Living with my PORNSTAR sisters-Chapter 10: The Choice of a Whore

Lana stumbled into her apartment, the door clicking shut behind her with a finality that felt like a slap. The place was dim—curtains drawn against the afternoon sun, the only light coming from the flickering TV in the living room. The air smelled of stale chips, cheap body spray, and the faint sourness of unwashed laundry.

She lived alone with him. Marcus. Her husband. Twenty-nine years old, same as her, but he carried himself like a man twice that age—slow, heavy, entitled. Fat toxic husband, she’d called him in her head for the last year, ever since the honeymoon glow wore off and the slaps started mixing with the sex.

She kicked off her sneakers, padded straight to the kitchen on autopilot. Her hands shook as she braced them on the counter. The memory of Leo’s grip on her wrist replayed in slow motion—firm, warm, electric. The way his eyes had dropped to her ass like he was starving. The obscene bulge in his sweatpants when she’d turned back at the doorway. Nine, maybe ten inches. Thick. Throbbing. Ready.

She shook her head hard, trying to dislodge the image.

No. Stop.

She couldn’t.

Her nipples were still hard under the oversized hoodie, aching from where Leo had sucked one into his mouth like he was claiming it. Her pussy throbbed—wet, swollen, empty. She clenched her thighs together and whimpered.

Enough.

She walked into the living room.

Marcus was sprawled on the sagging couch, gut hanging over the waistband of his boxers, a family-sized bag of Doritos open on his lap. Some old cartoon blared on the TV—bright colors, stupid laughs. Crumbs dusted his chest hair.

Lana stopped in front of him.

She peeled the hoodie off slowly, letting it drop to the floor. Then the cargos—unbuttoned, shimmied down her thick thighs, kicked aside. She stood there in nothing but a black thong that disappeared between her fat ass cheeks and a thin sports bra that barely contained her heavy tits.

"Darling," she said softly, voice trembling with need. "Let’s do something."

Marcus didn’t even look away from the screen.

"Not now," he grunted, shoving another handful of chips into his mouth.

"Please." She stepped closer, straddling his thighs, grinding her soaked thong against the soft bulge in his boxers. "I need it. I’m so fucking wet."

He finally glanced up—annoyed, not aroused.

"Jesus, Lana. Can’t you see I’m watching this?"

She kept rocking—slow, desperate circles. "Just once. Quick. I’ll do all the work."

He sighed like she was asking for a favor instead of begging for dick. Then—slowly, lazily—he stood. Grabbed her waist with rough, meaty hands. Spun her around so her back was to his chest. Yanked her thong aside.

His cock sprang free when he unzipped—surprisingly big. Eight solid inches, thick, veined, already half-hard from muscle memory more than desire.

"You really want this?" he muttered, rubbing the head against her puckered asshole.

"Yes—please—put it inside me—"

He didn’t wait for more begging.

He pushed in—slow at first, then hard. No lube. Just raw friction and her own slick dripping down from her neglected pussy. Lana cried out—pain and pleasure twisting together—as he buried himself balls-deep in her ass.

He fucked her standing up—rough, mechanical thrusts. Grunting. Gripping her hips so hard she’d have bruises tomorrow. She braced her hands on the arm of the couch, arching back, moaning brokenly.

But it lasted barely two minutes.

Marcus groaned—short, sharp—then stiffened. Hot spurts flooded her ass. He pulled out almost immediately, cock already softening, cum dripping down her inner thigh.

Lana turned, dropping to her knees without thinking. She took him in her mouth—sucking, licking, trying to coax him back to life.

Nothing.

He was done. Spent. Limp.

Marcus shoved her face away with an open palm—hard enough to sting.

"Fucking whore," he snarled. "I fuck you when I want. Not when your slut ass decides it’s horny. Go clean yourself up."

He flopped back onto the couch, grabbed the remote, turned the volume up.

Lana stayed on her knees for a second—cheeks burning, ass leaking his cum, pussy throbbing with unspent need—then rose silently.

She climbed the stairs to the master bathroom.

Locked the door.

Stripped naked Again.

The mirror showed her everything: flushed brown skin, heavy tits with dark nipples still swollen from Leo’s mouth, thick waist flaring into an ass so fat it jiggled with every breath, pussy lips puffy and glistening.

She stared at her reflection.

"Yes," she whispered to the woman in the glass. "I’m a whore. So you should fuck a whore like me. Beat me. Use me. Fill every hole."

She turned the shower on—hot, steaming—stepped under the spray.

One hand went to her breast—squeezing roughly, twisting the nipple until she hissed. The other slid between her legs.

Two fingers plunged into her dripping cunt—then three. She fucked herself hard—palm grinding her clit, fingers curling against her G-spot.

Her mind fractured.

First it was Marcus—his rough hands, his toxic words, the way he slapped her face and called her names while he used her. That was why she’d married him. The danger. The degradation. The big dick that hurt so good.

But then—unbidden—Leo replaced him.

Leo’s hungry eyes. Leo’s thick, leaking cock tenting his sweatpants. Leo’s mouth on her tit, sucking like he owned it.

"Ooooh Leo," she moaned, voice echoing off the tiles. "You thought I was some simple woman... some shy little neighbor... but I’m a whore. A filthy, cock-hungry whore. You should’ve fucked me right there in the hallway. Should’ve bent me over and rammed that big dick in my ass while I screamed your name."

She added a fourth finger—stretching herself painfully, deliciously.

"You can still do it," she gasped, hips bucking against her hand. "Come back. Put it inside me. Fill me. Breed me. Aaah—Leo—fuck—yes—"

Her orgasm hit like a slap—sudden, violent. She screamed his name—raw, desperate—legs shaking, pussy gushing around her fingers, squirting against the shower wall in hot spurts.

She slid down the tile—panting, trembling, cum and shower water mixing between her thighs.

The water kept running.

She stayed there—knees drawn up, forehead against the cool wall—smiling through the aftershocks.

Marcus might own the ring on her finger.

But Leo...

Leo had just claimed something else.

And she was already planning how to give it to him.