Fuck I Let My Sister-In-Law Ride My Cock

What the fuck was I thinking, agreeing to house-sit this remote cabin with my sister-in-law?

Yeah, that's the question that's been looping in my head since we pulled up to Grant and Fatima's place two nights ago. My brother Grant's out of town on some work trip, and his wife Fatima begged me to come along—said she hated being alone in the woods, even with the fancy security system. Milo, that's me, the reliable brother-in-law, always stepping up. Or so I thought. Now here we are, snowed in after that freak storm dumped a foot overnight, and the third wheel in this mess is their golden retriever, Buster, who's been snoring on the rug the whole time, oblivious as hell.

First night was fine. Awkward small talk over takeout pizza she'd had delivered before the roads closed. Fatima's always been the hot one—curvy hips, dark skin that glows under the cabin's low lights, full lips that curl into these knowing smiles. She's 28, same as me and Grant, but married into the family three years back. I never looked at her wrong before. Swear it. But isolation does shit to your brain.

We crashed early. Separate rooms, obviously. But last night? That's when it started unraveling. Around midnight, Buster starts whining like a bitch in heat. I'm in the guest room, half-asleep, when Fatima knocks. "Milo? You up? Buster's freaking out—thinks there's a bear or something."

I stumble out in sweats, rubbing my eyes. She's in this tiny silk robe, barely tied, her cleavage spilling out like an invitation I didn't ask for. The dog's pacing by the big stone fireplace in the living room, hackles up. Cabin smells like pine and her vanilla lotion. "Probably just the wind," I mutter, grabbing his leash. But outside's a wall of white—no pissing the pup tonight.

Back inside, Fatima's already cracking open the whiskey Grant stashes in the cabinet. "For nerves," she says, pouring two glasses. Buster curls up by the fire, tail thumping, out like a light in seconds. Oblivious mutt. We're on the couch now, fire crackling, flames dancing on her robe. She's closer than she needs to be. Thigh brushing mine.

"Grant never mentions how handy you are," she says, sipping slow. Her voice is all husky, eyes flicking to my lap. Social pressure? Nah, more like that buzz hitting my veins, loosening my resolve. I shouldn't be here. Should go back to bed. But the drink's warm, and her foot nudges mine under the coffee table. Accidental? Bullshit.

We talk shit about Grant's snoring, his dumb golf obsession. Laughter loosens things. Another pour. Her robe slips open an inch—nipple peeking, dark and hard. I look away, but my dick twitches. "Fatima, maybe we—"

"Shh." She leans in, breath hot on my neck. "Buster's right there. Don't wake him." The dog's snoring fills the room, steady as a chainsaw. Risk hits me like a gut punch. One bark, one wrong move, and we're fucked—Grant finds out, family's toast. But her hand's on my knee now, sliding up. Seduction, pure and simple. She's testing. I freeze.

"Don't," I whisper, but my hand doesn't push hers off. Alcohol's fault. Proximity. That robe gaping wider. She's not backing down. Fingers trace my inner thigh, nails scraping cotton. My cock's half-hard already, tenting sweats. Buster snorts in his sleep, shifts his head our way. Heart hammers. Dangerous as hell.

She giggles, low and throaty. "See? He's fine. Pass me that blanket." I do, stupidly. She drapes it over us, casual, like we're just chilling. But under there, her palm cups my bulge. Squeezes. "Milo... you're bigger than I thought." Dirty talk whispers right in my ear, while she pets Buster's head with her free hand. "Good boy," she coos to the dog. Double meaning slams me. I groan soft, hips buck involuntary.

"Fatima, this is fucked. Grant—"

"Is gone." Her tongue flicks my earlobe. Hand dips inside my waistband, wraps my shaft. Skin on skin. She's stroking slow, thumb smearing pre-cum. Feels like velvet over rebar—firm grip, twisting at the head. I resist, gripping the couch. Should stop her. But fuck, it's been months since I got laid. Her scent's everywhere, musky arousal mixing with whiskey.

Buster yawns, stretches—eyes crack open, staring right at us. She freezes mid-stroke, smiles at him. "Night-night, baby." He flops back down. Laugh bubbles out of me—unexpected, nervous. Human shit. She grins wicked, pumps faster. "Told you. Now shut up and let me play."

I'm gone. Reluctance cracking. I let her fish my cock out under the blanket, heavy and throbbing in her fist. She's relentless, spitting in her palm for lube—slick sounds muffled by the fire's pop. Precum beads, she swipes it, circles the slit. "Taste like you want this, brother-in-law." Word stings sweet. Taboo fuel.

Can't take it. My hand snakes under her robe, finds her pussy soaked. No panties. Lips puffy, clit swollen under my fingers. She gasps—too loud?—but bites it back, grinding on my hand. "Finger me quiet," she hisses. I do, two digits plunging in, curling against that spongy spot. She's dripping down my wrist, walls clenching greedy.

Buster snores louder. Tension's electric—every thrust risks a yelp from her, a growl from him. She climbs onto my lap then, bold as fuck, straddling while tugging the blanket higher. Robe falls open completely—tits full and heavy, nipples begging. Cock nudges her slit, slides through wetness. "Fatima, no—"

"Yes." She sinks down an inch, just the head popping in. Tight. Hot. Gripping like a fist. I grab her hips to lift her off—resistance—but she rolls them, takes another inch. "Ride me? Here?" I mutter, panicked. Buster's ear twitches.

Her eyes lock mine, wicked. "Watch." She starts slow, blanket tenting over us. Up-down, pussy swallowing my length inch by inch. Full hilt now—balls against her ass. She's creaming already, juices slicking my pubes. "Fuck, Milo, you're splitting me. Grant's half this." Dirty truth, whispered fierce.

I surrender more. Hands on her ass now, guiding the bounce. Quiet slaps under the blanket—wet, obscene. She grinds circles, clit rubbing my base. Tits bounce free, I suck one nipple—salty skin, hard as pebble. She moans into my shoulder, muffling. "Harder, make your sister-in-law cum on bro-in-law dick."

Buster stirs again. Lifts his head, whines soft. We freeze—her buried deep, pulsing around me. "Quiet, boy," she pants, reaching down to scratch his chin. He licks her fingers, settles. Laugh escapes me again, shaky. "This is insane." She smirks, resumes riding—faster now, ass slapping thighs muffled by wool.

Sweat beads on us. Cabin air thick with sex smell—pussy musk, my balls sweat. She's close, breaths ragged. "Gonna cream your cock, Milo. Don't you dare pull out." Creampie risk? Fuck the danger. I thrust up, meeting her drops. Cockhead batters her cervix—deep, punishing. Her nails rake my chest under my shirt.

Unexpected fumble—she slips, blanket shifts, my cock pops free slick and shining. Buster's eyes snap open. Panic city. She snatches it back, shoves me in balls-deep. "Stay," she whispers to both of us. Dog ignores, flops over. Relief hits, and we laugh—gasping, real. Breaks the tension perfect. She's pounding now, tits smacking my chin. "Fill me, brother-in-law. Breed your slutty sister-in-law."

I'm done resisting. Full participant. Flip her somehow—blanket's chaos—onto her back on the couch, legs over my shoulders. Missionary under cover, pounding missionary hard. Couch creaks faint. Buster snores through it. Her pussy's vise—milking, fluttering. "Cum in me, Milo—right now, with him watching." She nods at the dog.

That does it. Balls draw up, cock swells. I rut savage, grinding deep. First rope blasts—hot jet painting her walls. She clamps, shudders—orgasm hits her too, pussy spasming wild, juices squirting around my shaft. Soaks the blanket. I pump more—thick spurts flooding her, leaking out with each thrust. "Take it all, Fatima—fuck, so much." She claws my back, whispering, "Yes, creampie your brother's wife—mark me."

We ride it out, grinding slow. Cum squelches out, puddling under her ass. She's wrecked—hair messed, lips swollen. I collapse on her, cock still twitching inside. Dangerous high fades to buzz.

Then Buster wakes fully. Jumps up, shakes—lands paws right on the blanket over her thigh. Licks her face enthusiastic. "Ew, Buster!" she squeals, shoving him off. I slide out, cum gushing free onto the couch. She clamps legs shut, but it's futile—white streaks everywhere.

"Fuck," I mutter, yanking sweats up. "Grant's gonna kill us."

She grins, wiping dog slobber, robe hanging open. "Nah. Tell him Buster made a mess." Buster wags, tail thumping. We both crack up—sticky, spent, busted by a damn dog.