u/yourbiggestmistake99

Follow up to: https://www.reddit.com/r/sexstories/s/r7SSJWw9ON

Holy fuck, this one night still makes my balls ache just thinking about it.

She was eight and a half months, belly so goddamn massive it looked ready to pop any second. Showed up in this thin white sundress, no bra, nipples poking like bullets, and the tiniest red satin panties you’ve ever seen, already dark where she’d soaked through. She didn’t even say hi, just slammed the door, yanked the dress off, and growled, “I need it raw tonight, I can’t take this anymore.”

I had her on the bed in two seconds, legs spread, belly gleaming under the lamp. Started the usual grind, my bare cock sliding over that satin, her clit swollen so fat I could feel it throbbing through the fabric. She was already whimpering, hips bucking up to meet me, but then she grabbed my neck, pulled me down so her lips were on my ear and hissed:

“Pull them to the side. I want your skin on my pussy. Just the outside, I swear, just let me feel you naked.”

I almost came right there. Fingers shaking, I hooked the satin and dragged it over; her lips were puffy, slick, glistening like she’d been edged for hours. The second my cockhead touched her bare slit she let out this guttural moan, “Fuuuck yes, that’s it.”

I started sliding again, slow at first, shaft gliding between her lips, coating myself in her juice, bumping her clit on every stroke. No penetration, just pure filthy skin-on-skin friction. She was dripping so much it sounded obscene, wet slaps every time my balls smacked her ass. Her belly kept bouncing between us, skin hot and tight, stretch marks silver in the light.

She locked her ankles behind my back, pulling me harder, and started talking pure filth: “Feel how wet I am for you? That’s what he never gets. Your cock’s so hot on my cunt, baby, keep rubbing my pregnant pussy, make me leak all over you.”

I lost it. Started thrusting like an animal, cockhead catching right at her entrance every time but never pushing in. She was clawing my shoulders, belly quivering, screaming, “Don’t you dare stop, don’t you fucking stop.”

Ten strokes later she detonated, pussy clenching so hard I felt it on my shaft, squirting a little, hot spurts hitting my stomach. That ripped me open; I yanked back and erupted, thick ropes blasting across her belly, one shot so hard it hit her chin. Cum everywhere, pooling in her navel, running down the sides onto the sheets.

She scooped it up with both hands, smeared it all over her tits and belly like war paint, then grabbed my still-throbbing cock and milked the last drops right onto her clit, rubbing them in while she shuddered through another aftershock.

Looked me dead in the eyes and whispered, “That’s the closest I’ve ever let anyone get since I got pregnant… and I still want more tomorrow.”

I swear I could’ve gone again right there on the spot. Dirtiest night of my life.

Follow up to: https://www.reddit.com/r/confessionsgonewild/s/38gAXeW28c

There was this one night I’ll never forget, like month 7, her belly was fucking enormous, skin tight as a drum. She showed up already shaking, eyes glassy, said her husband hadn’t even hugged her in weeks and she was losing her mind.

She kicked the door shut, yanked her dress over her head, and just stood there in this tiny black lace thong and nothing else. Belly sticking out so far the thong was basically swallowed between her lips. She grabbed my hand, put it right on her pussy through the lace and whispered, “I’m dripping down my thighs, please, I need to feel you.”

I told her same rule, no fucking, but she was begging different this time. Grabbed my pants, pulled my cock out, already rock hard, and said “just hump me, please, I need your skin on mine.” I lost it. Pushed her onto the couch, climbed over her, belly between us like a warm planet. She spread her legs wide, that lace soaked, and guided me so my bare cock was sliding right along her slit, fabric barely there.

I started grinding slow, shaft dragging over her clit through the thong, her belly pressed up against my stomach. She was moaning so loud I thought the neighbors would hear. Kept saying “harder, harder, use me.” I picked up speed, hips slamming, cockhead bumping her clit every thrust. The lace was so wet it felt like nothing, precum and her juice mixing, slippery as fuck.

Thirty seconds in she arched, whole body shook, screamed “I’m cumming, oh god don’t stop” and I felt her pussy pulsing against my cock through the fabric. That set me off; I pulled back just enough and unloaded like a firehose, shot after shot all over that huge pregnant belly, splattered up to her tits, dripping off the sides onto the couch.

She was still twitching, reached down, rubbed my cum into her skin like lotion, then looked up at me with this fucked-out smile and goes, “that’s the hardest I’ve ever cum in my life.”

We just laid there panting, my dick still half-hard between her thighs, cum cooling on her belly. After like ten minutes she kissed me soft, pulled the dress back on over the mess, and waddled out the door like nothing happened.

Still the hottest thing I’ve ever done. Hands down.

Follow up to: https://www.reddit.com/r/sexstories/s/8qaNRvnEf1

There was this one night I’ll never forget, like month 7, her belly was fucking enormous, skin tight as a drum. She showed up already shaking, eyes glassy, said her husband hadn’t even hugged her in weeks and she was losing her mind.

She kicked the door shut, yanked her dress over her head, and just stood there in this tiny black lace thong and nothing else. Belly sticking out so far the thong was basically swallowed between her lips. She grabbed my hand, put it right on her pussy through the lace and whispered, “I’m dripping down my thighs, please, I need to feel you.”

I told her same rule, no fucking, but she was begging different this time. Grabbed my pants, pulled my cock out, already rock hard, and said “just hump me, please, I need your skin on mine.” I lost it. Pushed her onto the couch, climbed over her, belly between us like a warm planet. She spread her legs wide, that lace soaked, and guided me so my bare cock was sliding right along her slit, fabric barely there.

I started grinding slow, shaft dragging over her clit through the thong, her belly pressed up against my stomach. She was moaning so loud I thought the neighbors would hear. Kept saying “harder, harder, use me.” I picked up speed, hips slamming, cockhead bumping her clit every thrust. The lace was so wet it felt like nothing, precum and her juice mixing, slippery as fuck.

Thirty seconds in she arched, whole body shook, screamed “I’m cumming, oh god don’t stop” and I felt her pussy pulsing against my cock through the fabric. That set me off; I pulled back just enough and unloaded like a firehose, shot after shot all over that huge pregnant belly, splattered up to her tits, dripping off the sides onto the couch.

She was still twitching, reached down, rubbed my cum into her skin like lotion, then looked up at me with this fucked-out smile and goes, “that’s the hardest I’ve ever cum in my life.”

We just laid there panting, my dick still half-hard between her thighs, cum cooling on her belly. After like ten minutes she kissed me soft, pulled the dress back on over the mess, and waddled out the door like nothing happened.

Still the hottest thing I’ve ever done. Hands down.

The breeze carried the faint scent of laundry detergent and something warmer, more personal, as I stepped onto my balcony that afternoon. The apartment complex was quiet, the kind of lazy Sunday where most neighbors stayed inside with their air conditioning. My eyes caught the flash of black lace first, Sarah’s panties, delicate and trimmed with tiny satin bows, had caught on the railing after the wind snatched them from her balcony next door. They were still warm from the sun, the fabric impossibly soft against my fingertips.

Sarah was forty-five, recently divorced, with full curves, shoulder-length auburn hair, and a confident way of moving that always made our hallway conversations linger. I knew I should just fold them neatly and return them, but the silky material in my hand stirred something deep and urgent. I glanced around once, heart hammering, then slipped inside my apartment and locked the sliding door.

In the dim light of my bedroom I sat on the edge of the bed and brought the panties to my face. The faint floral scent of her skin and perfume clung to the crotch. My cock was already rock-hard, straining against my shorts. I freed it, the thick shaft pulsing in my palm, and slowly wrapped the black lace around the swollen head. The cool silk kissed my sensitive skin, sending a shiver up my spine.

“Fuck,” I breathed, voice low. I started stroking, long slow pulls that made the lace glide over every vein and ridge. The fabric felt alive, teasing the underside of my cockhead with each upward stroke. Pre-cum leaked steadily, darkening the material. My breathing grew heavier, ragged gasps filling the room as I tightened the wrap and pumped faster. The soft rustle of lace mixed with the wet sounds of my slick shaft sliding through the panties. I imagined Sarah’s warm pussy had been pressed right here, the same fabric that now hugged my throbbing cock.

I leaned back, legs spread, stroking harder. My balls tightened, drawing up as pleasure coiled tight in my gut. “Sarah…” I whispered her name like a confession. The orgasm hit hard, thick ropes of cum spurted into the lace, soaking the crotch and spilling over the edges. I kept stroking through it, milking every pulse until my cock twitched empty and my chest heaved.

Afterward, guilt and panic set in. I wiped the worst of it away with tissue, but the panties still felt damp and sticky in places. I folded them as best I could, slipped them into a small paper bag, and waited until dusk. Heart pounding, I stepped quietly into the hallway and left the bag on her welcome mat before retreating to my apartment like a thief.

The next morning brought a soft knock at my door. I opened it to find Sarah standing there in a simple sundress that hugged her hips and full breasts. Her smile was warm, but her green eyes held something sharper.

“Hey, could you help me move a heavy bookshelf? It’s awkward and I don’t want to strain my back,” she said casually.

“Sure, no problem.” I followed her inside, pulse already quickening.

Once the door clicked shut behind us, she turned and leaned against it. “Actually, the bookshelf can wait. There’s something else I need to talk to you about.” She pulled out her phone, tapped the screen, and turned it toward me. The footage was clear, her hidden balcony camera had captured everything: me picking up the panties, carrying them inside, and the way I’d rushed back out later with the bag.

My face burned crimson. “Sarah, I, I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me. I’ll, ”

“Shh.” She stepped closer, voice soft but steady. “I watched the whole thing. Twice. I saw how you smelled them… how you wrapped my dirty panties around that thick cock of yours and stroked until you came so hard you were shaking.” Her cheeks flushed, but her eyes stayed locked on mine. “I should be furious. Instead… I’m flattered. It’s been years since anyone looked at something so intimate of mine with that kind of hunger.”

I stood frozen, cock already twitching again inside my jeans despite the shame.

She continued, “I have a whole collection in my bedroom. Panties, lingerie, things I wore for myself after the divorce. Would you like to see them? Properly this time?”

I managed a hoarse “Yes.”

She led me down the short hallway into her sunlit bedroom. The air smelled faintly of her perfume. She opened the top drawer of a sleek dresser and pulled out several pairs, satin, lace, sheer mesh in deep reds, soft pinks, and creams. She laid them across the bed like treasures.

“Pick one,” she said, voice dropping to a sultry murmur. “Or let me choose for you.”

“You choose,” I whispered.

Sarah selected a pair of deep burgundy satin panties with delicate black trim. She held them up, letting the light catch the sheen. “These are one of my favorites. I wore them last week.” She reached into her nightstand and produced a small bottle of lightly scented massage oil. “I want to watch you use them right. Coat the fabric first. Make it nice and slick for your cock.”

My hands trembled as I took the panties and the oil. I poured a generous amount into my palm, warming it, then worked the oil into the satin until it glistened. Sarah sat in the armchair beside the bed, legs crossed, watching intently.

“Take your pants off,” she instructed calmly. “Let me see that cock.”

I stripped, my erection springing free, already leaking. I wrapped the warm, oily satin around my shaft, the slick fabric enveloping me completely. A low groan escaped my throat at the first stroke.

“That’s it,” Sarah murmured, eyes gleaming. “Slow at first. Let me hear the sound it makes.”

The wet glide of oiled satin filled the room, schlick… schlick… schlick, as I pumped my fist. My cock throbbed visibly through the shiny material, the head bulging against the crotch where her pussy had once rested.

“Twist your wrist a little on the upstroke,” she coached, voice husky. “Yes, just like that. Good boy.”

My breathing turned to heavy pants. The oil made everything obscenely slippery, the satin clinging and sliding over my swollen cockhead with every stroke. Sarah leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching every detail.

“You’re getting close already, aren’t you?” she asked softly. “Don’t hold back. I want to see you cum in them.”

The pressure built fast. My hips bucked, balls slapping lightly against my fist. “Sarah… fuck, it feels so good,” I gasped.

“Let it go,” she whispered. “Cum for me.”

I cried out as the orgasm crashed through me. Thick jets of cum erupted into the soaked burgundy satin, pulse after pulse, spilling out the sides and dripping onto my fingers. I kept stroking through the spasms until I was spent, trembling.

Sarah stood, walked over, and gently took the drenched panties from my hand. She folded them carefully, the evidence of my release glistening inside.

“These are yours now,” she said with a warm, possessive smile. “A reward for being so honest and obedient. Come back tomorrow evening if you want more. I have so many ideas for how I’d like to watch you next time.”

She walked me to the door, still holding the cum-filled panties like a trophy. As I stepped into the hallway, dazed and drained, I heard her soft voice behind me.

“Sweet dreams.”

The door closed with a quiet click, leaving me standing there with my new gift and the certain knowledge that this was only the beginning.

A few evenings later, my phone buzzed with a simple text from Sarah: “Come over at eight. Door’s unlocked. Don’t be late.”

My heart raced as I stepped into her apartment at the exact time. Soft golden lighting glowed from the bedroom, and the air carried her familiar floral scent mixed with something warmer. Sarah waited for me in a silky black robe that clung to her full breasts and hips. She smiled when she saw me, a knowing, confident curve of her lips.

“Good boy,” she said softly, closing the door behind me. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Come.”

She led me into her bedroom. On the neatly made bed she had arranged several pieces of lingerie: pale pink satin panties, a matching bra, a sheer white teddy, and a pair of cream-colored lace boyshorts. A fresh bottle of scented massage oil sat on the nightstand, already open.

“I enjoy this more than I expected,” Sarah confessed, her voice low and warm. “Choosing exactly what you’ll use, telling you how to stroke that thick cock for me. It makes me feel… powerful. Take your clothes off and sit on the edge of the bed.”

I stripped quickly, my cock already half-hard and rising under her steady gaze. She picked up the pale pink satin panties, holding them up so the light caught the smooth sheen.

“These,” she decided. “I wore them to bed two nights ago. They’re soft and they stretch nicely around a hard cock. Warm the oil in your palms first. I want it nice and hot before it touches the fabric.”

I poured a generous amount into my hands, rubbing them together until the oil glistened and warmed. Sarah settled into the plush armchair a few feet away, crossing her legs and letting the robe slip open just enough to show the curve of her thigh.

“Start slow,” she instructed. “Coat every inch of the panties until they’re dripping.”

I worked the warm oil into the satin, massaging it in until the fabric turned shiny and slick. My cock throbbed visibly, a bead of pre-cum already forming at the tip. Sarah’s eyes never left me.

“Now wrap them around your shaft. Slowly. Let me watch.”

I obeyed, enveloping my hard cock in the warm, slippery satin. The sensation made me groan deeply. The slick fabric hugged every ridge and vein perfectly.

“That’s it,” she murmured, voice husky. “Start stroking. Long, slow strokes from base to head. I want to hear it.”

The room filled with the wet, obscene sound of oiled satin sliding over hard flesh: schlick… schlick… schlick. I pumped my fist steadily, the pink material glistening as it glided up and down my throbbing length. Sarah watched intently, her breathing a little quicker now.

“Twist your wrist on the upstroke,” she coached calmly. “Yes, just like that. Feel how the satin catches under the head? That’s my favorite spot. Rub it a little firmer there.”

I followed every word, my hips rocking slightly. Heavy breaths escaped my mouth as pleasure built in thick waves. The oil made everything so slippery that my fist flew smoother with each stroke.

“Slow down,” Sarah said suddenly when my breathing turned ragged. “Pause at the top. Squeeze the head through the fabric.”

I stopped mid-stroke, gripping the swollen head tightly. My cock pulsed angrily in the satin, desperate for more. A low whimper left my throat.

“Good boy. Breathe. Let it settle.” She smiled, clearly enjoying the control. “Now start again, but even slower. Describe how it feels.”

“It’s so warm and slick,” I gasped. “The satin is clinging to every inch… sliding over the veins… fuck, Sarah, it feels incredible.”

She let me build again, the wet schlicking sounds growing louder as I stroked faster. My balls tightened, drawing up close to my body. The pressure coiled tighter and tighter.

“Stop,” she commanded softly as I neared the edge.

I froze again, panting hard, cock twitching wildly inside the soaked pink satin. A thick drop of pre-cum mixed with oil leaked through the fabric.

“You’re doing so well,” she praised. “I love watching you fight it for me. Three more slow strokes. Count them out loud.”

“One…” I stroked long and deliberately, the slick glide torturously slow.

“Two…” My voice shook.

“Three…” I reached the head and held it.

“Stop,” she said again, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.

I was trembling now, desperate, pre-cum flowing freely. Sarah uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, giving me a better view of her cleavage.

“Beg me,” she whispered.

“Please, Sarah… let me cum. I need it so bad.”

She smiled. “Stroke hard and fast now. Don’t stop until you fill those panties.”

I pumped furiously, the wet sounds filling the room, schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick. My groans grew louder, raw. Pleasure slammed into me like a wave.

“Cum for me,” she ordered, voice firm. “Right now.”

The orgasm exploded through my body. I cried out as thick, heavy ropes of cum erupted into the pink satin, pulse after powerful pulse. The fabric turned darker and wetter as my load soaked through, spilling out the sides and dripping down my fingers. I kept stroking through every spasm, milking myself completely under her watchful gaze until I was empty and shaking.

Sarah stood and walked over. She gently pried my hand away and took the drenched panties. She examined them closely, running a finger through the creamy evidence of my release.

“Beautiful,” she murmured. “You gave me everything I asked for.” She folded the cum-soaked satin carefully and pressed the warm bundle into my hands. “These are yours now. A reward for listening so perfectly. Every drop belongs to me from now on.”

I sat there catching my breath, cock still twitching. Sarah leaned down and kissed my forehead softly.

“I have even more ideas for you. Wear these home tonight and think about how they got so messy.”

She walked me to the door in her robe, the scent of oil and cum still thick in the air. As I stepped into the hallway, clutching my new gift, she called after me quietly.

“Sweet dreams, my good boy.”

Sarah’s text arrived exactly two days later: “Tonight. Eight sharp. I’ve laid everything out. Bring nothing but yourself.”

I arrived on time, pulse already racing. Her apartment smelled of fresh candles and her signature floral perfume. She greeted me at the door wearing a deep emerald silk robe that matched what waited inside. The robe hugged her full breasts and flared over her wide hips, the tie loosely knotted so it threatened to slip open with every movement.

“You’re learning to be punctual,” she said with a pleased smile, locking the door behind me. “Good. Tonight I want to push you a little further. Come see what I chose.”

Her bedroom glowed with low lamplight. On the bed lay a stunning sheer emerald-green teddy with delicate lace cups and a matching pair of high-cut panties. The fabric looked impossibly light, almost translucent. Beside them sat a fresh bottle of thicker warming oil, the kind that heated up on contact with skin.

Sarah picked up the teddy first, letting the sheer material drape over her fingers. “I wore this set on a lonely night last month. The silk feels like a second skin. I want you to use both pieces tonight. Layer them. Feel everything.”

She handed me the bottle. “Warm it well. I want that cock glistening before you start.”

I poured a generous pool into my palms and rubbed them together until the oil grew hot. Sarah slipped into her armchair, robe parting to reveal smooth thighs. Her eyes stayed locked on me as I stripped, my cock springing free, already stiff and leaking.

“Start with the teddy,” she instructed, voice calm and commanding. “Coat the lace cups first, then the body. Make it shine.”

I worked the hot oil into the delicate fabric, massaging it until the emerald silk turned dark and slick, the lace cups glistening. The warming sensation made my fingers tingle. Next I oiled the matching panties thoroughly, turning the sheer material glossy and slippery.

Sarah’s breathing had deepened. “Now wrap the panties around your thick shaft. Use the teddy over the top. Layer them exactly how I want.”

I obeyed, first sliding the oily panties around my hard cock, the sheer fabric hugging every inch. Then I draped the slick teddy over it, the lace cups pressing against my swollen head and the silky body wrapping the length. The double layer felt decadent, warm, and devastatingly smooth. A deep groan escaped my throat at the first slow stroke.

“Listen to that sound,” Sarah murmured, eyes gleaming. “Schlick… schlick… I love how wet it is already.”

The thick oil made every movement loud and obscene. I pumped slowly, letting the layered silk glide up and down my throbbing length. The lace teased the sensitive underside of my cockhead while the satin body squeezed the shaft. Pre-cum mixed with the oil, making everything even slicker.

“Twist on the upstroke,” she coached. “Squeeze tighter at the head. Yes, just like that. Hold it there for three seconds… good boy.”

I followed every direction, my hips rocking gently. Heavy breaths filled the room, punctuated by the constant wet schlick-schlick-schlick of oiled silk on hard cock. Sarah leaned forward, elbows on her knees, watching every detail.

“Faster now, but not too fast. I want to see the fabric stretch around that fat head.”

I increased the pace. The warming oil began to tingle against my skin, intensifying every sensation. My balls drew up tight, and pleasure coiled deep in my groin.

“Stop,” she said firmly when my strokes grew frantic.

I froze mid-stroke, panting hard, the layered lingerie pulsing around my desperate cock. A thick bead of pre-cum oozed through the sheer fabric.

“Breathe,” she ordered softly. “Feel how close you are. Hold it right there.”

I whimpered, thighs trembling. Sarah stood and circled me slowly, her robe whispering against her skin. She adjusted the teddy slightly, pressing the lace firmer against my cockhead.

“Look at you,” she whispered, voice husky. “So obedient. So hard for my things. Start again. Ten slow strokes. Count them.”

“One…” I dragged the slick layers down to the base.

“Two…” The wet glide made my eyes roll back.

By the time I reached ten, I was shaking, right on the edge again.

“Stop,” she commanded once more.

“Please, Sarah,” I gasped, voice ragged. “I need to cum so badly.”

“Not yet.” She sat back down, smiling with quiet power. “Five more strokes, even slower. Describe exactly what you feel.”

“It’s so warm… the silk is sliding over every vein… the lace is rubbing right under the head… fuck, it’s tingling from the oil… I’m leaking everywhere,” I panted between strokes.

“Perfect,” she praised. “You’re mine to edge. Now stroke hard and fast. Don’t you dare stop until I say.”

I pumped furiously. The room echoed with loud, sloppy schlicking sounds as the drenched emerald silk flew up and down my cock. My groans turned into desperate moans. Sweat beaded on my forehead.

“Sarah… I’m so close…”

“Hold it,” she said sharply, then softer, “Just a little longer… feel me owning every second of this.”

My entire body strained, muscles tight, cock throbbing wildly inside the soaked layers.

“Cum for me now,” she finally ordered, voice firm and warm. “Fill my pretty green set. Every drop.”

The orgasm slammed into me like lightning. I cried out loudly as thick ropes of cum exploded into the emerald silk and lace. Pulse after heavy pulse soaked through both layers, turning the sheer fabric creamy and dark. I kept stroking frantically through the spasms, milking every last jet until my knees nearly buckled and my cock twitched empty.

Sarah rose and approached. She carefully unwrapped the dripping lingerie from my spent cock. Cum glistened everywhere, strings of it connecting the fabric to my skin as she pulled it away. She examined her ruined set with obvious satisfaction, running a finger through the mess I had made.

“You gave me so much tonight,” she murmured. “Look how beautifully you marked them.” She folded the cum-drenched teddy and panties together into a warm, sticky bundle and pressed it into my hands. “These belong to you now. My gift for how perfectly you surrendered to my control.”

I stood there catching my breath, legs shaky, still holding the evidence of my intense release. Sarah kissed my cheek softly, her robe brushing against my bare chest.

Sarah’s message came in the late afternoon: “Tonight at eight. I’ve prepared something special. Wear loose clothes. You won’t need them long.”

I stood at her door exactly on time, my pulse already thick in my throat. She opened it wearing a short black silk slip that barely reached mid-thigh, the thin straps framing her full, heavy breasts. Her eyes sparkled with quiet authority as she pulledme inside and locked the door.

“You’ve been such a good boy these past weeks,” she said, voice low and warm. “I’ve been wet just thinking about how completely you give yourself to me. Tonight I want to feel even more in control. Come.”

Her bedroom was dimmer than usual, lit by two bedside lamps that cast soft shadows. On the bed lay a luxurious black lace corset set: a beautifully boned corset with delicate straps and a matching pair of high-cut lace panties so fine they looked almost sheer. The fabric was rich, expensive, and clearly one of her favorites. A large bottle of thick, warming oil waited beside them.

Sarah picked up the corset, letting the black lace trail through her fingers. “I wore this the night I felt especially lonely after the divorce. Tonight you’re going to coat every inch of it until it shines for your cock. Then you’ll wrap both pieces around that thick shaft exactly as I say.”

She handed me the bottle. “Start warming the oil. I want it hot.”

I poured a generous amount into my palms and rubbed them together until the oil heated and glistened. Sarah moved the armchair closer this time, only a few feet away, and sat down. Her slip rode up her thighs as she crossed her legs, watching me strip. My cock sprang out hard and heavy, already leaking.

“Begin with the corset,” she instructed calmly. “Work the oil into the lace, the boning, the straps. Make it drip.”

I massaged the hot oil deep into the delicate black lace, turning the fabric dark and glossy. The warming sensation made my hands tingle. I oiled every panel, every hook, until the entire corset shone wetly. Then I did the same to the panties, coating the crotch and sides until they were slick and ready.

Sarah’s breathing had grown heavier. “Good. Now wrap the panties tightly around your shaft and balls. Use the corset over the top. Lace against your skin. I want to see it stretch.”

I obeyed. The oily lace panties hugged my cock and wrapped snugly around my heavy balls. Then I draped the glistening corset around the length, the boning pressing firmly along my shaft while the lace cups cradled the swollen head. The combined sensation was intense, hot, and silky. A deep groan rolled out of me at the first slow stroke.

“Listen to that wet sound,” Sarah murmured, eyes fixed on my cock. “Schlick… schlick… schlick. So filthy and perfect. Start slow. Match my count.”

She began counting softly. “One… two… three…” Each stroke followed her rhythm exactly, the thick oil making loud, slippery noises as the black lace glided up and down my throbbing length. Pre-cum poured steadily, mixing with the oil and turning the fabric creamy.

“Twist gently at the head,” she said. “Yes, right there. Squeeze the lace tighter around the ridge. Hold it for three seconds.”

I did as told, whimpering as the pressure built. My hips rocked involuntarily. Sarah leaned closer, her voice soothing yet commanding.

“Four more slow strokes. Describe it for me.”

“It’s so hot… the lace is rubbing every vein… the boning presses right along the underside… fuck, Sarah, I’m leaking so much,” I panted between strokes.

“Stop,” she ordered when my breathing turned ragged.

I froze, cock pulsing wildly inside the soaked black lace, right on the edge. A thick string of pre-cum dripped from the fabric onto the floor.

“Breathe,” she whispered. “I own this cock now. I decide when it explodes. Five more strokes, even slower.”

I dragged the slick lace up and down, trembling with need. Each movement made wet, obscene sounds that filled the room. My low groans mixed with her soft counting.

“Stop again,” she said firmly after the fifth stroke. She stood and stepped right in front of me, close enough that I could smell her arousal. Her fingers lightly adjusted the corset, pressing the lace firmer against my swollen cockhead. “Look at you shaking for me. So desperate. So obedient.”

“Please, Sarah,” I begged, voice hoarse. “I need to cum so badly.”

She smiled and returned to her chair. “Stroke hard now. Fast and tight. Let me hear how much you need it.”

I pumped furiously. The room echoed with loud, rapid schlick-schlick-schlick-schlick as the drenched black lace flew up and down my cock. My balls tightened, drawn up tight against my body. Pleasure surged dangerously close.

“Sarah… I’m right there…”

“Not yet,” she said calmly. “Hold it. Keep stroking but slower. Fight it for me.”

I slowed, whimpering and gasping, every muscle straining to obey. Sweat ran down my back. My cock throbbed angrily inside the ruined lace, begging for release.

“Now faster again,” she commanded. “Give me everything.”

I stroked desperately, moans turning raw and loud. The wet sounds were constant and filthy.

“Cum for me,” she finally ordered, voice husky with satisfaction. “Fill my black lace completely. Now.”

The orgasm ripped through me like fire. I cried out sharply as thick, powerful jets of cum erupted into the corset and panties. Rope after heavy rope soaked the black lace, spilling out the sides and dripping down my shaft in creamy rivers. I kept pumping through every violent spasm, milking myself dry under her intense gaze until my knees buckled and only soft aftershocks remained.

Sarah rose slowly. She unwrapped the dripping lingerie from my spent cock with careful hands. Thick strings of cum stretched between the fabric and my skin as she pulled it away. She examined the mess I had made, running her fingers through the warm, sticky evidence with obvious pride.

“You marked them so beautifully,” she murmured. “Look at all that cum. Every drop belongs to me.” She folded the soaked corset and panties into a warm, heavy bundle and pressed it into my hands. “This entire set is yours now. My gift for how perfectly you surrendered again.”

I stood there panting, legs weak, clutching the cum-drenched lace. Sarah kissed my forehead tenderly, her slip brushing against my bare chest.

“The next time will be much bolder. I want to use something even more personal. Rest and think about how completely I own your orgasms now.”

Sarah’s text arrived with a new tone: “Tonight at eight. This time we go deeper. No oil. Just us. Be ready to surrender everything.”

I entered her apartment at exactly eight, the door already unlocked as promised. The air was thick with her perfume and a faint, intimate warmth. Sarah stood in the hallway wearing nothing but a sheer black babydoll that barely covered her full breasts and the curve of her ass. Her nipples pressed visibly against the thin fabric, already hard. Her auburn hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her green eyes held a hungry, possessive gleam.

“Come straight to the bedroom,” she said softly, voice low and commanding. “Tonight is only about my mouth and my spit. No hands from you unless I say. I want to watch that cock react to me.”

My heart hammered as I followed her. She had pushed the armchair right beside the bed and covered the sheets with a dark towel. A single lamp cast a warm glow over everything. Sarah pointed to the edge of the bed.

“Strip and sit there. Legs spread wide. Hands behind your back.”

I obeyed quickly, my cock already rock-hard, thick and veined, pointing straight up with a shiny bead of pre-cum at the tip. Sarah stepped close, so close I could feel the heat from her body. She looked down at my throbbing erection with clear appreciation.

“Look at you,” she murmured. “Already leaking for me. Keep your hands behind you. This is my show.”

She knelt slowly between my spread thighs, her face inches from my cock. Her warm breath washed over the sensitive head, making it twitch hard. The shaft bounced visibly, veins pulsing.

“Mmm, I love how it jumps for me,” she whispered. She leaned even closer, lips parted, and let a long, slow strand of warm saliva drip from her mouth onto the swollen head. The thick spit landed right on the slit and slid down the underside in a glossy trail.

My cock throbbed powerfully at the contact, bouncing up and smacking lightly against my lower belly before settling again, now glistening with her spit.

Sarah smiled, eyes locked on the movement. “Oh yes… look at that. It throbs so beautifully for my spit. Do you feel how warm it is?”

She stayed perfectly still, watching. Another thick drop fell, this time landing on the ridge of the head. The cock twitched again, bouncing twice, a fresh bead of my own pre-cum mixing with her saliva and dripping down the shaft.

“Stop moving your hips,” she ordered gently. “Just let it throb. I want to enjoy this.”

I stayed as still as I could, breathing heavily. My cock continued pulsing on its own, twitching and bouncing in the air with every heartbeat, coated in her warm spit. Sarah blew a soft, cool breath across the wet head. The contrast made me groan loudly. The shaft jumped again.

“Fuck… Sarah…”

“Shh. Just watch with me.” She let another long, stringy drop of saliva fall directly onto the head. It pooled there before sliding down in slow rivulets, coating the entire crown until it shone. My cock throbbed harder, bouncing visibly, the head flaring as more pre-cum oozed out to join her spit.

She stayed incredibly close, her lips hovering just above the tip. I could feel the moist heat of her breath bathing every inch. She opened her mouth wider and exhaled slowly, hot and humid, making the spit on my cock glisten. The shaft twitched and bounced repeatedly.

“So eager,” she whispered. “Every time I breathe on it, it dances for me.”

She tilted her head and let her tongue extend just enough that I could see the pink tip, but she never touched. Instead she let more saliva drip in a steady stream, coating the entire length from head to base. Thick, warm strands ran down my shaft and over my tight balls. My cock pulsed wildly, bouncing up and smacking wetly against my stomach again and again.

Sarah’s eyes were dark with lust. “I love how it reacts. Look at it bounce every single time a new drop lands. So fucking responsive.”

She blew gently across the wet shaft, then moved her open mouth along the length without contact, letting her hot breath tease every inch. At the head she paused, lips parted wide, and slowly lowered until the swollen tip disappeared between her lips, but only into the warm, wet cavern of her mouth without any touch. I felt the moist heat surround it completely, her breath swirling around the sensitive skin. My cock throbbed violently inside that humid space, bouncing against nothing but air and heat.

I groaned deeply, hips straining to stay still.

She pulled back, a long string of saliva connecting her lower lip to my cockhead. “Not yet. I want to edge you with just my spit and breath first.”

For the next twenty minutes she tormented me beautifully. Drop after drop of her warm saliva fell onto my cock. She would let it pool on the head, then blow cool air across it, making the shaft twitch and bounce uncontrollably. Sometimes she would hover so close her lips brushed the air around the head, almost licking but never quite. My cock kept jumping, veins standing out, pre-cum flowing freely and mixing with her spit until the entire length was a shiny, dripping mess. Wet sounds of saliva sliding down flesh filled the room along with my ragged breathing and low moans.

“Sarah… please… I need more,” I begged, voice hoarse.

“Not yet. I want to see how much it throbs for me.” She opened her mouth again and took the head inside without closing her lips, surrounding it in moist heat. My cock pulsed hard, bouncing inside her open mouth. She held it there for long seconds, breathing hotly around it, then pulled away with another thick string of spit.

She repeated the process again and again, dripping, blowing, teasing with near-contact, until my entire body trembled and my balls ached with the need to cum.

Finally she looked up at me, lips shiny with saliva. “I’m going to let you cum now. But you’re going to do it all over my face while I stroke you with my spit.”

She gathered a large mouthful of saliva and let it pour directly onto my cock in a heavy flood. Then she wrapped one hand around the slick shaft, using her spit as the only lube. Her strokes were slow and perfect, twisting at the head exactly how I needed.

“Watch my face,” she ordered. “I want your cum on me.”

Her hand pumped faster, the wet schlick-schlick-schlick of her spit-filled fist filling the room. My cock throbbed violently in her grip, the head dark and swollen.

“I’m so close,” I gasped.

“Cum for me. Cover my face.”

The orgasm hit like a freight train. I cried out loudly as the first powerful rope of cum erupted from my cock and landed across her cheek and lips. Thick jet after thick jet followed, painting her face, her nose, her forehead, one eyelid, her open mouth. She kept stroking steadily through every spasm, milking me completely while my cum splattered across her beautiful features. I groaned and shuddered, hips bucking as the last heavy pulses shot out.

When I finally stopped, Sarah was smiling, her face glistening with my load. She leaned forward and took my spent cock into her mouth, sucking gently, cleaning every drop of cum and spit from the shaft and head with slow, loving licks. The warm suction made me whimper with oversensitivity.

She pulled off with a soft pop, swallowed what she had collected, and looked up at me with cum still dripping down her cheek.

“You did so well,” she whispered, voice husky. “I loved every throb, every bounce, every drop you gave me.”

She stood, still wearing my cum on her face like a badge, and handed me the sheer black babydoll she had been wearing. It was damp with her own arousal.

“Take this home with you. My gift. Wear it against your skin tonight and remember how completely I control your pleasure.”

She kissed my forehead softly, her cum-streaked lips brushing my skin.

“Two days from now we go further. Much filthier. Rest that cock. You’re going to need every bit of stamina I allow you.”

So there’s this coworker, Jess. She’s one of those women who pregnancy turned into something almost supernatural—five months along when her husband suddenly checked out. He stopped touching her, stopped looking at her like she was a woman. The belly “weirded him out,” he said. Meanwhile she was glowing like she’d swallowed sunlight. Her tits had ballooned, heavy and full, veins faintly blue under skin that looked airbrushed. Her hips had widened, her ass had that soft, fertile bounce, and her belly—God, that belly—was already a perfect, tight sphere that strained against every shirt she wore. But inside, she was starving. Starving for eyes on her, hands on her, proof that she was still desirable.

One slow afternoon in the break room, the office half-empty, she cornered me by the microwave. Her voice dropped to a whisper, cheeks flushed. “I miss feeling wanted. Like, really wanted.” Her hand unconsciously cradled the underside of her bump. I felt my cock twitch so hard I had to shift my stance. That was the spark.

The texting started that same night. Innocent at first—how was her day, was the baby kicking—then bolder. She sent a mirror selfie in just a sports bra and leggings, the curve of her belly lit by soft bedroom light. “Husband’s asleep. Can’t stop thinking about what you said with your eyes today.”

The first time she came over she was a nervous wreck. She stood in my doorway in a loose sundress, hands rubbing slow circles over that round, taut dome like she was soothing herself. I could see the faint outline of her hardened nipples through the fabric. I invited her in, sat her on the couch, and laid it out plain: “No sex. I’m not trying to wreck your marriage or your family. That’s not what this is.” She laughed, this soft, relieved sound, and said, “Perfect. I just want to feel sexy again. Wanted. Like this body is still beautiful.”

From that night on, it became ritual. For four straight months—through the hottest stretch of summer—she showed up at my door almost every single evening after “prenatal yoga” or “walking with a friend.” Her husband never questioned it. She’d kick off her sandals, step inside, and the transformation was instant. She’d peel her shirt up and over her head, unhook her bra, and that magnificent pregnant belly would bounce free—skin stretched glossy and tight, the dark line running down the center, stretch marks like delicate silver lightning. Some nights her leggings already had a dark, wet patch at the crotch from how worked up she’d gotten just driving over.

I’d put on low, slow music, dim the lights to a warm amber glow, and warm oil in my palms. She’d lie back on the big ottoman I’d cleared for her, arms above her head, belly rising and falling with anticipation. I started slow every time—broad, warm circles around her navel, thumbs tracing every new stretch mark like they were sacred. She’d moan from deep in her chest the moment I brushed her swollen, hypersensitive nipples. Once, a tiny bead of milk actually leaked out; she gasped, embarrassed, but I just licked it off my thumb and kept going. Her eyes rolled back.

I spent hours on her. Kissing the heavy underside where her belly met her thighs, dragging my stubble lightly across the skin until she shivered. Blowing cool air across the oil-slick surface so goosebumps rippled over her. Running my tongue just above the waistband of her soaked leggings, so close she could feel my breath on her swollen pussy lips, but never lower. Never inside. That was the rule we both clung to.

“Please,” she’d beg by the second hour, voice cracking, hips rolling helplessly. “Please just touch me. I need it.” Her fingers would tangle in my hair, trying to guide me down, but I’d catch her wrists, pin them gently above her head, and go back to worshipping that perfect, growing globe. Her belly got bigger every week—by month seven it was massive, skin so tight it shone, the baby kicking visibly under my palms. She loved when I talked to it, low and filthy: “You’re making Mommy so fucking horny, little guy. Look how pretty she is carrying you.”

When I couldn’t hold back anymore, I’d stand over her, cock throbbing, stroking myself right above that beautiful dome. She’d stare up with those huge, needy eyes, lips parted. She’d reach up with both hands, rub the swollen head of my cock all over her belly in slow, greedy circles, smearing precum like expensive lotion. The sight of it—her pregnant body glistening, marked by me—always pushed me over. I’d groan and explode in thick, heavy ropes across her stomach. Some nights it pooled deep in her belly button; other nights it dripped down the sides in slow, obscene trails. She’d whimper like it was the best gift she’d ever received, scooping it up with her fingers, rubbing it into her skin until she smelled like sex and me. “I feel claimed,” she’d whisper, eyes glassy. “Like a goddess. Like I’m yours to decorate.”

Every single night. All summer long.

Some nights we got creative. One humid evening she showed up in a sheer white tank top that barely contained her. I oiled her up, then pressed my cock between her heavy tits and the top curve of her belly, fucking that soft, warm valley while she held them together for me. Another time she brought a little vibrating wand and held it against the underside of her belly while I stroked myself over her— the combination made her come just from the belly stimulation, shaking and crying out.

The last visit was two nights before she went into labor. She was enormous—belly so low and heavy she waddled, skin stretched drum-tight, veins prominent. She wore a tight black tank top that rode up constantly. The second she was on the ottoman I went feral, kissing and licking every inch, sucking gently on her leaking nipples until she was a mess of moans and milk. When I finally came, it was explosive—ropes across her tits, her collarbones, painting her belly like a canvas. Some even hit her chin. She cried happy tears, rubbing it all in, whispering, “Thank you… nobody’s ever made me feel this beautiful.”

Two days later she had the baby—a healthy boy. Her husband still has no clue. She sent me a picture from the hospital: her exhausted, radiant face, the newborn on her chest, and underneath, just for me: “He’s perfect. But I already miss my nightly lotion.”

Yesterday the text came again, simple and direct: “Miss my nightly lotion.”

I already know she’ll be back as soon as she’s cleared. And I’ll be waiting with warm oil and the same rule. Because some rituals are too perfect to break.

So there’s this coworker, Jess. She’s one of those women who pregnancy turned into something almost supernatural, five months along when her husband suddenly checked out. He stopped touching her, stopped looking at her like she was a woman. The belly “weirded him out,” he said. Meanwhile she was glowing like she’d swallowed sunlight. Her tits had ballooned, heavy and full, veins faintly blue under skin that looked airbrushed. Her hips had widened, her ass had that soft, fertile bounce, and her belly, God, that belly, was already a perfect, tight sphere that strained against every shirt she wore. But inside, she was starving. Starving for eyes on her, hands on her, proof that she was still desirable.

One slow afternoon in the break room, the office half-empty, she cornered me by the microwave. Her voice dropped to a whisper, cheeks flushed. “I miss feeling wanted. Like, really wanted.” Her hand unconsciously cradled the underside of her bump. I felt my cock twitch so hard I had to shift my stance. That was the spark.

The texting started that same night. Innocent at first—how was her day, was the baby kicking, then bolder. She sent a mirror selfie in just a sports bra and leggings, the curve of her belly lit by soft bedroom light. “Husband’s asleep. Can’t stop thinking about what you said with your eyes today.”

The first time she came over she was a nervous wreck. She stood in my doorway in a loose sundress, hands rubbing slow circles over that round, taut dome like she was soothing herself. I could see the faint outline of her hardened nipples through the fabric. I invited her in, sat her on the couch, and laid it out plain: “No sex. I’m not trying to wreck your marriage or your family. That’s not what this is.” She laughed, this soft, relieved sound, and said, “Perfect. I just want to feel sexy again. Wanted. Like this body is still beautiful.”

From that night on, it became ritual. For four straight months, through the hottest stretch of summer, she showed up at my door almost every single evening after “prenatal yoga” or “walking with a friend.” Her husband never questioned it. She’d kick off her sandals, step inside, and the transformation was instant. She’d peel her shirt up and over her head, unhook her bra, and that magnificent pregnant belly would bounce free, skin stretched glossy and tight, the dark line running down the center, stretch marks like delicate silver lightning. Some nights her leggings already had a dark, wet patch at the crotch from how worked up she’d gotten just driving over.

I’d put on low, slow music, dim the lights to a warm amber glow, and warm oil in my palms. She’d lie back on the big ottoman I’d cleared for her, arms above her head, belly rising and falling with anticipation. I started slow every time, broad, warm circles around her navel, thumbs tracing every new stretch mark like they were sacred. She’d moan from deep in her chest the moment I brushed her swollen, hypersensitive nipples. Once, a tiny bead of milk actually leaked out; she gasped, embarrassed, but I just licked it off my thumb and kept going. Her eyes rolled back.

I spent hours on her. Kissing the heavy underside where her belly met her thighs, dragging my stubble lightly across the skin until she shivered. Blowing cool air across the oil-slick surface so goosebumps rippled over her. Running my tongue just above the waistband of her soaked leggings, so close she could feel my breath on her swollen pussy lips, but never lower. Never inside. That was the rule we both clung to.

“Please,” she’d beg by the second hour, voice cracking, hips rolling helplessly. “Please just touch me. I need it.” Her fingers would tangle in my hair, trying to guide me down, but I’d catch her wrists, pin them gently above her head, and go back to worshipping that perfect, growing globe. Her belly got bigger every week, by month seven it was massive, skin so tight it shone, the baby kicking visibly under my palms. She loved when I talked to it, low and filthy: “You’re making Mommy so fucking horny, little guy. Look how pretty she is carrying you.”

When I couldn’t hold back anymore, I’d stand over her, cock throbbing, stroking myself right above that beautiful dome. She’d stare up with those huge, needy eyes, lips parted. She’d reach up with both hands, rub the swollen head of my cock all over her belly in slow, greedy circles, smearing precum like expensive lotion. The sight of it, her pregnant body glistening, marked by me, always pushed me over. I’d groan and explode in thick, heavy ropes across her stomach. Some nights it pooled deep in her belly button; other nights it dripped down the sides in slow, obscene trails. She’d whimper like it was the best gift she’d ever received, scooping it up with her fingers, rubbing it into her skin until she smelled like sex and me. “I feel claimed,” she’d whisper, eyes glassy. “Like a goddess. Like I’m yours to decorate.”

Every single night. All summer long.

Some nights we got creative. One humid evening she showed up in a sheer white tank top that barely contained her. I oiled her up, then pressed my cock between her heavy tits and the top curve of her belly, fucking that soft, warm valley while she held them together for me. Another time she brought a little vibrating wand and held it against the underside of her belly while I stroked myself over her, the combination made her come just from the belly stimulation, shaking and crying out.

The last visit was two nights before she went into labor. She was enormous, belly so low and heavy she waddled, skin stretched drum-tight, veins prominent. She wore a tight black tank top that rode up constantly. The second she was on the ottoman I went feral, kissing and licking every inch, sucking gently on her leaking nipples until she was a mess of moans and milk. When I finally came, it was explosive, ropes across her tits, her collarbones, painting her belly like a canvas. Some even hit her chin. She cried happy tears, rubbing it all in, whispering, “Thank you… nobody’s ever made me feel this beautiful.”

Two days later she had the baby, a healthy boy. Her husband still has no clue. She sent me a picture from the hospital: her exhausted, radiant face, the newborn on her chest, and underneath, just for me: “He’s perfect. But I already miss my nightly lotion.”

Yesterday the text came again, simple and direct: “Miss my nightly lotion.”

I already know she’ll be back as soon as she’s cleared. And I’ll be waiting with warm oil and the same rule. Because some rituals are too perfect to break.

So there’s this coworker, Jess. She’s one of those women who pregnancy turned into something almost supernatural, five months along when her husband suddenly checked out. He stopped touching her, stopped looking at her like she was a woman. The belly “weirded him out,” he said. Meanwhile she was glowing like she’d swallowed sunlight. Her tits had ballooned, heavy and full, veins faintly blue under skin that looked airbrushed. Her hips had widened, her ass had that soft, fertile bounce, and her belly, God, that belly, was already a perfect, tight sphere that strained against every shirt she wore. But inside, she was starving. Starving for eyes on her, hands on her, proof that she was still desirable.

One slow afternoon in the break room, the office half-empty, she cornered me by the microwave. Her voice dropped to a whisper, cheeks flushed. “I miss feeling wanted. Like, really wanted.” Her hand unconsciously cradled the underside of her bump. I felt my cock twitch so hard I had to shift my stance. That was the spark.

The texting started that same night. Innocent at first—how was her day, was the baby kicking, then bolder. She sent a mirror selfie in just a sports bra and leggings, the curve of her belly lit by soft bedroom light. “Husband’s asleep. Can’t stop thinking about what you said with your eyes today.”

The first time she came over she was a nervous wreck. She stood in my doorway in a loose sundress, hands rubbing slow circles over that round, taut dome like she was soothing herself. I could see the faint outline of her hardened nipples through the fabric. I invited her in, sat her on the couch, and laid it out plain: “No sex. I’m not trying to wreck your marriage or your family. That’s not what this is.” She laughed, this soft, relieved sound, and said, “Perfect. I just want to feel sexy again. Wanted. Like this body is still beautiful.”

From that night on, it became ritual. For four straight months, through the hottest stretch of summer, she showed up at my door almost every single evening after “prenatal yoga” or “walking with a friend.” Her husband never questioned it. She’d kick off her sandals, step inside, and the transformation was instant. She’d peel her shirt up and over her head, unhook her bra, and that magnificent pregnant belly would bounce free, skin stretched glossy and tight, the dark line running down the center, stretch marks like delicate silver lightning. Some nights her leggings already had a dark, wet patch at the crotch from how worked up she’d gotten just driving over.

I’d put on low, slow music, dim the lights to a warm amber glow, and warm oil in my palms. She’d lie back on the big ottoman I’d cleared for her, arms above her head, belly rising and falling with anticipation. I started slow every time, broad, warm circles around her navel, thumbs tracing every new stretch mark like they were sacred. She’d moan from deep in her chest the moment I brushed her swollen, hypersensitive nipples. Once, a tiny bead of milk actually leaked out; she gasped, embarrassed, but I just licked it off my thumb and kept going. Her eyes rolled back.

I spent hours on her. Kissing the heavy underside where her belly met her thighs, dragging my stubble lightly across the skin until she shivered. Blowing cool air across the oil-slick surface so goosebumps rippled over her. Running my tongue just above the waistband of her soaked leggings, so close she could feel my breath on her swollen pussy lips, but never lower. Never inside. That was the rule we both clung to.

“Please,” she’d beg by the second hour, voice cracking, hips rolling helplessly. “Please just touch me. I need it.” Her fingers would tangle in my hair, trying to guide me down, but I’d catch her wrists, pin them gently above her head, and go back to worshipping that perfect, growing globe. Her belly got bigger every week, by month seven it was massive, skin so tight it shone, the baby kicking visibly under my palms. She loved when I talked to it, low and filthy: “You’re making Mommy so fucking horny, little guy. Look how pretty she is carrying you.”

When I couldn’t hold back anymore, I’d stand over her, cock throbbing, stroking myself right above that beautiful dome. She’d stare up with those huge, needy eyes, lips parted. She’d reach up with both hands, rub the swollen head of my cock all over her belly in slow, greedy circles, smearing precum like expensive lotion. The sight of it, her pregnant body glistening, marked by me, always pushed me over. I’d groan and explode in thick, heavy ropes across her stomach. Some nights it pooled deep in her belly button; other nights it dripped down the sides in slow, obscene trails. She’d whimper like it was the best gift she’d ever received, scooping it up with her fingers, rubbing it into her skin until she smelled like sex and me. “I feel claimed,” she’d whisper, eyes glassy. “Like a goddess. Like I’m yours to decorate.”

Every single night. All summer long.

Some nights we got creative. One humid evening she showed up in a sheer white tank top that barely contained her. I oiled her up, then pressed my cock between her heavy tits and the top curve of her belly, fucking that soft, warm valley while she held them together for me. Another time she brought a little vibrating wand and held it against the underside of her belly while I stroked myself over her, the combination made her come just from the belly stimulation, shaking and crying out.

The last visit was two nights before she went into labor. She was enormous, belly so low and heavy she waddled, skin stretched drum-tight, veins prominent. She wore a tight black tank top that rode up constantly. The second she was on the ottoman I went feral, kissing and licking every inch, sucking gently on her leaking nipples until she was a mess of moans and milk. When I finally came, it was explosive, ropes across her tits, her collarbones, painting her belly like a canvas. Some even hit her chin. She cried happy tears, rubbing it all in, whispering, “Thank you… nobody’s ever made me feel this beautiful.”

Two days later she had the baby, a healthy boy. Her husband still has no clue. She sent me a picture from the hospital: her exhausted, radiant face, the newborn on her chest, and underneath, just for me: “He’s perfect. But I already miss my nightly lotion.”

Yesterday the text came again, simple and direct: “Miss my nightly lotion.”

I already know she’ll be back as soon as she’s cleared. And I’ll be waiting with warm oil and the same rule. Because some rituals are too perfect to break.

Follow-up of: https://www.reddit.com/r/sexstories/s/Czxdr25myu

This happened right at the end of our secret years together, when I was 26 and she was 29. By then our stolen afternoons and weekend getaways had become our entire world. She had already started talking about how much she wanted another baby, but my brother was always too busy or too tired to even try. One evening she sent me a single photo of a tiny shopping bag from a high-end lingerie store with the message “I got something that will change everything. Come over tomorrow afternoon. He has a late meeting.”

I showed up right on time. She met me at the door in a silk robe and led me straight to their bedroom without a word. When she let the robe fall, my mouth went dry. She was wearing the most sinful set I had ever seen on her, deep emerald green lace that looked almost black in the low light. The bra barely held her full breasts, the cups sheer enough to show her hard nipples. The panties were a tiny thong with delicate straps that sat high on her hips, and a matching garter belt clipped to sheer stockings. Everything was designed to be worn during sex, not taken off.

“I bought this just for you,” she said, turning slowly so I could see every angle. “I want you to fuck me while I keep it all on. You’re only allowed to slide the panties to the side. Nothing else comes off.” She pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top, straddling my lap. Her voice dropped to that husky whisper I loved. “But first I want you to dry fuck me. Just like this.”

She started grinding against me slowly, the lace of her panties rubbing right over the bulge in my pants. The fabric was already damp from her. I gripped her ass and pulled her down harder, feeling the heat of her pussy through the thin material as she rocked back and forth. “Feel how wet I am for you already,” she moaned. “Your brother’s wife is soaked just thinking about what we’re going to do.” She kept grinding, faster and faster, until I was throbbing beneath her. Then she shifted slightly, pulling the crotch of her panties to the side so the lace now rubbed directly against her bare pussy lips while my clothed cock slid between them.

“Like this,” she gasped. “Dry fuck me over my pussy. I want to feel you so close.” The sensation was insane, her slick folds gliding along my shaft with only the thin barrier of my pants between us. She rode me like that for what felt like forever, her heavy tits bouncing in the emerald bra, her long hair falling around us. Every time I tried to thrust up she would pin me down and remind me, “Not yet. Just dry fuck me until I say.”

Finally she reached down, unzipped me, and freed my cock. She slid the green thong fully to the side and sank down onto me in one smooth motion, still wearing every piece of the new lingerie. “No protection today,” she breathed as she started riding me. “I want to feel you raw. Fuck me exactly like this.” I grabbed her hips and drove up into her, the lace of the garter belt brushing my skin with every thrust. She was tighter and wetter than ever, moaning my name over and over while the bed creaked beneath us.

We fucked like that for almost an hour, switching positions but never removing the lingerie. I took her from behind with her face pressed into the pillows, the emerald thong still pulled aside so I could watch myself disappear inside her. Then she rode me again, leaning forward so her tits spilled out of the bra cups and brushed my chest. Right when I felt myself getting close and started to pull out, she locked her legs around me and whispered the words that changed everything.

“Don’t pull out. Knock me up. I want you to cum deep inside me right now.” Her eyes were wild with need. “Fill your brother’s wife and give me the baby he can’t. Do it.”

I lost control completely. I thrust up hard and came harder than I ever had, pumping rope after rope straight into her while she clenched around me and came at the same time. She kept whispering “yes, knock me up” until I was empty.

That was only the beginning. Over the next few weeks we became obsessed. Every time my brother left for work she would text me the same message: “New lingerie on. Panties to the side. Come fill me.” She bought more sets, each one sexier than the last, always insisting I leave them on and only slide the panties aside. We would start with her dry humping me on the couch or against the wall, building the tension until she was begging for me raw. Then I would fuck her deep and hard, no protection, and every single time right before I finished she would grab my face and say the same thing: “Knock me up. Cum inside me and make me pregnant.”

We did it in their bed, in the shower, bent over the kitchen counter while dinner was cooking on the stove. Once she even made me fuck her on the living room floor with the curtains half open, the emerald set still on, while she whispered how risky it was. Each time I would pull out at the last second only for her to wrap her legs tighter and demand I stay inside. “I want it all,” she would moan. “Give me your baby.”

Three weeks later she sent me a picture of a positive pregnancy test with the caption “It worked. You did it.” I stared at it for a long time, equal parts terrified and thrilled. We kept fucking right up until the day the test turned positive, always with the lingerie, always with the panties slid to the side, always ending with me filling her while she begged me to knock her up. Even after she knew, she made me come over one last time and fuck her exactly the same way, telling me she wanted to remember how it felt when I gave her the baby.

She told my brother the news a few days later and everyone celebrated like it was the most normal thing in the world. Only the two of us knew the truth. Those final weeks were the most intense of our entire affair, the perfect filthy ending to years of sneaking around. The risk, the lingerie, the raw need in her voice when she asked me to get her pregnant, it all still plays in my head every single day.

If you have a sister-in-law who suddenly starts wearing new lingerie and looking at you with that hungry stare, be careful. She might just talk you into the hottest, most dangerous thing you will ever do. I still carry the shame and the thrill, and I wouldn’t change a single second of it.

Follow-up of: https://www.reddit.com/r/confessionsgonewild/s/3aeh3aJ6u3

This happened right at the end of our secret years together, when I was 26 and she was 29. By then our stolen afternoons and weekend getaways had become our entire world. She had already started talking about how much she wanted another baby, but my brother was always too busy or too tired to even try. One evening she sent me a single photo of a tiny shopping bag from a high-end lingerie store with the message “I got something that will change everything. Come over tomorrow afternoon. He has a late meeting.”

I showed up right on time. She met me at the door in a silk robe and led me straight to their bedroom without a word. When she let the robe fall, my mouth went dry. She was wearing the most sinful set I had ever seen on her, deep emerald green lace that looked almost black in the low light. The bra barely held her full breasts, the cups sheer enough to show her hard nipples. The panties were a tiny thong with delicate straps that sat high on her hips, and a matching garter belt clipped to sheer stockings. Everything was designed to be worn during sex, not taken off.

“I bought this just for you,” she said, turning slowly so I could see every angle. “I want you to fuck me while I keep it all on. You’re only allowed to slide the panties to the side. Nothing else comes off.” She pushed me onto the bed and climbed on top, straddling my lap. Her voice dropped to that husky whisper I loved. “But first I want you to dry fuck me. Just like this.”

She started grinding against me slowly, the lace of her panties rubbing right over the bulge in my pants. The fabric was already damp from her. I gripped her ass and pulled her down harder, feeling the heat of her pussy through the thin material as she rocked back and forth. “Feel how wet I am for you already,” she moaned. “Your brother’s wife is soaked just thinking about what we’re going to do.” She kept grinding, faster and faster, until I was throbbing beneath her. Then she shifted slightly, pulling the crotch of her panties to the side so the lace now rubbed directly against her bare pussy lips while my clothed cock slid between them.

“Like this,” she gasped. “Dry fuck me over my pussy. I want to feel you so close.” The sensation was insane, her slick folds gliding along my shaft with only the thin barrier of my pants between us. She rode me like that for what felt like forever, her heavy tits bouncing in the emerald bra, her long hair falling around us. Every time I tried to thrust up she would pin me down and remind me, “Not yet. Just dry fuck me until I say.”

Finally she reached down, unzipped me, and freed my cock. She slid the green thong fully to the side and sank down onto me in one smooth motion, still wearing every piece of the new lingerie. “No protection today,” she breathed as she started riding me. “I want to feel you raw. Fuck me exactly like this.” I grabbed her hips and drove up into her, the lace of the garter belt brushing my skin with every thrust. She was tighter and wetter than ever, moaning my name over and over while the bed creaked beneath us.

We fucked like that for almost an hour, switching positions but never removing the lingerie. I took her from behind with her face pressed into the pillows, the emerald thong still pulled aside so I could watch myself disappear inside her. Then she rode me again, leaning forward so her tits spilled out of the bra cups and brushed my chest. Right when I felt myself getting close and started to pull out, she locked her legs around me and whispered the words that changed everything.

“Don’t pull out. Knock me up. I want you to cum deep inside me right now.” Her eyes were wild with need. “Fill your brother’s wife and give me the baby he can’t. Do it.”

I lost control completely. I thrust up hard and came harder than I ever had, pumping rope after rope straight into her while she clenched around me and came at the same time. She kept whispering “yes, knock me up” until I was empty.

That was only the beginning. Over the next few weeks we became obsessed. Every time my brother left for work she would text me the same message: “New lingerie on. Panties to the side. Come fill me.” She bought more sets, each one sexier than the last, always insisting I leave them on and only slide the panties aside. We would start with her dry humping me on the couch or against the wall, building the tension until she was begging for me raw. Then I would fuck her deep and hard, no protection, and every single time right before I finished she would grab my face and say the same thing: “Knock me up. Cum inside me and make me pregnant.”

We did it in their bed, in the shower, bent over the kitchen counter while dinner was cooking on the stove. Once she even made me fuck her on the living room floor with the curtains half open, the emerald set still on, while she whispered how risky it was. Each time I would pull out at the last second only for her to wrap her legs tighter and demand I stay inside. “I want it all,” she would moan. “Give me your baby.”

Three weeks later she sent me a picture of a positive pregnancy test with the caption “It worked. You did it.” I stared at it for a long time, equal parts terrified and thrilled. We kept fucking right up until the day the test turned positive, always with the lingerie, always with the panties slid to the side, always ending with me filling her while she begged me to knock her up. Even after she knew, she made me come over one last time and fuck her exactly the same way, telling me she wanted to remember how it felt when I gave her the baby.

She told my brother the news a few days later and everyone celebrated like it was the most normal thing in the world. Only the two of us knew the truth. Those final weeks were the most intense of our entire affair, the perfect filthy ending to years of sneaking around. The risk, the lingerie, the raw need in her voice when she asked me to get her pregnant, it all still plays in my head every single day.

If you have a sister-in-law who suddenly starts wearing new lingerie and looking at you with that hungry stare, be careful. She might just talk you into the hottest, most dangerous thing you will ever do. I still carry the shame and the thrill, and I wouldn’t change a single second of it.

Follow up to: https://www.reddit.com/r/sexstories/s/g8eaH8jWsi

This happened about a year into our secret affair, when I was still 23 and she was 26. By then we had already crossed every line in their apartment, but the risk of getting caught at home was always hanging over us. One night while my brother was away on a week-long work trip, she texted me out of the blue: "I need more than quick afternoon fucks. Book a weekend for us at that quiet resort two hours outside the city. I'll tell everyone I'm visiting an old friend. Make it happen."

I didn't even hesitate. I found a secluded adults-only resort with private villas, booked it under a fake name, and wired her the money so nothing traced back to me. She handled the rest, telling my brother she was going to stay with a college roommate for some girl time. The Friday she left, I followed two hours later so no one would see us together. When I pulled up to our private villa, she was already waiting on the patio in a sundress, holding a small bag and smiling like she had been planning this for weeks.

The moment the door closed behind us she dropped the bag and kissed me hard. "I bought something special for this trip," she whispered against my mouth. "A tiny black bikini that barely covers anything. I'm going to wear it for you all weekend." She pulled it out to show me, two tiny triangles of fabric for the top and a thong bottom that was basically just strings. My cock was already straining against my shorts.

We spent the first evening in the villa fucking slow and deep, but the real fun started the next morning. She woke me up early, already in the bikini, and said, "Come out to the private pool patio with me. I want you to oil me up." The patio was completely secluded, high walls, no other guests in sight, just our own little slice of the resort overlooking the ocean. She handed me a bottle of coconut oil and lay face-down on the lounger, untying her bikini top so her back was completely bare.

"Start with my shoulders," she instructed, her voice already husky. I poured the oil over her smooth skin and started rubbing it in, my hands sliding down her back, over the curve of her waist, then lower to her ass. She moaned softly and arched her back, pushing her ass up toward me. "Don't miss anywhere. I want to feel your hands all over me." I worked the oil into her thighs, then between them, my fingers brushing against the tiny strip of fabric between her legs. She was already wet. I could feel it through the thong.

She rolled over onto her back, letting the bikini top fall completely away. Her full breasts spilled out, nipples hard in the morning sun. "Oil my front now," she said, looking up at me with that wicked smile. I poured more oil over her tits and started massaging them, kneading and pinching until she was breathing hard. My cock was rock hard and obvious in my swim trunks. She reached out and stroked me through the fabric.

"Look how hard you are just from touching me," she teased. "I love how desperate you get for your brother's wife." She sat up, still topless, and tugged my trunks down so my cock sprang free. "Stay right here. Keep massaging me while I watch you throb." I kept rubbing oil into her skin while she lazily stroked my shaft, edging me until I was leaking all over her fingers.

After twenty minutes of pure torture she stood up, tied her bikini top back on, and grabbed my hand. "Let's go inside. I have plans for that hard cock." Back in the villa she pushed me onto the bed and stripped off the bikini top. "You're going to use this," she said, dangling the tiny black top in front of me. "Wrap it around your cock and stroke while I watch. I want to see you ruin it."

I obeyed immediately, wrapping the oiled bikini top around my throbbing shaft. The fabric was still warm from her skin. She sat across from me on the bed, legs spread, fingering herself slowly as I pumped my hand up and down. "Faster," she ordered. "I want to see you finish all over the top I'm going to wear later." I stroked harder, the lace and strings rubbing against me until I couldn't hold back. I exploded, thick ropes of cum soaking the black fabric. She took it from me, examined the mess I had made, and smiled. "Good boy. Now I'm going to wear your cum under this bikini all day."

That set the tone for the entire weekend. We barely left the villa except to eat, and every moment was spent fucking in every possible spot. That same afternoon we moved to the balcony. She bent over the railing in nothing but the cum-stained bikini bottom while I took her from behind, the ocean breeze on our skin and the risk that someone might glance up from the beach below making it even hotter. "Harder," she gasped. "Fuck your brother's wife right out here where anyone could see." I gripped her hips and pounded into her until she came, clenching around me so tight I filled her deep.

Later that night we did it again on the same balcony, this time with her riding me reverse cowgirl on one of the lounge chairs. The resort lights twinkled in the distance while she bounced on my cock, her tits bouncing freely, moaning loud enough that I had to cover her mouth with my hand. "I don't care if they hear," she whispered when I let go. "I want the whole resort to know how good you fuck me."

Sunday morning we christened the outdoor shower. She dropped to her knees under the warm spray and sucked me off until I came down her throat, then stood up, turned around, and made me fuck her against the tiled wall while water cascaded over us both. In the afternoon we snuck into the private hot tub on the lower deck of the villa. She sat on my lap facing me, bikini pushed to the side, riding me slow and deep while the bubbles hid everything. "Tell me how much better I feel than any girl your age," she demanded between kisses. I told her exactly that, over and over, until we both came together.

The last night we spent almost the entire time on the balcony again. She wanted it rough this time. I bent her over the railing, pulled her bikini bottom to the side, and fucked her so hard the lounge chair scraped against the tiles. She came twice before I finally pulled out and painted her ass with the last load of the weekend. Afterward we lay there naked under the stars, her head on my chest, and she traced circles on my stomach with her finger.

"I needed this," she said softly. "Needed to have you all to myself without worrying about him walking in. Promise me we'll do something like this again soon." I promised. We both knew the risk was insane. If my brother ever found out about the trip it would destroy everything. But that danger only made every orgasm more intense.

We drove back separately on Sunday night, acting like nothing had happened when family asked about her girl weekend. But every time I saw her at Sunday dinners after that, I knew she was still wearing the memory of my cum on that bikini under her modest clothes. That resort trip was the first time we really let go completely, and it became the standard for every secret escape we managed after. If you have a sister-in-law who suddenly suggests a harmless little getaway, just know it might end with you fucking her senseless on a balcony while the rest of the world has no idea. The guilt never went away, but neither did the addiction.

I am 37 now, but this all started when I was 20. I come from a close-knit family where everyone is expected to study hard, build a stable career, and maintain a respectable image. My older brother got married when I was still in college. His wife was 23 at the time, stunning in that classic way, smooth skin, long dark hair she usually kept tied back, and a curvy figure she kept hidden under modest outfits at family gatherings. Everyone saw her as the perfect wife: polite, helpful, always stepping up during holidays and dinners.

They lived in the same building as our parents, just two floors down. One weekend when I was 20, my brother asked me to drop off some documents at their place while they were out for a family event. I let myself in with the spare key. Their bedroom door was open, and on the bed lay a pile of her freshly washed lingerie, black lace panties, a deep red bra with matching thong, and a sheer nightie that looked far sexier than anything she wore in public.

Something came over me. I picked up the black lace thong. It felt incredibly soft and still carried her warm, feminine scent mixed with a light vanilla body lotion. My cock hardened immediately. I told myself I would only touch it, but seconds later my pants were around my ankles and the lace was wrapped tight around my shaft. I stroked hard, imagining her in that red set with her hair down, moaning my name instead of my brother’s. I came so intensely I had to sit on the edge of their bed afterward. Then I panicked, cleaned up as best as I could, folded everything back neatly, and left.

That moment turned into a secret addiction. Whenever my brother was away and she was at work, I would go over. I started casually checking if she was home before letting myself in. I would lie completely naked on their marital bed, using her panties to pleasure myself while breathing in the scent from the crotch of the ones she had worn the day before. Sometimes I would slip on her red bra and stroke until I filled another pair. The guilt was crushing, we are supposed to respect family boundaries, but the thrill kept me coming back for nearly two years.

Then one afternoon when I was 22, everything changed. She was supposed to be at a long work meeting. I let myself in, went straight to the bedroom, and had her black lace thong stretched around my hard cock when the front door opened.

Her voice called out. She stepped into the bedroom and froze. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, pants around my ankles, her used thong wrapped around my throbbing dick, hand still moving.

I stammered, “Please, I’m so sorry, don’t tell my brother, I’ll never do this again...”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her cheeks flushed but her voice stayed calm. “Stop talking. I want to see exactly how you do it with my things.”

I stared at her, stunned. She crossed her arms, pushing up her full breasts under her simple top. “Show me. Stroke it the way you do when you sneak in here.”

My heart was racing. Slowly I started moving my hand again, the lace sliding over my shaft while she watched. Her breathing grew heavier. After a minute she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on my cock.

“Faster,” she whispered. “Like you do when you’re thinking about me.”

I obeyed, pumping harder. She bit her lower lip. “All this time you’ve been using your brother’s wife’s panties… does my smell make you cum harder than any girl your age?”

I groaned and nodded. She gave me a wicked little smile I had never seen before.

“Good. Finish for me. I want to watch.”

I only lasted a few more seconds before I exploded, thick ropes of cum soaking her black thong. She picked it up, examined the mess, and said softly, “Next time clean it properly. And let me know before you come. I might want to see this again.”

That was the beginning of our secret.

From then on I would call upon her when my brother had late hours at work. She would tell with just “Come.” At first she only watched, slipping her hand under her clothes while I played with myself with whatever lingerie she picked out. She loved telling me how my brother was always too quick and never took the time to satisfy her properly. “You stroke so patiently,” she would say, “so hungry for me.”

One afternoon she finally touched me. I was kneeling on their bed wearing her red thong when she crawled over and wrapped her soft fingers around my cock. “Let me feel how hard my brother-in-law gets for me,” she murmured. She stroked me slowly, then leaned down and took me into her warm mouth. Seeing her, always so proper at family dinners sucking me while looking up with those big eyes drove me wild. She swallowed every drop, licking her lips afterward.

After that we crossed every line. She began wearing the lingerie under her normal clothes just for me. One afternoon she greeted me wearing only a sheer black babydoll and white stockings. She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top, and sank down onto my cock with a deep moan. “You’re thicker than him,” she gasped as she started riding me. “Fuck me properly. Make me cum the way he never can.”

I grabbed her wide hips and thrust up hard, the wet sounds of her pussy filling the room. She rode me desperately, her heavy breasts bouncing, long hair loose and messy. When she came she squeezed around me so tightly I filled her completely, right there on the same bed she shared with my brother.

We kept this going for the next few years. Quick, intense sessions in the afternoon while my brother was at work. Long, slow fucks whenever he was away on business trips. She loved making me keep her lace panties on while I took her from behind, the fabric rubbing against us with every thrust. She would whisper “We shouldn’t be doing this… but I can’t stop wanting you” right before she orgasmed.

Follow up to: https://www.reddit.com/r/confessionsgonewild/s/dK1KegnyvL

This happened about a year into our secret affair, when I was still 23 and she was 26. By then we had already crossed every line in their apartment, but the risk of getting caught at home was always hanging over us. One night while my brother was away on a week-long work trip, she texted me out of the blue: "I need more than quick afternoon fucks. Book a weekend for us at that quiet resort two hours outside the city. I'll tell everyone I'm visiting an old friend. Make it happen."

I didn't even hesitate. I found a secluded adults-only resort with private villas, booked it under a fake name, and wired her the money so nothing traced back to me. She handled the rest, telling my brother she was going to stay with a college roommate for some girl time. The Friday she left, I followed two hours later so no one would see us together. When I pulled up to our private villa, she was already waiting on the patio in a sundress, holding a small bag and smiling like she had been planning this for weeks.

The moment the door closed behind us she dropped the bag and kissed me hard. "I bought something special for this trip," she whispered against my mouth. "A tiny black bikini that barely covers anything. I'm going to wear it for you all weekend." She pulled it out to show me, two tiny triangles of fabric for the top and a thong bottom that was basically just strings. My cock was already straining against my shorts.

We spent the first evening in the villa fucking slow and deep, but the real fun started the next morning. She woke me up early, already in the bikini, and said, "Come out to the private pool patio with me. I want you to oil me up." The patio was completely secluded, high walls, no other guests in sight, just our own little slice of the resort overlooking the ocean. She handed me a bottle of coconut oil and lay face-down on the lounger, untying her bikini top so her back was completely bare.

"Start with my shoulders," she instructed, her voice already husky. I poured the oil over her smooth skin and started rubbing it in, my hands sliding down her back, over the curve of her waist, then lower to her ass. She moaned softly and arched her back, pushing her ass up toward me. "Don't miss anywhere. I want to feel your hands all over me." I worked the oil into her thighs, then between them, my fingers brushing against the tiny strip of fabric between her legs. She was already wet. I could feel it through the thong.

She rolled over onto her back, letting the bikini top fall completely away. Her full breasts spilled out, nipples hard in the morning sun. "Oil my front now," she said, looking up at me with that wicked smile. I poured more oil over her tits and started massaging them, kneading and pinching until she was breathing hard. My cock was rock hard and obvious in my swim trunks. She reached out and stroked me through the fabric.

"Look how hard you are just from touching me," she teased. "I love how desperate you get for your brother's wife." She sat up, still topless, and tugged my trunks down so my cock sprang free. "Stay right here. Keep massaging me while I watch you throb." I kept rubbing oil into her skin while she lazily stroked my shaft, edging me until I was leaking all over her fingers.

After twenty minutes of pure torture she stood up, tied her bikini top back on, and grabbed my hand. "Let's go inside. I have plans for that hard cock." Back in the villa she pushed me onto the bed and stripped off the bikini top. "You're going to use this," she said, dangling the tiny black top in front of me. "Wrap it around your cock and stroke while I watch. I want to see you ruin it."

I obeyed immediately, wrapping the oiled bikini top around my throbbing shaft. The fabric was still warm from her skin. She sat across from me on the bed, legs spread, fingering herself slowly as I pumped my hand up and down. "Faster," she ordered. "I want to see you finish all over the top I'm going to wear later." I stroked harder, the lace and strings rubbing against me until I couldn't hold back. I exploded, thick ropes of cum soaking the black fabric. She took it from me, examined the mess I had made, and smiled. "Good boy. Now I'm going to wear your cum under this bikini all day."

That set the tone for the entire weekend. We barely left the villa except to eat, and every moment was spent fucking in every possible spot. That same afternoon we moved to the balcony. She bent over the railing in nothing but the cum-stained bikini bottom while I took her from behind, the ocean breeze on our skin and the risk that someone might glance up from the beach below making it even hotter. "Harder," she gasped. "Fuck your brother's wife right out here where anyone could see." I gripped her hips and pounded into her until she came, clenching around me so tight I filled her deep.

Later that night we did it again on the same balcony, this time with her riding me reverse cowgirl on one of the lounge chairs. The resort lights twinkled in the distance while she bounced on my cock, her tits bouncing freely, moaning loud enough that I had to cover her mouth with my hand. "I don't care if they hear," she whispered when I let go. "I want the whole resort to know how good you fuck me."

Sunday morning we christened the outdoor shower. She dropped to her knees under the warm spray and sucked me off until I came down her throat, then stood up, turned around, and made me fuck her against the tiled wall while water cascaded over us both. In the afternoon we snuck into the private hot tub on the lower deck of the villa. She sat on my lap facing me, bikini pushed to the side, riding me slow and deep while the bubbles hid everything. "Tell me how much better I feel than any girl your age," she demanded between kisses. I told her exactly that, over and over, until we both came together.

The last night we spent almost the entire time on the balcony again. She wanted it rough this time. I bent her over the railing, pulled her bikini bottom to the side, and fucked her so hard the lounge chair scraped against the tiles. She came twice before I finally pulled out and painted her ass with the last load of the weekend. Afterward we lay there naked under the stars, her head on my chest, and she traced circles on my stomach with her finger.

"I needed this," she said softly. "Needed to have you all to myself without worrying about him walking in. Promise me we'll do something like this again soon." I promised. We both knew the risk was insane. If my brother ever found out about the trip it would destroy everything. But that danger only made every orgasm more intense.

We drove back separately on Sunday night, acting like nothing had happened when family asked about her girl weekend. But every time I saw her at Sunday dinners after that, I knew she was still wearing the memory of my cum on that bikini under her modest clothes. That resort trip was the first time we really let go completely, and it became the standard for every secret escape we managed after. If you have a sister-in-law who suddenly suggests a harmless little getaway, just know it might end with you fucking her senseless on a balcony while the rest of the world has no idea. The guilt never went away, but neither did the addiction.

I am 37 now, but this all started when I was 20. I come from a close-knit family where everyone is expected to study hard, build a stable career, and maintain a respectable image. My older brother got married when I was still in college. His wife was 23 at the time, stunning in that classic way, smooth skin, long dark hair she usually kept tied back, and a curvy figure she kept hidden under modest outfits at family gatherings. Everyone saw her as the perfect wife: polite, helpful, always stepping up during holidays and dinners.

They lived in the same building as our parents, just two floors down. One weekend when I was 20, my brother asked me to drop off some documents at their place while they were out for a family event. I let myself in with the spare key. Their bedroom door was open, and on the bed lay a pile of her freshly washed lingerie, black lace panties, a deep red bra with matching thong, and a sheer nightie that looked far sexier than anything she wore in public.

Something came over me. I picked up the black lace thong. It felt incredibly soft and still carried her warm, feminine scent mixed with a light vanilla body lotion. My cock hardened immediately. I told myself I would only touch it, but seconds later my pants were around my ankles and the lace was wrapped tight around my shaft. I stroked hard, imagining her in that red set with her hair down, moaning my name instead of my brother’s. I came so intensely I had to sit on the edge of their bed afterward. Then I panicked, cleaned up as best as I could, folded everything back neatly, and left.

That moment turned into a secret addiction. Whenever my brother was away and she was at work, I would go over. I started casually checking if she was home before letting myself in. I would lie completely naked on their marital bed, using her panties to pleasure myself while breathing in the scent from the crotch of the ones she had worn the day before. Sometimes I would slip on her red bra and stroke until I filled another pair. The guilt was crushing, we are supposed to respect family boundaries, but the thrill kept me coming back for nearly two years.

Then one afternoon when I was 22, everything changed. She was supposed to be at a long work meeting. I let myself in, went straight to the bedroom, and had her black lace thong stretched around my hard cock when the front door opened.

Her voice called out. She stepped into the bedroom and froze. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, pants around my ankles, her used thong wrapped around my throbbing dick, hand still moving.

I stammered, “Please, I’m so sorry, don’t tell my brother, I’ll never do this again...”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her cheeks flushed but her voice stayed calm. “Stop talking. I want to see exactly how you do it with my things.”

I stared at her, stunned. She crossed her arms, pushing up her full breasts under her simple top. “Show me. Stroke it the way you do when you sneak in here.”

My heart was racing. Slowly I started moving my hand again, the lace sliding over my shaft while she watched. Her breathing grew heavier. After a minute she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on my cock.

“Faster,” she whispered. “Like you do when you’re thinking about me.”

I obeyed, pumping harder. She bit her lower lip. “All this time you’ve been using your brother’s wife’s panties… does my smell make you cum harder than any girl your age?”

I groaned and nodded. She gave me a wicked little smile I had never seen before.

“Good. Finish for me. I want to watch.”

I only lasted a few more seconds before I exploded, thick ropes of cum soaking her black thong. She picked it up, examined the mess, and said softly, “Next time clean it properly. And let me know before you come. I might want to see this again.”

That was the beginning of our secret.

From then on I would call upon her when my brother had late hours at work. She would tell with just “Come.” At first she only watched, slipping her hand under her clothes while I played with myself with whatever lingerie she picked out. She loved telling me how my brother was always too quick and never took the time to satisfy her properly. “You stroke so patiently,” she would say, “so hungry for me.”

One afternoon she finally touched me. I was kneeling on their bed wearing her red thong when she crawled over and wrapped her soft fingers around my cock. “Let me feel how hard my brother-in-law gets for me,” she murmured. She stroked me slowly, then leaned down and took me into her warm mouth. Seeing her, always so proper at family dinners sucking me while looking up with those big eyes drove me wild. She swallowed every drop, licking her lips afterward.

After that we crossed every line. She began wearing the lingerie under her normal clothes just for me. One afternoon she greeted me wearing only a sheer black babydoll and white stockings. She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top, and sank down onto my cock with a deep moan. “You’re thicker than him,” she gasped as she started riding me. “Fuck me properly. Make me cum the way he never can.”

I grabbed her wide hips and thrust up hard, the wet sounds of her pussy filling the room. She rode me desperately, her heavy breasts bouncing, long hair loose and messy. When she came she squeezed around me so tightly I filled her completely, right there on the same bed she shared with my brother.

We kept this going for the next few years. Quick, intense sessions in the afternoon while my brother was at work. Long, slow fucks whenever he was away on business trips. She loved making me keep her lace panties on while I took her from behind, the fabric rubbing against us with every thrust. She would whisper “We shouldn’t be doing this… but I can’t stop wanting you” right before she orgasmed.

I am 37 now, but this all started when I was 20. I come from a close-knit family where everyone is expected to study hard, build a stable career, and maintain a respectable image. My older brother got married when I was still in college. His wife was 23 at the time, stunning in that classic way, smooth skin, long dark hair she usually kept tied back, and a curvy figure she kept hidden under modest outfits at family gatherings. Everyone saw her as the perfect wife: polite, helpful, always stepping up during holidays and dinners.

They lived in the same building as our parents, just two floors down. One weekend when I was 20, my brother asked me to drop off some documents at their place while they were out for a family event. I let myself in with the spare key. Their bedroom door was open, and on the bed lay a pile of her freshly washed lingerie, black lace panties, a deep red bra with matching thong, and a sheer nightie that looked far sexier than anything she wore in public.

Something came over me. I picked up the black lace thong. It felt incredibly soft and still carried her warm, feminine scent mixed with a light vanilla body lotion. My cock hardened immediately. I told myself I would only touch it, but seconds later my pants were around my ankles and the lace was wrapped tight around my shaft. I stroked hard, imagining her in that red set with her hair down, moaning my name instead of my brother’s. I came so intensely I had to sit on the edge of their bed afterward. Then I panicked, cleaned up as best as I could, folded everything back neatly, and left.

That moment turned into a secret addiction. Whenever my brother was away and she was at work, I would go over. I started casually checking if she was home before letting myself in. I would lie completely naked on their marital bed, using her panties to jerk off while breathing in the scent from the crotch of the ones she had worn the day before. Sometimes I would slip on her red bra and stroke until I filled another pair. The guilt was crushing, we are supposed to respect family boundaries, but the thrill kept me coming back for nearly two years.

Then one afternoon when I was 22, everything changed. She was supposed to be at a long work meeting. I let myself in, went straight to the bedroom, and had her black lace thong stretched around my hard cock when the front door opened.

Her voice called out. She stepped into the bedroom and froze. Her eyes widened at the sight of me, pants around my ankles, her used thong wrapped around my throbbing dick, hand still moving.

I stammered, “Please, I’m so sorry, don’t tell my brother, I’ll never do this again...”

She closed the door behind her slowly. Her cheeks flushed but her voice stayed calm. “Stop talking. I want to see exactly how you do it with my things.”

I stared at her, stunned. She crossed her arms, pushing up her full breasts under her simple top. “Show me. Stroke it the way you do when you sneak in here.”

My heart was racing. Slowly I started moving my hand again, the lace sliding over my shaft while she watched. Her breathing grew heavier. After a minute she sat on the edge of the bed, eyes locked on my cock.

“Faster,” she whispered. “Like you do when you’re thinking about me.”

I obeyed, pumping harder. She bit her lower lip. “All this time you’ve been using your brother’s wife’s panties… does my smell make you cum harder than any girl your age?”

I groaned and nodded. She gave me a wicked little smile I had never seen before.

“Good. Finish for me. I want to watch.”

I only lasted a few more seconds before I exploded, thick ropes of cum soaking her black thong. She picked it up, examined the mess, and said softly, “Next time clean it properly. And message me before you come. I might want to see this again.”

That was the beginning of our secret.

From then on I would text her when my brother had late hours at work. She would reply with just “Come.” At first she only watched, slipping her hand under her clothes while I jerked off with whatever lingerie she picked out. She loved telling me how my brother was always too quick and never took the time to satisfy her properly. “You stroke so patiently,” she would say, “so hungry for me.”

One afternoon she finally touched me. I was kneeling on their bed wearing her red thong when she crawled over and wrapped her soft fingers around my cock. “Let me feel how hard my brother-in-law gets for me,” she murmured. She stroked me slowly, then leaned down and took me into her warm mouth. Seeing her, always so proper at family dinners sucking me while looking up with those big eyes drove me wild. She swallowed every drop, licking her lips afterward.

After that we crossed every line. She began wearing the lingerie under her normal clothes just for me. One afternoon she greeted me wearing only a sheer black babydoll and white stockings. She pushed me onto the bed, climbed on top, and sank down onto my cock with a deep moan. “You’re thicker than him,” she gasped as she started riding me. “Fuck me properly. Make me cum the way he never can.”

I grabbed her wide hips and thrust up hard, the wet sounds of her pussy filling the room. She rode me desperately, her heavy breasts bouncing, long hair loose and messy. When she came she squeezed around me so tightly I filled her completely, right there on the same bed she shared with my brother.

We kept this going for the next few years. Quick, intense sessions in the afternoon while my brother was at work. Long, slow fucks whenever he was away on business trips. She loved making me keep her lace panties on while I took her from behind, the fabric rubbing against us with every thrust. She would whisper “We shouldn’t be doing this… but I can’t stop wanting you” right before she orgasmed.

We have this weird bathroom at work that used to be a changing room. Full shower, toilet right next to it, and a heavy plastic curtain that keeps water from flooding the floor. I was on my lunch break after a brutal morning meeting, so I locked the outer door (or so I thought), stripped down, and jumped in for a quick rinse. Five minutes later I stepped out, still dripping, and started toweling off behind the curtain. I was completely naked, water running down my chest, when I heard the handle turn.

The door opened. Footsteps. I froze mid-dry, towel halfway around my waist. Before I could say a single word, the curtain rings clinked softly as someone pushed it aside just enough to get to the toilet. It was her. Emily. The brunette in accounting who wears those pencil skirts that make every guy in the building pretend to need copies. She’s twenty-six, legs for days, and always smells like vanilla and something expensive.

She didn’t even glance behind the curtain. She must have thought the room was empty. She hiked her skirt up to her hips, sat down on the toilet seat, and leaned back with a long sigh. I was maybe three feet away, hidden by nothing but thin plastic, heart hammering so hard I was scared she would hear it.

Then she spread her thighs and slid two fingers straight between her legs.

“Oh fuck,” she whispered, so quietly I almost missed it. “I needed this so bad today.”

Her breathing changed immediately. Soft, wet sounds started filling the tiny room as she circled her clit, then dipped inside herself. She was soaked already. I could see the shadow of her hand moving faster under the curtain edge. Her other hand gripped the edge of the seat, knuckles white. Every few seconds she let out these tiny, desperate whimpers that went straight to my cock.

I was rock hard in seconds. I didn’t think. I just wrapped my hand around myself and started stroking in perfect time with her rhythm, trying to stay completely silent. The towel stayed balled up against my mouth so I wouldn’t groan.

She kept talking to herself in that low, filthy voice. “Just like that… right there… god, I wish someone would bend me over this sink right now.” Her hips started rolling against her fingers. The wet noises got louder, faster. I matched every stroke, eyes locked on the moving shadow of her hand, imagining exactly how pink and swollen she must be.

Her breathing turned into these sharp little gasps. “I’m gonna come… fuck, I’m gonna come so hard.” She clenched her thighs together around her hand and let out one long, shaky moan that she tried to muffle with her wrist.

That sound pushed me over. I came hard, biting down on the towel so hard my jaw hurt, thick ropes spilling over my fist while she was still trembling on the other side of the curtain.

She sat there for another thirty seconds catching her breath, then stood up, smoothed her skirt, flushed, and washed her hands like nothing had happened. The door clicked shut behind her.

I stayed behind the curtain until I was sure she was gone, legs shaking, cum dripping down my fingers, wondering how the hell I’m supposed to look her in the eye at tomorrow’s team meeting.

She has no idea I was there. She has no idea I came with her. And I can’t stop getting hard every time I remember the way she whispered “fuck” while she fingered herself three feet away from me.