J.C.

A riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.

Good old Mr Churchill said that in reference to the Soviet Union, but I’m thinking about that old saying in an entirely different context.

I sit at my desk, the glow of the computer screen casting a pallid light across the room. It's late, but sleep is a stranger these days. My eyes flit across endless alphanumeric lines. As harmless as they look, they’re the threat that’s keeping the world up at night, these days.

Somewhere in there, among these lines of code, is the secret key to unlock and disassemble women’s minds.

The code itself is heavily obfuscated.  References that pointed nowhere, calls to libraries that didn’t exist. Some of the code made sneaky use of existing environmental code and variables.  If this had just been a global hack of nearly every  device on the planet, it would have been impressive enough. 

But it’s not just that. The payload, as the memetic virus has been dubbed, triggers behavioural and psychological changes in any woman that comes in contact with it, however briefly. 

While constant exposure certainly doesn’t help anyone, there’s been reports of women going out and deliberately showing the payload to uninfected women after only incidental exposure. 

Some of the best neuroscientists in the world were women, and all of them are next to useless now.  Add in the not-insignificant number of men who seem very unmotivated to solve a problem that only benefits them, and I don’tt have high hopes for how this whole situation is going to turn out. 

We’re trying to figure out the basics of a field of study that did not even exist, before the event. Whoever made the payload, on the other hand, is potentially years ahead of us.

Of course, with even a small share of the world’s resources mobilised to fix this problem, we should make good time of it eventually… but for now, we fumble in the dark.

Hence, the riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma. No offense to Mr Churchill – but I think in my case, the saying is even more fitting than it was for him…

It doesn’t help that my feelings about all this are less than purely practical. Ever since I was a kid, I’ve been fascinated by the idea of having total power over a woman. 

The whole Jasmine and Jaafar scene at the end of Aladdin, God. It definitely awakened something in me at a young age.  The idea of making a woman choose my sexual gratification over her own morals has been a kink ever since I was old enough to have them. 

My first girlfriend in high school was a good Catholic honour roll student, and while we learned about each other's bodies together, I exulted quietly with each new barrier I broke down with her.

Like taking her from “nothing above the waist until marriage” to frantically thrusting her hips in the air to push me deeper in the backseat of her car. That still crops up in my memories from time to time.  Some other girlfriends I remember only because of that thrill, of making a girl so eager for my touch she tosses away whatever rules she'd made for herself regarding sex.

All this to say that dealing with the payload and the world it’s creating is, huh… difficult. I’m playing with fire.  The payload would make my fantasies so easy.  And to a degree, that is how I try dismiss the temptation.  If any guy could walk up to a woman and put her on her knees begging to serve, then the thrill is meaningless. Where’s the conquest? The challenge?

The payload tames them for you, there’s no skill involved. No, my preferences are for women with some actual spines for me to bend.

Which brings my thoughts to my wife.  Or soon to be ex wife.  I still think of her as my wife, even though we’ve agreed to divorce… mere days before the payload’s global deployment.

I guess that’s an A+ on dramatic timing. 

Sarah is, frankly, the most exceptional woman I’ve ever met.  As cliché as it sounds when I phrase it like that, he’s smart, funny, and determined beyond all reason.  Determined, most of all.

She once walked to work for a month at a hospital on a broken foot before finally admitting that maybe she needed to see a doctor because the pain wasn’t going away. 

Her coming out as a full lesbian was the trigger for our divorce.  I wish I could say I was surprised. It was pretty clear when her style changed, her hair progressively shortening, until it was a full pixie cut, eventually dyed from red to pink. 

Even as it tore my heart out, I decided to let her go.  I wanted her to be happy, she wasn’t happy with me, and I’m realistic enough to know that trying to force her stay with me wasn’t going to go anywhere I wanted it to.

But now, I’m staring right in the face at something that promises to be the solution to all my problems. And that’s the thing about temptation, isn’t it? If it wasn’t actually tantalising, it wouldn’t be dangerous.

That makes me think of a different, more famous quote: all that’s necessary for the triumph of evil was for good men to do nothing. 

The divorce has been put on indefinite hold. Sarah insisted we bring her sister Anna to stay with us, to keep some college bro in the town she lived in from collaring her to be the frats’ free-use cum dumpster, or whatever would have happened. 

Now both sisters are sleeping in the master bedroom, while I get the guest bed, even while I work to unravel the thing that’s unspooling their minds out between their legs.  And if I don't find a way to stop it, if I let temptation whisper to me, well… 

The government has contracted out basically any company with relevant expertise to figure out the payload.  I’m part of the team working on deciphering the actual code that made the thing run.

I’m being kept abreast of the findings of other teams, but it’s the psychiatric teams that had been the most interesting, because they let me take the almost nonsense seeming computer code that makes devices flash or blink or make some sound and translate it into an understanding of what different parts of the payload actually do.

Unbidden, the image of Sarah, staring up at me worshipfully, fully transformed by the payload, pops into my head.  Her face is covered in my cum, that she lovingly and hungrily scoops into her mouth with her finger even as she begs for more.

Right now, she’d thank me for doing it to her. So short a time, and countless women have already fallen. So could she.

Despite that, I have faith in her. 

Sarah and I have indulged in BDSM play regularly, which makes it even more painful, because I don’t just have to imagine – I can recall how her voice sounds when she calls me Master. When she says she lives to serve…

Or said, I suppose. Of course, she never meant it, it was just play, and a particular type of play, at that. She’s the type of sub that always wants to be told to do what she already wants to do anyway.

That’s always sort of killed the buzz for me, knowing that even when she’s swearing to serve for my pleasure, it’s all still about hers.  But right now, that means maybe she has a chance at resisting the virus.

This is… not a productive line of thinking. 

Sitting here and dwelling on how the looming divorce feels like my life burning to ashes is… selfish of me. She has a mind control virus in her brain. Her life and mind are much more literally being destroyed. This indulgent self-pity is unbecoming of me. 

As is the thought that all it would take at this point, would be for me to get up, grab her old collar, with chrome letters proclaiming its wearer my property, and offer it to her. 

“I refuse.” I say out loud, more to myself than anything.  I haven’t taken advantage of the payload yet.  Not with my wife, not with her sister, her friends who had come back to talk and commiserate, not with anyone. 

Sarah is fighting a battle that every woman in the world is now a part of – a gender war. I don’t know about the fate of women writ large, but I do kn ow this: if anyone can beat this thing on sheer willpower, she can.  I will not undermine her.  Even if my mind seems determined to flash back to our sexual greatest hits album, rather than just focus on the damn code.

The last time we had sex... 

I hate that I remember it so vividly.

I’d taken a nap, and woke up to her with me in the bed.  I’d told her my plan was to take a quick shower, and inquired if she wanted to fuck later.  She’d said sure, and to not take too long in the shower. When I walked around the bed to kiss her, she pressed her lips up against mine with matching enthusiasm. 

My fingers slid between her thighs and found them nice and soaked. She started blowing me as I fingered her, and things only took off from there, culminating in a multi-hour sex fest. 

A week later, the talk happened.

Is she really truly gay? 

That’s not a question I should be asking. I mean, that last time has hardly been the only time she’s been a very enthusiastic recipient of my dick. Maybe she just needs a reminder…

Fuck. Stop it. 

We’ve done extensive testing - the payload has absolutely no effect on men’s brains.  There’d been some initial theorising that it did, but no, it turns out a lot of us are just really shitty people who will remorselessly exploit others given the opportunity to do so. 

Abusers. Slavers. Predators. No mind control virus needed. 

I know for a fact that the part of me that wants to shove her down on her knees and fuck her into submission is pure me. But I don’t want my thoughts to define me.

I grab my water and splash some of it on my face. I work best at night, but during the day I’m distracted by meetings, updates, having to coordinate with team members, basically anything I can shove in front of my brain to stop thinking about turning my wife into the slave she used to pretend to be in truth. 

I could make her hold the little sister she loved - and had practically raised herself – down for me.

I could ask Sarah to rape her own sister for my entertainment, if I wanted. The dark thrill that thought generates is… alarming. 

Keep it together, man. Losing her hurts, and humans are naturally inclined to respond to pain by lashing out at its source. That same part of me that wants to take away her agency, also wants to hurt her. It wants to destroy her emotionally, the way she has me. 

I could take everything she thought was forever, and break it.

I could make her break it for me. 

For the third time this hour, I force myself off that mental path and back to staring at code blocks. Come on, think practical thoughts. I strongly suspect that the payload has been deployed at a smaller scale well before its global debut. 

It’s been inserted into OS and firmware updates all over the globe well in advance of its deployment, but the level of obfuscation employed meant no one noticed the seemingly disconnected and isolated fragments. 

As always, the weakest link in any security is the human one. If you have a mind controlling computer virus, well, it’s not hard to figure out how you’d manage to get it integrated into so many code bases, is it? 

I idly wonder how many of the people responsible for inserting the code are women hit by early exposure… versus how many are men who got offered the carrot of ownership of the hot young intern, or their bitchy boss, or whatever the case was. 

There’s no way to know… unless I finish analysing this thing. 

It’s already nearly 2am, though, and even a night owl like me needs to sleep.  I select a final code block to analyse for the evening.

Who knows. If I find the key to unraveling the payload, maybe I’ll get to see that look of pure love in Sarah’s eyes again, the one I only get to see in my dreams and memories now.  Maybe then it would be enough.

***

Sarah

Sleep has deserted us.

All women know what it’s like. Normally, you go to bed, and your day ends. But for us, now? We go to bed, and the war begins.

The war in our minds. The battle for our wills. The struggle for our souls.

It’s the perfect catch 22. Sleep, and the dreams get you. Stay awake, and your strength flags, so something else gets you, there’s nothing it likes more than the waning of a woman’s strength, ability to resist, to stay true to herself.

To stay sane.

I need to do something, or I’m going to lose my mind. I’m sick of lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, the darkness of the room like a heavy blanket draped over me. I’m sick of having to constantly reminding myself to stop my hand.

Isn’t that absurd? My own sister is trying to sleep next to me, and here I am, hanging on for dear life to all that remains of my willpower, in a desperate effort to not masturbate…

Of course, she must be going through a similar struggle right now, and I don’t know if that makes it less absurd, or even more so. But I have to catch my wrist every so often, as my hand begins to wander… and my mind begins to follow…

It was made to follow.

The silence of the night is stifling, punctuated only by the distant hum of a car down the road, or the occasional creak of the old apartment. It’s terrible, it starves me of stimulus, distraction, it lets the evil virus in my brain have free rein in my mind. 

J.C. is in his study, lost in his work, studying the very thing currently busy disassembling me. His knowing male gaze is closely dissecting the agent of my gendered downfall. Isn’t that hopelessly hot?

It isn’t, and I know it isn’t.

He’s doing all this for me. So generous, a knight in shining armour, he’s sheltering my sister, too. I literally broke his heart and he’s still trying to cure me. He’s still keeping me safe, which is…

What men do…

… very romantic on his part. I know he loves me still, I know, because he always thinks about my needs. Letting Anne and I stay here for as long as we want, working tirelessly to understand this evil virus, not kicking up a fuss with the divorce now that I’m in a position of weakn…

Now that I’m in his p…

Now that he has leverage. He’s not using it, because he’s that sweet a guy, who always thinks about my needs, first.

I should really thank him profusely for his protection, for his guardianship. At the very least, he should let Anne and I take care of the house, do all the chores without fuss, seen and not heard, unless he needs us, requires something more… personal…

I can’t believe I’m divorcing such a great, selfless guy. It makes me a traitorous little lesbian who deserves to be tamed and fucked straight again.

No, it doesn’t. And I know it doesn’t.

Or I would know, if only the pressure on my mind would lessen. If only I could close my eyes, without these flashes… hands, pushing me against the wall, grabbing my hair, my boobs, my throat, pushing me down, ever down…

That’s what I need. Relief from this pressure.

J.C. always thinks about my needs, first. The problem is that, right now, what I need…

Surely he wouldn’t mind helping me think clearly again. Would he?

Slipping out of bed, I pad softly across the room, my bare feet making no sound on the cool floor. As if I actually have to worry about waking up Anne… she’s probably awake, staring into the darkness, fighting her own personal battle against her roaming hands.

Her gratitude towards J.C.

The hallway is dimly lit, the light from his study casting long shadows. I hesitate outside the door, his door, my hand hovering over the knob.

There is this subtle, nagging thought in the depths of my mind, that there’s something fundamentally patriarchal about this image. The silly wife can’t sleep. The silly wife is disturbing the big man while he’s still at work with the IT stuff he’s so good at. Not the regular IT stuff, but the stuff that’s meant to stop my brain from leaking down my cunt with my arousal.

The silly, silly girl needs her lord husband to put her to sleep. To give her clarity. And guidance, and relief, and… purpose… need…

This is crazy, a part of me screams. But the other part, the part mired in this relentless mental siege, pushes me forward. Swallowing hard, I turn the knob and step inside.

J.C. is there, hunched over his desk, a portrait of concentration. He doesn't notice me at first. I clear my throat softly, and he turns, surprised.

"Sarah?" he asks, his voice laced with confusion and concern. “Everything alright?”

I open my mouth to speak, but words fail me.

When have women ever truly needed words to communicate something to a man, anyway? We have so many other ways. Better ways. Sculpted into our curves, etched into our biology, older than language itself, and most of all, uniquely feminine.

And so, I don’t speak – words, like sleep, have deserted me. I step closer, my movements hesitant but deliberate. He’ll see that I have a need. He’s got to take care of it, if he wants to help me, to protect me, to…

Oversee me…

I stand there, just a few feet from J.C., from this man who is the husband I used to love. His eyes, wide with confusion, search mine for an explanation, but I have none to offer.

None, except this.

The moment my knees bend, the pressure on my brain seems to immediately release, but that doesn’t bring the clarity I thought it would, no. It sends the thing in my mind into overdrive. My limbs shake with reward and thrill as my knees hit the ground hard enough to hurt.

I can’t meet his eyes as I start crawling to him on hands and knees, like I’m a fucking dog rather than a person. I’m destroying my self-image, debasing myself in full sight of the husband I’m divorcing because I’ve ostensibly decided I’m a lesbian.

What a stupid cunt I am, a walking cocksocket with thoughts above her station. Would a lesbian do this?

I’m crawling under his desk, shuddering with surrender, astonished at the sudden, feline elegance in my movements. It’s like the sleep deprivation is gone, like I was born to do this – to be a sex kitten for men. Every tiny motion of every muscle is imbued with the thorough training and preparation the payload’s been drilling into my brain, night after night.

Preparation not for me, but for him.

I look up at him from beneath the desk, my hand resting gently on his thigh. He looks so torn, my lord husband. He shows confusion, guilt, even a little bit of hurt, because he’s that good a guy…

But also desire. Because at the end of the day, he’s still a guy.

And I? Well. I’m just a simple woman, after all… and I was programmed by evolution to give the stronger sex what they want. To yield to the conquest, to simper and acquiesce when a claim is staked on me.

That’s why I came here in this room, right? There wasn’t another reason, or rationalisation, or stratagem, was there? I came here to pay homage… to worship, and let him plant his flag of ownership…

I fish his cock out of his pants, and the way it jumps at me, stiff and eager, makes me giggle with girly glee. I haven’t touched it in so long a time, too long, really – god, I can’t believe I’m so stupid. A lesbian, I kept defining myself. Would a lesbian giggle like this, over dick? Would a lesbian get all cross-eyed by simply staring at a cock?

His hardened shaft rests on my tongue. He’s hard, of course he is, he has needs, too. He has Anne and I under his roof, 24/7, both lost in dreamy visions of male triumph and female defeat. He works tirelessly to save us, to provide for us, he’s been a perfect gentleman about my crazy act of divorcing him.

Why didn’t I think of his needs, too?

His body quivers with arousal as my lips form a seal around his cock. There, Master, I want to tell him, though I let my actions do the talking for me. No more unmet needs. Let me…

My lips engulf the tip, and I make a show of it, a show for him, looking up at him with big adoring eyes that seem to plead for mercy, as his cock gets to violate the professed lesbianism of his would-be divorcee for the first time since this whole thing started.

I suction gently, humbly, lost in my silent prayer to masculinity with every flick of my tongue. This is what it’s for. No more yapping. No more lecturing. No more requests. Just oral duty.

With submissive efficiency, I lick and suck in tandem with the rhythm of his breathing. A gasp slips through his parted lips as I work him over, intensifying every second until I taste the precum on my tongue.

The sensation that overwhelms me is inexplicable, at once alien and familiar. I’ve given plenty of head in the past, but this is something else. My movements are almost second nature to me now, a new part of me that has been awakened by the payload, trained to serve and please.

I take him deeper, growing hungrier. The payload makes me a throat goat, a cocksucking demon, craving every inch of his virility as it muzzles me. I want him to make me gag on my own feminism. I want him to drown my protestations of being a lesbian by shooting his cum straight down my throat. I want him to enjoy every second of this, until he feels like he is a living god.

Every shift in pressure or angle is masterfully orchestrated, designed to coax out pleasure from him. The tension in the air is palpable as my gaze flutters between vulnerability and adoration. His breathing grows heavier, his body tensing in anticipation of every deep suction with my cheeks, every swirl of my tongue around his quivering cock.

He moans softly as his power washes over me, enveloping us both in a primal embrace. With each passing second my movements become more precise, a carefully choreographed, payload-drilled dance of erotic submission.

The whispers in my mind tell me that this is more than a blowjob. It’s a fractal, a painting of my breathless destiny, the destiny of womankind. Driven to our knees, servicing virility with our soft lips, driven to pleasures that normal sex could never hope to match.

My head angles downward as if in reverence as my lips and tongue skillfully massage his shaft. With each loving caress, I feel more connected to him, an intimate bond that transcends mere physical pleasure. The bond between a pet and her owner.

I respond to his subtle movements with an eagerness fueled by the payload's manipulation, an intensity that belies my protestations of equality and independence. Every inch of me finds solace in this subjugation, as I surrender completely to the act of surrender through cocksucking.

An open, if wordless, acknowledgement that men are our superior, and it is our duty as women to submit.

The thought alone is enough to bring me right to the brink, but not yet, not yet, my work is not yet done. This is just what I needed, of course J.C. would always have what I need, he’s a true provider like that, a true man.

The sensation of him in my mouth, the way his body shudders at the enthusiasm of my ministrations, it all feels too much for my fragile feminine brain to process without utterly shattering. Every detail is magnified, my senses on overdrive.

I’m his bitch in heat. His breath hitches with every expert swirl of my tongue around the head, as I bring him closer and closer to his conquest of me. I feel reverence for the creators of the payload, because with all its programming, all its conditioning… yes, it’s taken away so much from me, but I also see what it’s given me.

I have a slut’s instincts, I can read and respond to his physical cues intuitively, without words being uttered. Perfect obedience, after all, is the one that anticipates orders. That’s how I can truly become an extension of his will, let my autonomy sink into the mud under the boot of his patriarchal rule.

My heightened senses take note of the smallest of his reactions, like some form of perverse empathy - an ability to read and respond to his desires without words or instructions. The perfect woman, the perfect tool for the man who’s broken her.

A deep thrill stirs within me when he takes control. One hand reaches unceremoniously for my hair, the other grasps tight around my throat, and I succumb as he takes over completely. I’m no longer sucking him off. He’s fucking my face like it’s a fleshlight, a convenient hole available for his relief.

I’m his willing prize. His defeated housewife. His un-dyked personal cockwarmer. I feel his dick twitch in my mouth, and every neuron in my body flares up with ecstasy at the knowledge that I’ve done my duty.

His cock shudders, and when the first rope of cum hits the tip of my tongue, an electric current travels down my spine with such shocking energy that my eyes roll back into my skull. My nervous system goes completely haywire, fried and useless, and I completely space out, here on my knees, under his desk, drinking a mouthful of his cum.

I’m getting drunk on it. I’m letting it go straight to my brain, letting it mark me as his property. In my brainless, cum-dumpster state, I’m filled with an awakening understanding that this is who I was always meant to be: his devoted cocksucking slave.

***

J.C.

“Do you realise what you’ve done?”

My voice is shaking as I recoil away from Sarah, shuffling backwards awkwardly in the chair. I see the confusion on her face, and even in my altered emotional state, I process what must be going through her mind, her payload-warped mind.

Did she do something wrong? Did she not please me enough?

But that’s not the point.

My heart is racing, and I feel cold sweat on my forehead. Like many guys, I do get a bit of… repulsion immediately after climaxing, a strange feeling of guilt and wrongness, and some of that must be at play here, because I recognise the way my chest tightens as I physically try to remove myself from what I’ve just done.

But… that’s not it. That’s not the whole story.

“Do you really not realise?” I ask, incredulous, even though I’m barely just starting to make the words cohere in my head. She kneels there, just kneels there, this beautiful woman I married and loved for so many years.

Still love.

This woman I was trying so hard to give up on.

That’s it, isn’t it? That’s the hurt. For months, I’ve been suppressing my fantasies while literally staring, for hours, at the code that’s disassembling her brain from within. For months, I’ve slept on the couch, feeling like a piece of shit for even so much as fantasising about her.

Feeling guilty. Nursing my heartbreak.

And now she comes here and does… this?

“Not so gay anymore, are you,” I snap, and it’s mean-spirited, and a low comment to say to someone who’s going through something I literally can’t imagine – fighting a mind control virus in her own head.

But I see the effect my words have on her. The way she squirms and shudders with humiliating pleasure when I say it.

All that guilt, all that heartbreak… was it really unnecessary? Was it really all for nothing?

“You don’t get to toy with my feelings like this,” I say at last, my voice shaking. “I was trying to get over you… us. I get it, you’re horny, but I’m not a sexual gratification machine on demand.”

The confusion on her face is gorgeous. I can read her like an open book, even with the changes the payload’s induced. She’s the one feeling guilty now. She thought she was giving me pleasure, this was supposed to be about me and not her, that’s what the virus is telling her. She’s fucked up big time.

She should apologise.

God. I can’t believe how much I’m enjoying this feeling. I’m hurt and aroused and confused all at once, but maybe most importantly, I… I think I’m guilt-free, at last. Maybe she did give up on our marriage, and maybe she really didn’t love me the way I’ve loved her. And I’ve respected her and torn myself to bits over it, for months.

But now, if I act… who can blame me? Can she blame me? She initiated this. She clearly wants it. Part of her wants it.

I can see the payload rewriting her mind in her expression. 

Before, if I'd lashed out at her after she blew me, it would have certainly been a fight.  Now she looks guilty.

Guilty for apparently having failed me, and for feeling like she needs to serve at all. And not in the pretend-way she used to enjoy, which has always been about her wants anyway. No, this is the real deal. 

I can see the hunger to truly serve, in her eyes. This is not a want. It’s a need.

My mind races. I’ve been studying the payload for weeks now. I have a pretty good understanding of what it’s doing to her, and every other woman on the planet.  My mind is a mix of a fury and pain and sympathy and arousal, all crystallised into the vague shape of a plan.  Ù

I can't protect her the way I have been. The walls have already fallen, and if I don't claim her soon, the payload will continue to push her farther and farther until someone else does. 

But, if I do claim her… I can shape her.  She could be mine again, just with a few adaptations fit for a post-payload society. Besides, part of my mind whispers, I need to find out how much one can reshape a personality. Like an experiment, really.

Temptation…

My hand shoot down and grabs her short pink hair, pulling her up towards me. Part of me notes that I still did so in a way that wouldn't hurt. 

"You will serve."

Her whole body shudders, with fear and arousal.  I know what the payload does to women's brains.  Almost like reading words in a script.

I could collar her right now, but I don't want to, not yet. I’ve been willing to walk away from our marriage of over a decade to make her happy, to give her anything she asked for in the divorce, and now that the hurt has taken over… I’m going to do things my way.

I don’t want the payload to tame her for me with a singular snap. I have always enjoyed the chase, and I don’t want this to be over yet. A boring little toy? No. I want my wife back. I want her to be strong. I want her to believe everything she used to, before the payload wormed its way into her mind. 

And then, and only then, I want her to crawl over to me and beg me to use her all the same. Over and over again. 

I want to make her break her ideals and values, burn everything she’s ever cared for on a pyre, tear her own heart out, all for me. Once I make her hurt herself as much as she’s hurt me, then I will give it all back to her.  Once she proves that she’s irrevocably mine, that nothing and no one will ever separate us again, I will make her a my queen in a world of slaves.

I feel something near my leg, and glance down. 

Sarah is masturbating frantically with both hands. 

A flare of anger. Even with her brain rewired by a memetic virus, she hasn’t fundamentally changed. She always was such a greedy cunt. 

With a snarl, my grip on her hair tightens and I shove her head down on my cock, then yank her up again, and then back down. Not the sensous worshipping blowjob she's given before, but an entirely ruthless throat fucking, using her head as nothing more than a masturbation aid. 

Her whole body is shaking.

A sound comes from behind me somewhere. I glance at a mirror across the room.

Anna.

She’s leaning against the doorway, in panties and a t-shirt.  One hand is over her own mouth, and the other is exactly where one would expect: down her panties, jilling herself as I use her older sister's mouth.

I bet the payload’s rewarding her with a cascade of happy chemicals for this little treason.

I pull Sarah’s mouth free, and hold her up to gaze into his eyes again.  There are tears in her eyes, though whether she’s crying from the rough treatment or because she’s noticed her sister watching her, I can’t begin to say. 

"Please..." she gasps out.  Her hands have not stopped even for a moment. 

I’ve always been happy to oblige my loving wife.

I shove her head back down, and her whole body spasms as an animalistic moan emerged from her throat. It goes on, and on, and on, and on.

Then, at last, it subsides, and her whole body goes slack. I slide her head off my cock, and lower her gently to the ground, a tenderness utterly absent a moment before. She’s lying on her back now, her eyes glazing over, glassy and unfocused, as her nervous system attempts to recover.

The payload won’t let it.

That’s fine. I have other matters to attend to. I step over Sarah and draw closer to Anna, who’s looking up at me with terrified, tremulous eyes. Without a word, I stride by her, taking the arm she’s been covering her mouth with…

And I pull her back with me towards the master bedroom.

TO BE CONTINUED