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.
