Forbidden Ink and Temptation

My wife's sister, an alternative girl with borderline disorder, beautiful body filled with tattoos, starts to create situations for me to see and touch her body, sometimes in front of my wife who is extremely jealous and has a very fragile ego with low self-esteem

**Temptation Ink** The first time it happened, I told myself it was an accident. Laura—my wife’s sister—leaned over the dinner table, her loose tank top slipping just enough to expose the curve of her breasts, the red ink of a serpent barely visible in the shadow between them. Her pale white skin glistening with dried sweat. She caught me staring and smirked, dragging her fork lazily across her bottom lip before pulling back, all innocence. Camila, my wife, stiffened beside me, her fingers tightening around her knife. “Have I showed you my new piece?” Laura asked, stretching her arms overhead—just enough to make her shirt ride up. At the same time, her bare foot brushed my calf under the table, warm. It was quick, but enough for me to feel the dust from her soles on my skin . Camila’s voice was thin. “Laura, please, let's eat in peace.” Laura blinked at her, all wide-eyed innocence. “I was just asking.” She turned back to me, tilting her head like she hadn’t just set the room on fire. “It’s a phoenix,” she added, softer now, fingers toying with the hem of her shirt—lifting it an inch, letting the humid air kiss her skin before letting it fall. “Well, I guess I'll have to show you later.” The air was thick with something unspoken. Camila’s breath hitched, her gaze darting between us. Then Laura stood, slow and deliberate, her shorts riding up just enough to expose that faint sheen of sweat on her thighs before she adjusted them with a flick of her fingers. She leaned over my chair, her bare thigh brushing mine—brief, deliberate—as she reached for the salt. Camila’s fork clattered onto her plate. Laura straightened, smoothing her clothes, her smile sweet and guileless. “Sorry,” she murmured, eyes downcast—the perfect picture of contrition. But while my wife kept looking down, she opened her mouth, and shook the saltshaker directly on her tongue, looking at me with a mean smirk. Laura exhaled, soft and satisfied, before sitting back down—the good girl again. But I knew better. The house was too big, too full of hidden corners—the library with its leather couches, the pool house with its damp towels, the bathrooms still steamy from her showers. And Laura? She was everywhere, leaving traces of herself behind like fingerprints.

Laura excused herself after dinner, stretching her arms overhead with a lazy yawn that made her tank top ride up—just enough to expose the sharp lines of her hipbones, the dark ink swirling down her side. “I’m gonna shower,” she announced, her voice dripping with casual indifference. But her fingers lingered on the back of my chair as she passed, nails scraping lightly against the wood—a whisper of a touch that burned hotter than it should have. Camila busied herself with the dishes, her movements stiff, her jaw tight. The silence between us was heavy, charged. The pipes groaned as the shower turned on upstairs. Steam curled under the bathroom door, carrying the scent of Laura’s jasmine soap. I told myself I was just going to grab a towel from the linen closet—that it was nothing. But the door was cracked open, the mirror fogged, and through the gap, I caught the curve of Laura’s bare back, water sluicing down the intricate web of tattoos that spanned her shoulders. She turned, just slightly, as if sensing me there. Her hand slid down her stomach, slow, deliberate, fingers tracing the ink along her ribs before dipping lower—out of sight. Her breath hitched, audible even over the rush of water. Camila’s voice cut through the haze from downstairs. “Are you coming?” Laura’s eyes met mine in the mirror, dark and knowing. She smirked, biting her lower lip as her fingers moved again—hidden by steam, by the angle, but not by intention. I stepped back, my pulse hammering. The house had never felt smaller.

Laura’s smirk widened as she turned fully toward the cracked door, her body glistening under the spray. She didn’t bother covering herself—just arched her back slightly, letting the water trace the curves of her breasts, the sharp lines of her hipbones. One hand stayed between her thighs, moving in slow, teasing circles. “You forgot the towel,” she murmured, voice thick with amusement. Downstairs, Camila’s footsteps echoed on the hardwood. “Are you *still* up there?” Laura’s eyes never left mine. She smiled widely as she left the shower walking towards the door, water dripping everywhere, trembling slightly as she touched herself. “Better hurry,” she whispered, biting her lip. “Or she’ll catch you.” Her fingers dipped deeper inside of her, her face now only inches from mine, and she let out a sharp gasp—too loud, too deliberate. The shower drowned out most of it, but not enough. Not nearly enough. Camila’s voice sharpened. "What's happening up there?” “Guess you have to answer your wifey.” she breathed. The pipes groaned again. The steam thickened. And downstairs, Camila’s chair scraped back from the table.

Laura’s fingers slid out of herself with a slick sound, glistening under the bathroom light. She held my gaze as she brought them to her lips, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate drag of her tongue. The steam curled around her naked body, clinging to the ink on her ribs, the water still dripping from her nipples. Camila’s footsteps pounded up the stairs. Laura smirked, "Move, silly." And stepped back into the shower just as the bathroom door swung open wider. She let the spray hit her back, arching into it like she hadn’t just been touching herself inches from my face. I walked to the towel cabinet and pretended to be choosing towels when Camila appeared, her eyes darting from me to Laura’s wet silhouette. Her nostrils flared. “What the hell is going on?” Laura turned, water sluicing down her stomach, her thighs. She blinked, all wide-eyed confusion. “I just asked him to grab me a towel. I didn't want to wet the whole floor. Camila’s jaw tightened as she looked to the many water puddles in the floor, some still suggesting a footprint. She looked at me, her voice low. “Get out.” Laura sighed dramatically as I backed into the hall. “You’re so paranoid, Cami,” she murmured. Camila slammed the door shut behind her. Through the wood, Laura’s laugh was muffled—bright, teasing. Then, louder, deliberately: “*God*, that water pressure feels *amazing*.” A sharp gasp followed, too theatrical to be real. “Mmm, *fuck*—” Camila’s voice cut in, sharp. “Cut the shit.” I didn’t wait to hear the rest. I went downstairs and set on the couch of the huge living room, partially covered by the dark, trying to get a hold of myself. I never cheated on my wife, in ten years. And I knew how bad she would feel if I did it now, with the sister she hates. I heard Camilla coming out of the bathroom, trying to hide her crying. Then I heard a door being locked, which I assumed to be our bedroom door. Then I heard Laura steps. She appeared on top of the stairs, wearing nothing but one of my shirts—stolen from the laundry, no doubt. The fabric clinging to her still wet skin. She had a smile that gave me the chills. And made me instantly hard.

Laura descended the stairs with deliberate slowness, each step making the hem of my shirt ride higher. The dim light caught the damp strands of hair clinging to her neck, the faint sheen of water still on her skin. She paused at the bottom, tilting her head as her gaze dropped to the obvious bulge in my pants. "Poor thing," she murmured, stepping closer. The scent of jasmine and something darker—salt, sweat—wrapped around me. "All worked up over nothing." Her fingers brushed the armrest of the couch, nails scraping lightly. Not touching me—not yet. Just letting the heat of her body radiate between us. From upstairs, Camila’s muffled sobs cut through the silence. Laura didn’t even glance in that direction. "Ten years," she mused, dragging a fingertip along my thigh. "That’s a long time to be *good*." Her lips curled as she leaned in, her breath hot against my ear. "Bet you’ve imagined this. Bet you’ve *ached* for it." The shirt gaped as she bent forward, giving me a glimpse of bare skin, the dark ink twisting down her ribs. Her knee pressed between my legs, just enough pressure to make me groan. "Laura—" She silenced me with a hand on my chest, pushing me back into the couch. "Shh." Her other hand slid under the hem of my shirt, fingertips skating up her own thigh. "Just watch." The fabric lifted slowly, revealing the smooth expanse of her stomach, the sharp V of her hips—and lower, the glistening evidence of how wet she already was. Camila’s door creaked upstairs. Laura’s smile sharpened. "Better be quiet," she whispered, spreading her legs wider over my lap. "Or she’ll *really* have something to cry about."