We Shouldnt Be Doing This

Mercedes laughed. In the darkness, it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was a slight, musical sound. It hardly seemed as if the hand pressed against my belly, nails dug in for leverage owned both. Then, she said the phrase my conscience had been screaming at me, in exactly the same tone as my inner voice.

"Brian, we already are."

Then I could feel her heat wrapped around me in a tight, wet grip as she slowly pushed her hips down on mine, sliding me into her with an ease that seemed to practiced, too natural. My hands rose to grip her waist reflexively, finding that certain sweet spot where I could guide her without taking away control. Again, she spoke with the voice of my conscience.

"It's like we were made for each other."

Somewhere behind the nattering voice of my conscience, in a place reserved for light-of-day logic, I was fully aware that, as a man and a woman, we were made for each other. There was nothing magical happening here, nothing special. We were just two people who had given in to the same animal urges that had pushed humanity along since the dawn of time.

However, when I felt her tense under my hands, and begin to rock back and forth, working me into the secret places inside of her, it felt like destiny was at work. I was where I belonged. I was home.

That thought led to another, then another, each more damning than the last. But the sensation of Lisa's wet grip sliding along the length of my shaft pushed those thoughts out of my mind, or so far back that they couldn't be heard. At least, until Lisa whispered out loud to me and the darkness the very thought I'd been trying to ignore.

"You married the wrong sister."

In response, I grabbed her by the hips and pulled her against me (and pushed myself deeper into her) to get her to stop talking. I was immediately reminded of a time when Michelle and I were trying to spice things up with some outfits, toys, etc. I decided to try my hand at "talking dirty" like they do in porno movies. I remember her telling me flatly to "shut up, you're ruining it". At the time, with her dressed like a french maid and me dressed like a burglar (yup, raccoon mask, striped shirt and all) it seemed like the silliest thing she could have said. Now, I understood perfectly what she meant.

A little angry, and not doing much to hide it, I lifted myself off the sofa and clamped a hand over her mouth. I could feel the sharp intake of breath against my fingers and, in my minds eye, I could see her eyes go wide with surprise as I pushed her onto her back. I gently laid her against one of the big ornate cushions my wife places at either end of the sofa (for company...ha ha) and then leaned my full weight against the soft, wet pocket I'd found at the back of Lisa's pussy. I moved my hand slightly so that she wouldn't bite through my palm and then began to shift my weight back and forth against it.

"Shut up bitch, you love it."

I hadn't tried taking dirty since after a music festival Michelle and I attended in college. That was where she told me that it just didn't turn her on to be "debased" like that. Since she had been face-down and ass-up on a borrowed picnic blanket behind the amphitheater at a public park only eleven minutes earlier when she said it, I made the mistake of laughing, assuming she was joking.

During the entire car ride home, she established that she had not been joking.

Lisa gripped my wrist and held it over her mouth. On her back, lying in a blue pool of moonlight, I could see her eyelids flutter half-shut before opening again with only the whites exposed. She wrapped one leg around my waist and held it there, moaning as she slowly encircled my waist with the other. She inhaled sharply, held that breath, and began to quiver, first in the hips, then up her entire body. Her eyes never moved from whatever they were staring at inside her head as her orgasm ran through her.

I could feel a thick liquid begin to ooze from her. Knowing it wasn't me, I smiled and made a mental note that both sisters had a tendency to leak all over the place when they cum. It was information I wasn't supposed to have so I put it in a very special place in my memory. As Lisa's eyes reappeared and refocused on me, I could hear the mental lock snap shut on that tidbit so loud that it felt like a real sound.

Lisa's eyes were a simple brown, like her hair. 'Mousy' was the word she used to describe them, probably because it sounded nicer than 'plain'. However, under the moonlight, they had taken on an ephemeral shade of violet and staring into them while I fucked her brought back the haunting sensation of magic as well as the sensation of my balls rising to meet the base of my cock.

Gripping the back of the sofa with one hand, propping myself up so that I could stare into those eyes with the other, I began sawing in and out of my sister-in-law's pussy as if I had every right. She bit down on her bottom lip before finally covering her mouth with one hand and hooking her nails into the small of my back with the other. Her eyes went big, fluttered shut as she started to cum, then went big again when she realized that she was still cumming.

Lisa took a deep breath and moaned it out against the back of her hand as her second orgasm rolled into a third. Now she was shaking, and only the slightest circles of darkness remained just below her eyelids. I put my hand against her waist like a dancer and lifted her off the sofa so that I could plow deeper into her. With each stroke, I could feel the heat rising up from my balls, overpowering her own heat, which had been like a furnace when I first slid inside her. I plunged into her repeatedly, struggling to hold back the explosion inside of me. She dud her nails and heels in deeper, trying to urge it out. Finally, her eyes reappeared and refocused. Staring deep into them, I came.

Lisa let out a choked whimper as I flooded her. I knew she was on the pill (consequence of sharing a bathroom) and made no attempt to pull out. For her part she made no attempt to discourage me and, in fact, held me until the spurting torrent slowed to a drip.

For the next several moments, the only sound in the room was our ragged breathing before I lowered myself onto her. I lay my head against her chest and listened to her insides as both of our juices seeped out of her and onto the oversized t-shirt she used as a nightgown.

Then, I heard he voice of my conscience again. This time, however, it was louder than usual. This time, it didn't offer advice or warning. This time, it only asked a single question.

"What the fuck is this?"

This time, it was my wife.