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By (user no longer on site) OP
2 weeks ago
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I still remember the exact day Yaso moved in. My wife’s younger sister, single, fresh into her new work placement in the city, and nowhere sorted to live yet. Temporary, we all said. Just until she found a flat. Three weeks turned into longer. She took the spare room and within days the house started feeling different.
She was so casual at home it was almost careless. Soft cotton shorts that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Loose T-shirts she never bothered putting a bra under. I’d catch the heavy sway of her breasts whenever she walked past, the dark points of her nipples pushing against the thin fabric when the heating was low or she’d just come in from outside. Sri Lankan skin like mine, warm brown, and those full tits moving freely under whatever she threw on. I tried not to stare. Failed most of the time.
We both smoked. My wife didn’t. So most evenings, especially once the winter really set in, Yaso and I would step out onto the back patio without coats. Just whatever we were already wearing. First few nights we kept a polite distance.
Then one freezing night the wind cut straight through us and she stepped closer without saying anything, shoulder brushing mine while she cupped her hands around the lighter. The next night she stood even nearer. By the end of the week it was automatic—bodies angled together, the heat of her noticeable through the thin layers.
It started with those “accidental” touches neither of us pulled away from.
One particularly sharp night she came out in a pale grey tank top and those soft shorts. No bra. Her nipples were already tight from the cold before she even lit up. I was in a T-shirt and joggers. She leaned in to share the flame and her breast pressed fully against my upper arm—soft, heavy, warm. She didn’t move away. I didn’t either. Cigarette lit. We just stood there breathing the smoke out into the dark. Then she said, voice low,
“It’s freezing. Stay close.”
I shifted so my side was flush against hers. Her hip brushed my thigh. When she adjusted her stance her arse pressed lightly against the front of my joggers for a second too long. I felt myself start to harden. She must have felt it too, because she stayed exactly where she was, the curve of her cheek resting against my shoulder while she smoked. My free hand found the small of her back, just under the hem of her top, skin against skin.
She made a soft sound that wasn’t quite a word.
After that the outdoor smokes became charged.
Some nights she’d stand in front of me, back to my chest, and I’d wrap my arms around her from behind “to keep warm.” My hands would rest just under her breasts at first. Then higher. Then cupping them openly through the thin fabric while she smoked and pretended the cold was the only reason her breathing had changed. One night she reached back and deliberately pressed my hardening cock against the soft cleft of her arse, grinding once, slow, before she finished her cigarette and went inside without a word.
Even when my wife was home, the risk started creeping in.
One evening my wife was in the kitchen cooking, music on, while Yaso and I stepped out for a quick smoke. Yaso stood in front of me again, back pressed to my chest. The moment the door shut she reached behind, slid her hand into my joggers, and wrapped her fingers around my cock. She stroked me slow and steady while we both watched the kitchen window, my wife moving around inside, completely unaware. Yaso’s thumb smeared the precum over the head as she whispered,
“She’s right there… and you’re already so hard for me.”
I came in her hand within a couple of minutes, biting the back of her shoulder to stay quiet. She wiped her fingers on the inside of her shorts and walked back inside first, leaving me to adjust myself.
Another night my wife was upstairs having a long bath. Yaso and I were on the sofa supposedly watching TV. She waited until we heard the water running, then climbed into my lap facing me, pulled her shorts to the side, and sank down onto my cock in one smooth motion. She rode me slow and deep, one hand over my mouth, the other braced on the back of the sofa. Every time the bath water shifted upstairs she froze, cunt clenched tight around me, until the noise stopped. I came inside her while my wife was still in the tub, and Yaso stayed seated on me afterwards, full of me, until we heard the water start draining. She slipped off, kissed the corner of my mouth, and went to the kitchen like nothing had happened.
The first time we were properly alone in the house it escalated fast.
My wife had gone to visit her parents for the weekend. Yaso knew. I knew. That Friday evening she came downstairs in nothing but an old oversized shirt of mine that barely covered the tops of her thighs. No shorts. No underwear. When she bent to open the fridge I could see the dark triangle of hair between her legs. She poured two glasses of wine, handed me one, and said,
“Patio?”
Outside the air was bitter. She stepped straight into my arms this time, no pretence. Her mouth found mine while the cigarette was still between her fingers. The kiss was deep, hungry, tongues sliding, teeth catching. I pushed her back against the brick wall, one hand already under the shirt, cupping a full, heavy breast, thumb stroking the tight nipple. She moaned into my mouth and reached down, shoving my joggers low enough to free my cock. Her fingers wrapped around it, stroking slowly while she kept kissing me.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” she whispered against my lips. “Every time we stand out here. Every time I feel you get hard against me.”
I pulled the shirt up and over her head. She was completely naked in the cold night air, brown skin prickling, nipples dark and stiff. I dropped to my knees on the cold tiles and buried my face between her thighs. She was already wet, the scent of her sharp and familiar in a way that made my cock throb harder. I licked her open, tongue sliding through her folds, sucking on her clit while she held the back of my head and rocked against my mouth.
“Fuck… yes… just like that…”
I stood again, turned her to face the wall, and pushed into her from behind in one slow thrust. She was tight and hot and so wet it was easy. The first few strokes were deep and controlled while she braced her hands on the brick and pushed back to meet me. Then it got rougher. I fucked her hard against the wall, the wet sound of it loud in the quiet garden, her soft cries muffled against her own arm. When she came she clenched around me so tightly I had to bite her shoulder to keep from finishing too soon.
I didn’t finish outside.
I pulled out, spun her around, and carried her inside still naked, cock glistening. I fucked her on the living-room sofa first—her on top, riding me with those heavy breasts bouncing, my hands gripping her hips hard enough to leave marks. Then on the floor. Then bent over the kitchen counter while we both listened for any sound of the front door even though we knew my wife wasn’t coming back until Sunday.
That weekend we barely left the house.
Saturday morning she walked into the bathroom while I was showering, stepped under the water with me, and dropped to her knees. She sucked my cock like she’d been thinking about it for weeks—slow, deep, looking up at me with wet hair plastered to her face, one hand between her own legs. I came down her throat while she swallowed and kept sucking until I was soft, then hard again.
Later that afternoon I fucked her on our marital bed. Risky. The sheets still smelled faintly of my wife’s perfume. Yaso didn’t care. She spread her legs wide, pulled me down on top of her, and whispered filthy things in my ear while I drove into her.
“Your wife’s bed… you’re fucking me in your wife’s bed… harder… I want to feel it tomorrow when I walk…”
I came inside her that time, deep, and she kept me there, legs locked around my waist, until I started to soften. Even then she rolled me onto my back and sat on my face, grinding her messy cunt against my mouth until she came again with my cum still leaking out of her.
Sunday afternoon, just hours before my wife was due back, I bent Yaso over the washing machine in the utility room—the one place that still felt half-hidden—and fucked her hard and fast from behind while the machine spun. The vibration made her moan louder. I had one hand over her mouth and the other working her clit. She came shaking, and I followed, pulling out at the last second to paint her arse and the small of her back.
After that the tension never fully left.
Even once my wife returned, the outdoor smokes continued. Sometimes Yaso would wear the thinnest tops she owned and stand close enough that my cock would press against her whenever she shifted. Sometimes, if my wife was upstairs or in the shower, Yaso would reach back and stroke me through my clothes until I was fully hard, then walk away with a small, private smile.
One night my wife went to bed early with a headache. Yaso was in the living room in those same soft shorts and a tank top. I sat on the sofa. She came and sat across my lap without a word, facing me, and started grinding slowly against the hard line of my cock. No kissing at first—just the quiet friction, the heat of her through two thin layers of fabric, her breath against my neck. When she finally reached down and freed me, she simply pulled the crotch of her shorts aside and sank onto me right there on the sofa, riding me in near silence while the television played something neither of us watched. I came inside her again, biting the side of her neck to stay quiet. She stayed seated on me afterwards, full of me, until she finally stood, kissed the corner of my mouth, and went to bed as if nothing had happened.
Another time my wife was in the next room on a work call with the door half-open. Yaso and I were in the hallway. She pushed me against the wall, dropped to her knees, and took my cock into her mouth without a word. She sucked me slow and quiet, eyes locked on mine, while my wife’s voice carried through the door. I came down her throat in silence, and she swallowed every drop, stood up, wiped her lips, and walked into the living room like she’d just been checking something.
The interim arrangement stretched longer than planned. Flat-hunting kept being delayed. And every cold night, every sto*len hour when the house was quiet—or even when it wasn’t—the two of us found new ways to keep warm.
To be continued…
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