Seducing My Husband's Brother

Parents' Disciplinary Session

PURITY

••••••••••

"¿Qué haces?" I spring to my butt, watching as Ryat—now standing—pulls his pants away.

"Don't get too roused, wife." He doesn't stop. "I certainly am not putting on a strip show for you."

"Sí. What the f**k are you doing?"

One side of his lips lift like I made a bad joke. "What does it look like? I'm joining the party," he responds with a wink.

Shaking my head, I breathe. "Está loco, no puede estar hablando en serio."

But he's serious to the bones.

Ryat actually does strip, standing there, towering over me stark naked, his c**k so erect it presses against his lower abdomen.

I'd be lying if I said the sight didn't appeal to me. Ryat's got a great body and he works to keep it so.

Unlike Ryan, who is on the leaner side, Ryat's got a big body with broad, drool-worthy shoulders. His muscles ripple with every movement, making his tattoos appear like they are dancing on the surface of his skin.

His packs are taut, shining effortlessly beneath the room's dim light, thanks to the sweat he's generated from denying himself something as sweet as me.

With my eyes still feasting on this moving, breathing work of at, I pull the second cup of my bra down, completely baring my breasts to him. His c**k does these notable twitches, bouncing just a little, hungry for attention.

With a single scoop, he grabs his member and my cunt cries to do the honors, but I'm not the type of woman to go back on my words... not this quickly, at least.

His knuckles turn pale and the veins on his hand pop as his fist closes tightly around his own c**k, then, with one hard, sensual pull, he moves his hand along his long length.

"Hmm"—why the f**k am I moaning to that?

He throws his head back before slowly gliding his hand down his length, then back up. "Ah!"

I hungrily watch as precum trickles out of his opening, and my mouth fills—yes, I'm literally salivating.

Deciding to join in the fun, I hastily reach for my purse and withdraw my dildo.

Where most people would go for an exaggerated size with many exotic twists, I went for a smaller one, something more comfortable.

The size sits right between my fingers just like its brown tone feels right. As a teenager, I used to fantasize about being mercilessly f****d by a black man.

It's surprising how I haven't lived that dream yet, but the tone of my artificial d**k is a way to stick to that obsession while keeping it healthy.

When I look back up, his eyes are glued to me, drowsy and clouded, but he sees me clearly—I just know it.

Satisfied with the attention I command, I move along the rug, positioning myself so I'm sitting directly facing him, legs spread out, bras drawn down.

His eyes linger more on my cunt than anywhere else. He'd occasionally admire my breasts, but his main focus remains my cunt, his eyes running along my delicate, wet folds, mirroring the way his hand rub against his c**k.

Dildos are not really the most comfortable things—I've only used it once—but they do get the job done.

Placing the tip of the rubber toy at my entrance and smear it with my p***y juice.

"f**k!" Ryat increases his pace, rubbing his c**k without caring to apply any lube. His precum does the job, but not as effectively as this cunt would have.

Without giving it more thought, I shove the artificial d**k deep inside me, burying it in my most sensitive area. "Fucck!" My p***y tightens around the dildo, and I feel all the fake veins strain against my walls. "Oh, s**t!"

This is not quite as good as having Marco ravage my insides, but one of my very attractive qualities is perseverance.

Ryat keeps his crazed pace, and I endeavor to match it in my own way. Shoving and retracting the dildo just as fast as he's rubbing against his c**k.

"Ugh!"

"Uh-f**k!"

I grab my breast, molding and squeezing until the skin turns a pale shade of pink. "Ugh!" My cunt clamps around the toy, and I immediately switch to flicking my t**s repeatedly, goosebumps spreading across my arm. "Oh, s**t!"

One more thrust, and I shatter around my inorganic lover. My breath ragged, and my body weak.

On looking back up, heat slaps my face. The thick liquid coats my lashes, some seeping into my eyes, stealing my sight in a wet haze.

The unamusing laughter that follows this little accident is answer enough to all the questions I may need to ask.

pequeño cabrón.

"So," Ryat breathes, still trying to catch his breath. "That was an interesting parents' disciplinary session."

I scoff, despite myself. I'd give it to the prick. He's funny.

I drop back to the floor, facing the ceiling, hands sprawled out, breasts left free.

That was more satisfying than I'd imagined.

Just as a small smile starts to creep up my face, a flat, stiff object lands on my abdomen with a splattering noise.

It takes me a moment trying to process what just happened, but Ryat's voice comes first.

"Won't you read that?"

I tilt my neck toward the spot where a rectangular paper lay on my stomach.

"It's a card."

"Yes." His tone is casual. "Open it."

Skeptically, I take the card.

Red—my color—mixed with a little touch of white, probably to neutralize the brighter colour.

Unfolding the edges, I'm gobsmacked as the content starts to register.

It's a poorly thought-out letter, handwritten, aiming at informing me about a rooftop Val date—which is tomorrow, by the way. The statement of invitation and venue come after a shabby poet praising my... character?

"¿Y esto qué es?" I wave the trash at him.

"Uh, uh," he shakes a finger in front of himself. "None of that Swahili s**t around here. You've had your fair run. And besides," he waves dismissively, "it's Ryan's idea, not mine. Almost didn't want to present it to you, but—"

And the rest of his words go to the wind.

Ryan's behind this?

Why would he do such a thing?

And why does this feel so familiar?

Why does my mind feel so attoned to the card? Why does this feel like the repeat of a regular event?

Flipping the card around and back, checking between the lines and examining the writing itself, I can't say what makes it so nostalgic, but that feeling clings anyway.

Like a moth to fire.