Both Sisters | NEON LIT

Rachel and Monica have hated each other since childhood.

That's what everyone says. What my wife Sarah tells me every Thanksgiving, every Christmas, every family gathering where her two older sisters end up on opposite sides of the room, exchanging glares that could curdle milk.

"They've always been like this," Sarah sighs. "Don't try to understand it."

I don't try. I just watch them—both of them—and pretend I don't notice how different they are from my wife. Sarah is small. Thin. Angular.

Her sisters are not.

Rachel is the oldest. Forty-one. Divorced twice. She carries herself like a woman who knows exactly what she wants and takes it without asking.

She's five-seven and has to weigh close to three hundred pounds. Maybe more. Her body is all confidence—massive breasts that strain against every blouse she wears, a belly that rounds out soft and heavy, hips that sway when she walks like she's daring you to look. Her ass is enormous, each cheek a monument to excess. She has dark hair, dark eyes, and a mouth that always seems to be on the edge of saying something inappropriate.

Monica is two years younger. Thirty-nine. Never married. She's quieter than Rachel—softer in personality, if not in body.

She might be even bigger than her sister. Five-five, easily two-eighty, maybe two-ninety. Where Rachel's weight is bold and aggressive, Monica's is shy and yielding. Her breasts are pendulous, hanging heavy under loose sweaters. Her belly is a soft cascade of rolls, her thighs thick and dimpled, her ass wide and pillowy. She has lighter hair, hazel eyes, and a blush that rises whenever anyone pays her too much attention.

They hate each other.

But they both look at me the same way.

It starts with Rachel.

Sarah is visiting her mother for the weekend. Some crisis I wasn't invited to participate in. I'm home alone, working in my office, when there's a knock at the door.

Rachel stands on my porch in a sundress that's two sizes too small. Her cleavage is a canyon. Her belly presses against the fabric. Her nipples are visible through the thin material.

"Sarah's not here," I say.

"I know." She pushes past me into the house. "I came to see you."

"Rachel—"

"Don't." She turns to face me, and I realize she's already closed the door. "I've seen you looking at me. At family dinners. At the beach last summer. Don't pretend you haven't been thinking about it."

"You're my wife's sister."

"And?" She steps closer. Her breasts brush against my chest. "Does that make it worse? Or better?"

Her hand finds my cock through my jeans. I'm already hard. Traitor.

"That's what I thought." She smiles. "Bedroom. Now."

I should stop this.

I don't stop this.

I lead her upstairs to the guest room—not my bedroom, not where I sleep with Sarah—and she laughs at the distinction.

"Trying to keep it separate?" She pulls her sundress over her head. No bra. No underwear. Just three hundred pounds of naked flesh, all curves and softness and want. "That's cute."

Her breasts hang to her waist—massive, heavy, capped with dark nipples that are already hard. Her belly cascades in waves, the lowest roll reaching her upper thighs. Her pussy is shaved smooth, glistening.

"I'm going to ride you," she announces. "And you're going to love it."

She pushes me onto the bed. Climbs on top of me. Tears my clothes away with practiced hands. When she grabs my cock and positions it at her entrance, I stop thinking.

When she drops onto me, I stop breathing.

She's tight. Wet. Burning hot.

All three hundred pounds of her press me into the mattress as she takes me to the root. I can't move. Can't thrust. Can only lie there while she uses me.

"Fuck yes," she hisses. "I knew you'd feel this good—"

She starts to bounce. Her breasts swing wildly—pendulums of flesh, slapping against her belly, slapping against my chest when she leans forward. I grab them because I need something to hold onto, and they overflow my hands. So much softness. So much weight.

"That's it." She's panting. "Worship them. Show me what you've been dreaming about—"

I pull a nipple to my mouth. Suck hard. She cries out, her cunt clenching around me.

"Your wife doesn't fuck you like this, does she? Skinny little thing can't give you what you need—but I can—I can give you everything—"

She's right. Sarah is gentle. Hesitant. Rachel is a force of nature.

I thrust up into her. She screams.

"Harder—fuck—harder—"

I grab her hips—so much flesh, my fingers sinking in—and pound into her. The bed groans. The headboard slams against the wall. She's bouncing on me like she's trying to break me.

"Gonna come," she gasps. "Gonna come all over my brother-in-law's cock—"

She slams down and shatters. Her pussy grips me like a vice, her body shaking, her scream filling the room. I can't hold back. I thrust up one final time and explode inside her—filling my wife's sister with my cum.

We collapse.

She stays on top of me. Three hundred pounds of forbidden flesh, still impaled on my cock.

"Same time next week," she says. It's not a question.

It becomes a routine.

Every Saturday that Sarah is away—and she's away often, visiting her mother, seeing friends, working late—Rachel appears. Sometimes she calls first. Usually she doesn't.

She fucks me in the guest room. In the kitchen. On the couch. Against the wall in the hallway. Anywhere that isn't my bedroom.

"Our little secret," she always says. "Sarah doesn't need to know."

I agree. Every time. Even as the guilt gnaws at me.

Even as I count the days until she comes back.

Three months in, Monica calls.

"I need help moving furniture," she says. "Sarah said you wouldn't mind."

I don't mind. I drive to her apartment on a Tuesday afternoon, expecting to spend an hour shifting couches and bookshelves.

I don't expect her to answer the door in a silk robe that barely covers her thighs.

"Monica?"

"Come in." She steps back. The robe shifts, and I catch a glimpse of her massive breasts, the deep valley between them. "The furniture can wait."

"What—"

"I know about Rachel."

The words hit me like a punch. I freeze in her doorway.

"She brags," Monica continues. Her voice is soft—nothing like her sister's aggressive confidence. "She thinks I don't know, but I hear things. Family gossip. Rachel can't keep her mouth shut when she's drunk."

"Monica, I can explain—"

"I don't want an explanation." She reaches for the tie of her robe. "I want what she has."

The silk falls.

She's naked beneath. Even bigger than her sister—breasts that hang heavy and low, nipples the color of strawberries. Her belly is soft, rounded, cascading in gentle rolls. Her hips are wide, her thighs thick, her ass a monument. She's shaved bare, her pussy pink and glistening.

And she's blushing. Everywhere.

"Please," she whispers. "I've never... I mean, I don't usually... but I want you."

The shyness. The blush. The softness.

It undoes me.

I cross the room in three steps.

She gasps when I kiss her. Melts against me—all that flesh yielding, pressing, surrounding. She's softer than Rachel, more hesitant. Her hands flutter against my chest like she's not sure what to do with them.

"Tell me what you want," I murmur against her mouth.

"Everything." Her voice breaks. "I want everything."

I pick her up. She squeaks—actually squeaks—as I carry her toward the bedroom. Two hundred and eighty pounds of warm, willing woman in my arms.

I lay her on the bed. She watches with wide eyes as I undress, and when my cock springs free, she bites her lip.

"Oh," she breathes. "Oh, that's..."

"Tell me if you want me to stop."

"Don't stop." She spreads her legs. "Please don't ever stop."

I take my time with her.

Where Rachel demands, Monica surrenders. I kiss my way down her body—her neck, her collarbone, her massive breasts. I worship each one, sucking her nipples until she's whimpering, until her hips are lifting off the bed.

"Please—" she gasps.

"Not yet."

I kiss lower. Her belly, soft and warm. Her thighs, thick and trembling. And then I'm between her legs, my mouth on her cunt, and she screams.

"Oh god—no one's ever—fuck—"

She's sweet. Wet. Her thighs clamp around my head as I tongue her clit, as I push two fingers inside her. She's tight—so tight—and her body shakes with every stroke.

"Gonna—I'm gonna—please—"

I suck her clit hard and she comes. Floods my face. Screams my name. Her massive body shakes like an earthquake, flesh rippling, breasts bouncing.

Before she can recover, I'm inside her.

She wraps around me.

Legs around my waist, arms around my shoulders, her entire body clinging to mine as I thrust into her. She's impossibly tight, impossibly wet, and she's moaning in my ear like every stroke is a revelation.

"Yes—yes—just like that—"

I fuck her slow. Deep. Every thrust makes her gasp, makes her nails dig into my back. Her breasts are crushed against my chest, her belly pressing soft and warm against mine.

"You feel so good," I groan. "So fucking good—"

"Don't stop—never stop—fuck me—"

I pick up the pace. The bed creaks. Her moans grow louder. I grab her ass—so much of it, overflowing my hands—and pull her onto me with every thrust.

"Gonna make you come again," I promise. "Gonna fill you up—"

"Yes—fill me—give me everything—"

She comes again. Her pussy clenches around me, her body arching, her scream filling the room. I follow her over the edge, pumping into her until I'm empty.

We collapse together.

She cries. Actually cries.

"I never knew," she whispers. "I never knew it could be like this."

I hold her. All of her. And I realize I'm in deeper trouble than I thought.

Monica becomes my Tuesdays.

Rachel is still my Saturdays.

Two sisters, two very different women, and neither knows about the other.

For six months, it works. Sarah is oblivious. The sisters continue to hate each other at family gatherings, glaring across Thanksgiving tables, exchanging barbed comments at Christmas parties.

And I fuck them both.

Rachel, aggressive and demanding, using me like a toy she owns.

Monica, soft and surrendering, giving me everything she has.

I know it can't last. I know something will break.

I just don't expect it to break like this.

It's a Saturday in April.

Sarah is at her mother's. Rachel is supposed to arrive at three. At two-thirty, my phone buzzes.

Monica: I need you. Can you come over?

Me: Today's not good. Tomorrow?

Monica: Please. It's important.

I look at the time. If I'm quick, I can see Monica and be back before Rachel arrives.

I'm an idiot.

I'm in Monica's bedroom when the front door opens.

We're not fucking—we haven't even gotten that far. I've just arrived, I'm kissing her, her robe is on the floor. And then there's a key in the lock, and the door is swinging open, and someone is calling out:

"Monica? You home?"

Rachel.

Monica freezes against me. Her eyes go wide.

"She has a key," she whispers. "I forgot—she has a key—"

Footsteps in the hallway. Getting closer.

"Monica? Is that—"

Rachel stops in the bedroom doorway.

For a long moment, no one moves. Rachel stares at us—at her naked sister, at me, at my hands on Monica's massive body. Her face cycles through shock, rage, and something else. Something darker.

"You bitch," she breathes. "He's mine."

"He was never yours," Monica snaps. The softness is gone now, replaced by something fierce. "You just got there first."

"First? I've been fucking him for nine months—"

"Six," I hear myself say. Both sisters turn to stare at me. "She's been coming here for six months."

Rachel's face goes red. "Six—you've been—both of us?"

"He fucked me today," Monica says. There's defiance in her voice now. "And yesterday. And last week. While you thought you had him all to yourself."

"You slut—"

"Takes one to know one, doesn't it?" Monica steps away from me, hands on her massive hips. "Sarah's husband. Our sister's husband. And you act like I'm the problem?"

They're squaring off. Two huge women, both naked or near-naked, both furious. I should intervene. I should leave.

I'm too hard to think.

"You want to compare?" Rachel tears off her blouse. Her breasts spill free, just as massive as her sister's. "Fine. Let's compare."

"What are you—"

"He's here. He's hard. Let's see who he actually wants."

Monica stares at her sister. "You're insane."

"Maybe." Rachel steps out of her skirt. She's naked now, three hundred pounds of aggressive flesh. "But I'm right. He'll choose me. He always does."

"He chose me too."

"Because I wasn't available. Because you were easy."

"Easy?" Monica's blush is back, but it's anger now, not embarrassment. "I'll show you easy—"

She grabs me.

Before I can react, Monica is on her knees. She takes my cock in her mouth—all of it, deeper than she's ever managed before. I groan, my hand finding her hair.

"That's it," Rachel sneers. "Show him how desperate you are."

Monica pulls off with a wet pop. "Your turn. If you think you're so much better."

Rachel's eyes flash. "Move."

Monica does. Rachel takes her place, swallowing me to the root, her throat working around my length. Her technique is rougher, more aggressive. Just like her.

"Harder," Monica taunts. "You call that sucking cock?"

Rachel growls around me. Sucks harder. Faster.

"Fuck—" I grab her head. "Both of you—stop—"

They don't stop.

They take turns. Back and forth, one sister to the other, each trying to outdo the last. Soft and slow, then hard and fast. Tongue swirling, then throat fucking. They're not sucking me off—they're competing.

And I'm losing my mind.

"Enough." I pull back before I explode. Both sisters look up at me, lips wet, eyes hungry. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right. Bed. Both of you."

Monica hesitates. Rachel doesn't.

She climbs onto Monica's bed, spreads her legs, and looks at her sister.

"Well? You wanted to prove something. Prove it."

Monica's jaw tightens. She climbs onto the bed beside Rachel.

Two sisters. Two BBW goddesses. Both of them naked, both of them waiting.

For me.

I start with Rachel.

She gasps when I enter her—that familiar heat, that aggressive clench. I thrust into her while Monica watches, and Rachel's eyes never leave her sister's face.

"See?" she pants. "He wants me—he's fucking me—"

"Because you're closer," Monica says.

I pull out of Rachel. Shift. Sink into Monica instead.

She moans—that soft, surrendering sound I've come to crave. Her body yields to me, her pussy gripping me like she never wants to let go.

"And now?" I ask Rachel.

Her face is red. "That doesn't—she's just—"

I fuck them in turns.

Rachel, then Monica. Monica, then Rachel. Back and forth, one sister to the next, each one trying to hold me longer, clench me tighter, make me lose control.

"He's mine," Rachel gasps.

"He's ours," Monica moans.

And somehow, impossibly, that's when the competition becomes something else.

I'm inside Monica when Rachel moves.

Instead of glaring at her sister, she positions herself over Monica's face.

"Make yourself useful," she commands.

Monica freezes. Stares up at her sister's dripping cunt.

"I don't—I've never—"

"Neither have I." Rachel lowers herself. "But he likes it. So do it."

Monica's tongue flicks out. Rachel gasps.

And suddenly I'm fucking one sister while she eats the other.

The competition doesn't stop. It transforms.

"Harder," Rachel demands—not to me, but to Monica. "Make me come—make me scream—"

Monica works her tongue faster. I thrust into her harder. She's moaning into Rachel's cunt, vibrations making Rachel shake.

"Fuck—yes—just like that—both of you—fuck—"

Rachel comes first. Floods Monica's face, screaming, her massive body trembling. Monica follows seconds later, her pussy clamping around me, her muffled cries lost against her sister's flesh.

I keep going.

They switch. Monica on top, Rachel below. Now it's Rachel's tongue on Monica's clit while I pound into Rachel from behind, her enormous ass bouncing against my hips.

"She's better," Monica gasps. "She's—oh god—she's better than you—"

"Liar," I grunt. Thrust harder. "You love them both."

"I do—fuck—I love them both—"

We come together. All three of us. A tangle of flesh and sweat and screams.

We collapse into a pile of limbs and softness.

After, we lie together.

Monica in the middle, Rachel on one side, me on the other. Three hundred pounds of aggressive confidence. Two-eighty of shy surrender. And me, the man who somehow belongs to both.

"This changes things," Rachel says.

"Does it?" Monica's voice is dreamy. "We're still fucking him. We're just... doing it together."

"Together." Rachel tests the word. "I don't share."

"You just did."

Silence. Then, impossibly, Rachel laughs.

"Yeah." She reaches across Monica, finds my hand. "I guess I did."

They stop hating each other.

Not entirely—decades of rivalry don't disappear overnight. But something shifts. They're allies now, united by a secret that none of them can tell.

Sarah notices. "You two seem... better," she says at the next family dinner.

Rachel shrugs. "We found common ground."

Monica blushes. "Something we both care about."

Under the table, both of their hands find my thighs.

We establish new routines.

Saturdays become ours—all three of us, together. They take turns with me, then share me, then forget turns entirely in a mess of flesh and pleasure. Sometimes Rachel dominates, commanding her sister, commanding me. Sometimes Monica surprises us, taking control, demanding what she wants.

Always, they push each other. The competition never really stops—it just becomes fuel.

"She made him come three times," Monica will say. "I want four."

"She fucked him for an hour," Rachel will counter. "I want two."

They make me better. Harder. Hungrier.

And I give them everything they demand.

One Year Later

Sarah leaves for a work trip. Two weeks in Europe.

"I'll miss you," she says at the airport.

"I'll miss you too." I kiss her goodbye. Wave as she passes through security.

The moment she's out of sight, my phone buzzes twice.

Rachel: I'm already at your house.

Monica: I'm five minutes away.

I drive home.

They're waiting for me—both of them, already naked, already tangled together on the couch. Rachel's mouth is on Monica's breast. Monica's hand is between Rachel's thighs.

"About time," Rachel says.

"We've been warming up," Monica adds.

I lock the door. Join them.

For two weeks, we don't leave the house. We fuck in every room, on every surface. We sleep in a pile and wake up still hungry. We drain bottles of wine and order delivery and ignore the outside world.

Sarah calls every night. I answer breathlessly, one sister's mouth on my cock, the other's tongue in my ear.

"Everything okay?" Sarah asks.

"Perfect," I tell her. "Just perfect."

Some secrets share a bed.

Some secrets wear the same last name.

Some secrets look at each other with the hatred of a lifetime and find something else underneath—something hungry, something desperate, something that can only be satisfied together.

Rachel. Monica. Me.

Sarah's husband. Their brother-in-law. Their shared obsession.

We have our secret.

And we're never letting go.