, was an alcoholic Irishman, with the gift of blarney, the empathy of a squid, the temper of a rhino, and the thin skin of an onion. And that was sober. It took a lot of whiskey to get him visibly drunk, but only about three shots to put his temper on a hair trigger. Beth had told me horror stories about being thrown across a room, about full dinner tables being overturned into the kids' laps, about Xmas trees being thrown out of windows on Xmas morning. It took nearly two years, but I got to see it for myself. More on that in a bit.
Betty was eight years and three days older than I, which she took as a sign we were destined to get along. She was also an alcoholic. The only time I didn't see her with her cup of 'tea' was when she visited us. Never visibly under the influence, she was never not under it until she left Sean.
Several times when we visited them, we would go shopping. While walking, she would grab my arm and put it around her so that my thumb was laying along the swell of her breast and my hand situated so it functioned as an underwire, clamping her arm against mine so I couldn't move it. Sometimes, she even held me there with her hand. I never did in those circumstances, but I was sure if I had rotated my hand upward so I was cradling her boob, she wouldn't have batted an eyelash.
The next summer after we were married, I was finishing up writing my dissertation. Susie, Beth's younger sister, asked if she could visit for a couple of weeks during July. Of course Beth said yes. My school schedule left most of my mornings free, so Beth arranged just to take the afternoons off while Susie visited. With most seventeen year olds, it wouldn't have been a problem, but Beth was a thirty year old in a seventeen year old body.
I have never met such a precocious teenager. She arrived on Saturday afternoon, and we spent that night and most of the next day turning away guys she had given our address and phone number with the message they could call anytime. When we told one of them, obviously in his thirties, that she was only seventeen, his response was, "So?" He wasn't going to leave until I threatened to deck him.
We only had a two bedroom place, and the second bedroom was where I was storing my data and writing my paper. Susie was sleeping on the couch in the living room. Monday morning when I came out after Beth went to work, I met Susie coming down the hall, wearing nothing but a smile.
She was tall, about five ten; svelte, with not a half ounce of excess fat; a small A bust, I'd guess 32A, with a 22 inch waist and 30 inch hips; a never been trimmed thatch, matching her hair, a dark cinnamon color, like her sisters'. "Morning, Mick," she yawned. My jaw must have dropped a foot. She just laughed and walked up to within six inches of me, and asked, "Is there a problem, Bear?"
"Yes. You need to put some clothes on."
"Why, it's just us?"
"We 're not an us; you are my wife's seventeen year old sister."
Before she answered, she stepped closer and slid her arms around my neck, then pushed her pussy into my jockey covered groin. "We could be an us. I bet I'd screw you better than Beth."
"We'll never know," I answered, pulling her arms down and pushing her back. "Get your clothes and go get your shower."
