Private Dance
by Pan
Chapter 3
“Oh, hey Whitney,” my husband said, a little confused.
It was the night of his birthday, and I’d been teasing him all day.
No, longer than that. I’d been teasing him for weeks.
Ever since my sister had given me a lapdance lesson, it was like a fire had been lit inside me. Like the flames I’d imagined in Whitney’s eyes had been transferred into my body, and were using my soul as a wick.
Since that day, I’d been insatiable.
At the time, I’d been worried that the complete, overwhelming lust I’d felt for my sister had…turned me gay, I guess? Not an unreasonable fear, you’ve got to admit—after decades of pure heterosexuality, I’d had the most intensely satisfying sexual experience of my life with a woman.
And not just any woman: my younger sister. I’d cum so hard that I’d passed out…I feel like “Okay, so am I gay?” is not an unreasonable thought.
But when my husband had returned home that night, he’d found a changed wife. I’d dropped to my knees and taken out his cock, getting him hard with my mouth, coating his erection with saliva, and then insisting he fuck me long and hard.
He hadn’t taken much convincing, as you can imagine.
And I’d been somewhat relieved to discover that yes, I still liked men. Maybe that was why I’d been so hungry to feel him inside me: to prove it to myself. If I’d managed to feel empty inside while he was literally filling me up, that would’ve been a huge red flag, y’know?
But as my husband responded to my far-from-subtle advances, pounding me hard, I’d felt my arousal crest, and soon I was cumming, climaxing in response to my husband’s thrusts.
Faster than usual, even.
My encounter with my sister hadn’t turned me gay. Almost the opposite. It had heightened my arousal. I was more than suddenly bisexual; I was hypersexual.
It was like I’d been turned from a loving wife into a total sexpot. From that day onwards, I felt like I lived and breathed sex.
My husband and I had been married for two-and-a-bit years, and we’d been dating for a year before that. In all that time, I’d never so much as looked at another man. Or woman.
But the day after my sister’s lesson, I cheated on my husband again. It was the first time I’d been with another man since getting married, but I knew for sure it wouldn’t be the last.
His name was Laurence. He was one of my clients. About a decade older than me, give or take. We’d known each other for a few months now. I guess I’d known he was attracted to me, but he’d also known I was married, so he’d never made a move or anything like that.
We weren’t exactly close, but when you’re an interior decorator, you end up getting to know your clients’ tastes. I’d like to claim that I had no intent of doing anything when I went to his apartment that day, but looking back, I’d clearly, clearly dressed up for him. Most of my wardrobe is black and white, but I’d dressed in one of the most colorful outfits I owned.
Laurence liked colors.
I’d worn a form-fitting sweater, the kind I’d seen his ex-wife wearing in the few photos of her he had around the place, and a skirt that ended just above my knees, showing off my legs.
Not, honestly, that it particularly mattered what I’d worn. I hadn’t been in his apartment for more than a few minutes before I led the conversation into the bedroom. That had been the first room I’d reworked, and there was no real reason to revisit it.
As soon as we crossed the threshold, I pulled him to me, pressing my lips against his. I’d never kissed a man with a beard before (my husband is clean-shaven, and none of my ex’s had been able to grow facial hair). I liked how rough it felt.
I liked imagining how it would feel against my thighs.
Laurence hesitated, but only for a moment. Soon, he was returning my kiss, not resisting at all as I pulled us onto the bed.
I’d never cheated on my husband with another man—I’d never intended to cheat on him at all—but I just couldn’t help myself. My sister had awoken something within me, and I couldn’t stop.
I didn’t want to stop.
I only stopped kissing Laurence long enough to shuck my clothing. Before long, I was laying in front of my client in nothing but a pink bra and soaked panties. He unconsciously licked his lips as his eyes ran up and down my frame. I’d never seen any evidence of another woman in Laurence’s apartment. He was attractive, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him handsome.
Not that I needed handsome. I just needed to be touched, to be wanted. I needed to make him hard, to have his hands roam my body.
I needed to be fucked. I needed to be fucked more than my husband could possibly give me.
I didn’t want Laurence, not specifically. I wanted him because he was there.
“Fuck me,” I groaned. “Please. I need it…”
Laurence’s eyebrows rose in response to the lust in my voice. Not surprisingly; when we’d last seen each other a week ago, I’d been nothing but professional. Now here I was, visibly wet, all-but-naked on his bed, begging to take his cock inside me.
I felt so alive.
“Please,” I said again, and my plea snapped him out of his trance. He stepped out of his pants, and I made short work of his button-up shirt, revealing a hairy chest beneath. He wasn’t even forty, but I could already see some grey hairs.
“Fuck me,” I repeated, and Laurence nodded wordlessly, pulling my panties to the side and slipping his hard cock inside me.
Just like with my husband the previous night, it only took a few thrusts before I could feel a delicious orgasm rolling over my wanton body. Laurence wasn’t far behind—further evidence that he hadn’t been laid since his divorce.
After we were done, we lay in bed, breathing heavily. I could sense that Laurence wanted to talk about what had just happened, but that held no appeal, so as soon as he began speaking I moved my mouth between his legs, sucking my own juices off his limp dick until it hardened once more.
In my experience, men are much less interested in heavy conversations when sex is on the table. Before I let him cum down my throat, I made him go down on me, sucking his own cum out of my pussy (hiding the evidence, in a sense)—his beard tickled, but not in an unpleasant way.
When I returned that night, I rode my husband to another long, luxurious orgasm.
Like I said: insatiable. It’s not like I fucked every one of my clients…I’m attractive, but definitely not everyone’s type. When my husband and I had a day at home alone, I’d fuck him dry. We’ve always been a sexual couple, but since my sister’s dance, I’ve felt like a bottomless well of need.
But on days when I couldn’t spend all my waking hours with my husband inside me, I found pleasure anywhere I could. Anywhere. I bought a SIM card for one of my old phones and joined Tinder—under a fake name, of course, with a profile full of revealing photos that didn’t show my face.
I’m sure a lot of guys thought they were being catfished, but if you cast a wide enough net, it’s not hard to set up day dates. Well, “dates” is being a little generous. I basically used Tinder as sex on demand. When I wasn’t working (and fucking my clients, as often as not) or milking my husband dry, I was going over to stranger’s houses and riding them to orgasm after orgasm…
Of course none of it—my husband, my clients, my secret second life as what was essentially an unpaid sex delivery service—compared to what I’d done with my sister.
Or what I’d continued doing with my sister.
My husband and I have separate bank accounts. And maybe I should’ve budgeted a little better, but within eleven days, mine was empty.
I swear, I held out for as long as I could. Between my husband, Laurence, my other clients, the random guys from Tinder, the teenager who lived next door, his father…I did all I could to get my fix elsewhere. But as good as the sex was (and believe me, it was good), it didn’t scratch the itch in the same way as my sister had.
How could it?
When I’d felt Laurence’s dick slide into me for the first time, my toes had curled. The feeling of being wanted, of having someone off-limits, the sensation of a new cock entering me for the first time since I’d met my husband…it had filled me with lust.
As my husband pounded into me that night, my back arched with pleasure. He knew my body better than I did. He knew exactly how to touch me, to please me, precisely what would get me off. He fucked me so hard, so powerfully—when I came, it was like all my nerve endings lit up, and I collapsed onto his strong body, panting with need.
But when my sister danced…
God, it was indescribable.
When my sister danced for me, it was as though everything else faded away. The room we were in, my marriage, that she was my sister…the fact that I was straight.
None of it existed. All that I could see, all I could breathe, all I could think about was her.
Her, and how much I wanted her.
That was the difference, I guess. When someone else fucked me, I was getting off on being wanted. But when my sister was there, I was the one wanting her.
God I wanted her.
So after just four days of fucking everyone I could as much as I could, I called my sister. She sounded amused when I did, and didn’t even question what I wanted.
Instead, she just asked when and where, and told me to have cash ready.
When she arrived, I don’t know what I expected. A smug look, perhaps, like she delighted in how much I wanted her. That even her own sister couldn’t resist her.
Or a face filled with lust, with want, as mine surely was.
Instead, she just looked…professional. Like she was there to do a job.
She counted the money I’d withdrawn that morning, sat me down on the bed, then danced.
And as she danced, the world disappeared. All that remained was my sister. Her movement.
Her body.
One hour later, I was $2500 poorer, but for the first time in four days of almost non-stop sex, satisfied. My sister’s tongue, her fingers…at one point, I think she managed to get me off with nothing but an intense stare.
When my husband arrived home a few hours later, for the first time since my sister’s previous visit, I didn’t jump him. I think he was grateful for the break, to be honest.
The next day, I had another appointment with Laurence. This time, I didn’t dress up. I didn’t need him, as I had during our last encounter. I wasn’t filled with that desperate need to get laid. My sister had gotten me off for almost half an hour straight the previous day, and while I knew it wouldn’t last, the fire inside me was tempered.
I knew my soul would continue to burn away. The flame may have been low, but I knew it would never go out.
Don’t get me wrong—when my client made a move, I still let him fuck me. I still came, as he drove himself into me, grabbing my breasts and thrusting into me like an animal. But it was a passive orgasm. I was happy to be used. Happy to let Laurence use me.
But I wasn’t the one driving.
My urge, my desperate need to feel wanted didn’t return until the next morning, when my husband was surprised to find me waking him up with my mouth.
The next two weeks continued in the same pattern. I’d pay my sister for an hour of her time, she’d wear me down with the most intense sex I’d ever experienced, and I’d be sexually sated for the next forty hours or so.
And then my libido would return in force, and I’d fuck anyone who would let me.
My husband never suspected a thing, of course. Why would he? I was his loving wife—more loving than usual, in fact. I was more responsive, wetter than I’d ever been. He had no way of knowing that half the time, that wetness was the seed of other men, most of whom he’d never met.
Even when we were apart, I’d text him. Photos of my bare tits, my naked ass. My pussy. The accompanying messages said I was wet for him, which was sort of true.
I was wet for my husband, in that my husband was part of…everyone.
I was wet for everyone. When the flame grew tall inside me, I felt like I wanted to fuck the world. There was no one, nothing I wouldn’t say yes to.
On the day of his birthday, I’d been teasing my husband more than usual. Even as I impaled myself on a Tinder date, a man visiting from Ireland, I pulled out my phone and texted him some filth, telling him about how I was going to change his world that night, how things would never be the same.
I’d spent my last five hundred dollars on ten minutes of my sister’s time the previous day—compared to the full hour, it had been like a single drop of water to a woman dying of thirst. If anything, it had mainly served to remind me what I didn’t have.
She’d agreed to dance for my husband for free that night.
As the muscular Irishman thrust inside me, grabbing my hips with his strong hands, I closed my eyes, imagining what would happen when Whitney turned on the music and began to sway.
* * *