Wife Begs Stepsister to Bully Her

Quentin was twenty-eight, home from the architecture firm with his tie loosened, when Bianca set down her water and looked at him as if the words had been burning her all week. She was twenty-four, his wife of two years. The apartment hummed with the dishwasher. Corinne, Bianca's stepsister, twenty-six and visiting for a long weekend, had walked to the corner market. They had twenty minutes, maybe less.

"I need to tell you something," Bianca said. Her cheeks were already pink. "It's filthy. I'm sober, I'm awake, and I mean it. If you hate it, we stop. I still need you to hear it."

"I'm listening."

She drew a shaking breath. "I want Corinne to bully me. Not as a joke. I want her to humiliate me while you watch. I fantasize about it constantly. Her standing over me, mocking my body, telling me my tits are nothing next to hers, that my hips are too soft, that I don't know how to please you. I want her to call me pathetic. Mean and sweet at the same time, telling me I'm a useless little wife who can't hold her husband's attention. I want her to dominate me. Make me kneel. Make me thank her for every insult while you sit there hard and don't touch me until she says you can."

"Bianca."

"We didn't share a house until I was already nineteen, and there's no blood between us. That doesn't clean it up. I look at her and I need her to wreck me. I want you to see me blush and squirm and beg her for more. I want you to want her because of how small she makes me feel. If you don't want it, say so. I won't push. If some part of you does, say that too."

His pulse thudded. He had noticed Corinne—tall, sharp-mouthed, already owning every room she entered—but he had never finished the thought. Now his wife was handing it to him, bright with want.

"I want it," he said. "If she wants it. Only if she wants it. No pushing. No games."

"Only if she wants it."

A floorboard creaked.

Corinne stood in the doorway with a paper bag on her hip and a wicked, knowing smile. She had heard enough. The smile widened, slow and delighted.

"Well. That was educational."

Bianca went scarlet.

Corinne set the bag down and looked at them both. "I'm twenty-six, stone sober, and not confused. I heard you. Mock your body. Call you pathetic. Dominate you while he watches. It turns me on. Badly. I want to bully you exactly like that. Say the word and I will. If either of you wants out, say so now, and we pretend I bought too many lemons."

Corinne didn't wait for poetry. She stepped in, closed the door with her heel, and looked Bianca over the way a woman looks at a dress she already knows won't fit.

"Take the cardigan off," she said. "I want to see what I'm working with."

Bianca's hands shook. She looked at Quentin. He nodded. She slipped the cardigan off and stood in a thin tank and soft gray pants.

"There she is," Corinne said, circling. Her voice went low and bright with cruelty, the kind that knew exactly where to press. "Quentin, look at your wife. Pretty enough in a photograph. Up close she's all apology. Those tits—sweet, I guess, if you like something you could lose in a handful and forget by morning. Hips that can't decide if they want to be fucked or hidden. And that face. God. She looks like she's about to apologize for existing."

Bianca's blush crawled down her throat. Heat pooled low in her belly so fast she swayed.

"You married her," Corinne went on, stopping in front of Bianca, close enough that Bianca had to tip her chin up. "And she still can't keep you. A useless little wife. She said it herself because she knows it's true. She gets wet thinking about being told she isn't enough. That's not a wife. That's a pet."

"Corinne," Bianca whispered, and it came out needy.

"Don't say my name like you're asking for mercy. Ask for the rest." Corinne's smile was all teeth and delight. "Tell him what you are. Out loud. I want to watch you squirm while you do it."

Bianca's thighs pressed together. A damp spot was already darkening the gray cotton, and she knew Corinne saw it. Shame licked up her spine and turned into something molten. "I'm pathetic," she said, voice cracking. "I'm not enough for him. Please—please say more. Call me worse. I need it. I want you to keep going. I'm choosing this. I'm sober and I want every word."

Quentin's cock hardened so fast it ached as he watched his wife beg for more abuse, flushed and unable to stand still.

Corinne laughed. "She's dripping because I called her a bad wife and a worse woman. Stand still. Let him see you soak yourself."

Bianca obeyed, trembling, a whimper caught behind her teeth.

Corinne turned to Quentin. Her eyes were dark and certain. "Your cock is already trying to tear that zipper. Good. I want it. Not later. Now. I want you to fuck me right in front of her. Bend me over, put it in, and let her watch what a real woman looks like when she takes her husband. But only if you want it. Say it clean."

Quentin's voice came out rough. "I want it. I want to fuck you while she watches. I'm sober. I'm sure. No one is forcing me."

Bianca nodded so hard her hair stuck to her cheek. "Yes. Yes, please. I need to see it. I need to see you fuck her. I want to be right there, pathetic and wet, while you give her what I can't. I'm asking. I'm not confused. Do it."

Corinne's smile went wicked. "All three of us want this. Anyone says stop, we stop. Until then, she kneels and you put that cock in me. Color?"

"Green," Bianca said, immediate. "So green I could cry."

"Green," Quentin said.

"Green," Corinne said, and reached for the hem of her shirt.

They moved to the couch because Corinne pointed and they went. Quentin shoved his pants down. His cock sprang up, thick and flushed, a vein standing along the shaft. Bianca stared, panting, and Corinne caught her chin.

"On your knees," Corinne said. "Right here, close enough to smell us. You begged to watch. So watch. Hands on your thighs unless I move them. You can say stop any second. Until you do, you stay down and you take what I give you."

"Yes," Bianca said, and dropped. She was close enough to see the shine on his cock when Corinne turned and bent over the arm of the couch, ass tipped up, back arched. "I'm green. Put me here. I want to be this close. Please fuck her where I can't look away."

Quentin stepped in behind Corinne. He ran the head of his cock through her folds and groaned at how wet she already was. "Tell me again."

"Fuck me," Corinne said, clear and hungry. "Hard. In front of her. I want it."

He pushed in.

The first stroke sank deep, a slow thick slide until his hips met her ass. She hissed, pleased, and shoved back for the rest. Quentin gripped her waist and fucked her in earnest—long, pounding strokes that jolted the couch and made her breasts sway. Bianca, inches away, watched Corinne's cunt stretch around him and heard the filthy clap of skin each time he bottomed out.

"Look at that," Corinne laughed, cruel and breathless. "Look how he fits. He doesn't have to be careful with me. He can rail me and I take every inch and ask for more. You'd whine. You'd go soft-eyed and grateful for half of this. Pathetic."

Quentin's rhythm turned harder, the couch knocking the wall. Bianca's mouth hung open. Her cunt throbbed, empty, soaking the panties she had shoved down to her knees. Her fingers dug into her thighs so she wouldn't touch. Bianca's flushed cheek turned toward every thrust as if she could drink the sight.

"Faster," Corinne told him. "Don't be sweet. She asked to be bullied while you fuck me, and I am having the time of my life giving her exactly that."

He obeyed. Deep, pounding strokes, again and again, until she moaned loud and shameless. Her laughter broke into gasps and came back meaner.

The apartment filled with it: the knock of the couch, Corinne's mean little laugh, the wet slap of his hips, Bianca's broken breathing. Quentin watched his wife's face while he buried himself in Corinne, and the shame-bright want there made him fuck deeper, meaner, exactly as Bianca had begged to see.

"You hear her husband?" she said to Bianca. "That's the sound a woman makes when she's actually being fucked. Not the little polite noises you make so he won't feel bad. God, you're dripping on the rug. Worthless. A dripping little cuckquean on her knees while a better woman takes his cock. Say it."

"I'm a dripping cuckquean," Bianca sobbed, so turned on she shook. "I'm worthless. Please don't stop. I want to watch. I love it. Don't stop."

Corinne reached down and slapped Bianca's cheek, light, a sting more than a blow. Bianca gasped and leaned into it.

"Again," Bianca begged. "I want that. Green. Mark me however you want."

Corinne slapped the other cheek, just as light, and laughed while Quentin kept railing her, hips snapping. "Needy little nothing. You don't even get the cock. You get the leftover attention." She spat, a warm stripe landing on Bianca's flushed cheek and sliding toward her mouth.

"Yes," Bianca moaned. "I want it." She didn't wipe it away. The spit cooled on her skin and her cunt clenched around nothing. Quentin groaned and fucked Corinne harder, the wet sounds turning obscene.

Corinne's laugh cracked. "Right there—don't slow down—she's watching me come on your cock, the worthless thing—" She came loud, cunt gripping him in pulses while he pounded through it, deep strokes smearing her orgasm down his shaft. She rode it out cursing and laughing, one hand tapping Bianca's spit-slick cheek like a prize.

"Pull out," she gasped. "Make her clean you. I want her tongue on what I just did."

Quentin dragged free, cock gleaming, coated in Corinne's slick. "Open. Lick her off me. Only if you want it."

"I want it," Bianca said, and opened her mouth.

She licked from the base up, tasting salt and musk and heat, then swirled her tongue around the head and moaned. His hand settled in her hair, not forcing, just holding. She took him deeper on her own, spit mixing with Corinne's juices until her chin shone, desperate, eyes wet.

"Throat," Corinne said, climbing down on shaky legs. "Tell him what you want while I use your mouth the other way."

"Fuck my throat," Bianca said. "Please. I want you in my mouth while she sits on my face. I'm green. Don't be gentle unless I tap your thigh."

He slid back in, the head nudging her throat. She relaxed and took him, gagging once, then settling, tears bright from the stretch and not from any wish to stop. He fucked her mouth in steady strokes, merciless everywhere the tap didn't forbid.

Corinne swung a leg over and lowered herself onto Bianca's face, facing him, smirking. "Tongue out. Lick me while he uses your throat. Make yourself useful for once."

Bianca's tongue found her immediately, eager and messy, nose buried, moaning around his cock so the vibration traveled. Corinne ground down, slow and then harder, one hand braced on Quentin's shoulder. "That's it. Pathetic and perfect. Drink what he fucked out of me. Stuffed at both ends and still grateful."

Quentin's control frayed. The wet clutch of Bianca's throat, Corinne rolling her hips on his wife's face, the gag and the moan and that low filthy praise—all of it dragged him to the edge.

Quentin pulled out of Bianca's mouth with a broken sound. Corinne lifted, still straddling, tits forward, face tipped toward him and smirking. "On me. Give it to me. Let her watch it land."

He stroked once, twice, and came in thick ropes across her smirking mouth, her cheek, the slope of her tits. It painted her while Bianca stared up from between her thighs, wrecked and trembling, spit and slick shining on her face.

Corinne laughed, soft and mean at the edges. She scooped a stripe from her breast with two fingers and held them to Bianca's lips. "Open. You earned a taste for being such a good, pathetic little victim. Take it."

Bianca sucked the fingers clean, eyes half-closed, blissed-out and shaking. Corinne fed her another smear, praising her in that low cruel croon. "Good girl. Look at you. Shaking. Thankful. That's what you're for."

They sank onto the couch together, limbs tangled, breath loud in the quiet apartment. Quentin's hand found Bianca's knee. Corinne's found her hair, petting once, proprietary.

"This isn't a one-time thing," Quentin said, voice hoarse. "Not if you both still want it."

"I want it," Bianca whispered. "I want this to keep going. Both of you."

Corinne smiled, cum still glossing her lip, and looked between them.

"Next weekend I want him buried in me until I can't talk straight—will you kneel closer and beg me to be worse?"