His fingers slipped out of my pants, slow and glistening under the chandelier light, and for a single, breathless second — I thought it was over.
The violation had passed.
The shame would retreat.
Dinner could return to something normal, something safe.
But the moment I reached for my fork — the stupid silver fork I'd used to stab at my roasted chicken like I was still in control —
He came back.
Jake's hand slid under the damask tablecloth like a predator returning to its prey. Warm. Confident. Relentless.
And this time, he didn't tease.
This time, he went straight for my clit — that swollen, traitorous bud — and pressed down with the rough pad of his thumb.
A jolt ripped through me.
The fork slipped from my fingers, clattering against the plate like a gunshot.
"Oops," I whispered, my voice cracking. My face burned. "S-sorry… I'm just… clumsy."
Cindy giggled, wiping her lips with a linen napkin. "You're so clumsy tonight, Jess. Are you sure you're not coming down with something?"
Yes.
I'm coming down with him.
His fingers circled, slow and maddening, applying just enough pressure to make my toes curl inside my sneakers. My breath came in shallow gasps, my thighs trembling beneath the mahogany table. I squeezed them together — not to stop him, but to feel more, to trap his hand exactly where I needed it.
And that's when I realized —
I didn't want him to stop.
No.
Worse.
I wanted him to ruin me.
The thought slammed into me like a slap.
How could I?
This was Cindy's husband.
My sister.
The woman who'd driven me to college orientation, who'd cosigned my first apartment lease, who still sent me care packages during finals week.
And here I was —
Soaked.
Shaking.
Coming apart at the touch of her brother-in-law's hand…
And liking it.
Not just liking.
Craving.
Every stroke of his thumb sent electric pulses deep into my core. My pussy clenched, slick and greedy, dripping more wetness onto my already ruined cotton panties. My nipples ached against the fleece of my hoodie. My mouth went dry, then wet again — not from the Cabernet Sauvignon, but from the filthy fantasy playing behind my eyes:
Jake dragging me into the guest bedroom.
His belt unbuckling with that specific metallic clink.
His cock — thick, veined, furious — slapping against my stomach before he shoved it down my throat.
Me choking. Crying. But still bobbing my head for more.
"More," I whimpered — but caught myself instantly.
Cindy looked up, her fork paused mid-air with a bite of asparagus. "What was that, honey?"
"N-nothing," I stammered, shoving a forkful of garlic mashed potatoes into my mouth, chewing like a robot. "Just… talking to myself. Long week."
Jake chuckled — low, dark, knowing — and took a slow sip of his red wine.
His fingers didn't stop.
They never stopped.
Instead, he added a third finger, spreading my folds open beneath the table, rubbing firm circles over my clit until I could feel the orgasm building — hot, inevitable, humiliating. The wine glasses glinted in the chandelier light, casting fractured rainbows across the white tablecloth, while under that same cloth, my brother-in-law was finger-fucking me into oblivion.
And then, just like that, he slowed.
Teased.
Stopped.
Left me panting, empty, desperate, my hips chasing his retreating hand like a beggar.
"You okay, Jess?" Cindy asked, concern knitting her brows as she reached across to touch my forehead. "You're sweating. And your pupils are huge."
"I'm fine," I lied, my voice tight as a wire. I grabbed my water glass, ice clinking violently. "Just… the room's warm. And the steak… it's spicy?"
Jake smirked, lifting his wine glass to his lips, his eyes never leaving mine. "It's not hot at all," he said smoothly, his voice the sound of silk over steel. "In fact… I'd call it quite mild. Tender. Juicy. Just the way you like it."
His eyes locked onto mine over the rim of the crystal.
And I knew what he meant.
The food wasn't hot.
I was.
And he was going to keep stoking the fire until I burned alive, right there at the dinner table.
------
One Year Earlier – The Oak Room, Downtown
A year ago, I didn't hate him.
Back then, I barely knew him.
Cindy had just started dating Jake — "this amazing investment banker, Jess, you have to meet him," she'd gushed over the phone from her new downtown apartment. "He's taking us to lunch at The Oak Room!"
So I took the Greyhound from our hometown, wearing my best sundress from Target, feeling both excited and impossibly small-town.
The restaurant was all dark wood and leather booths, white-jacketed waiters gliding between tables with silver trays. Cindy was radiant, glowing in a silk blouse, wearing the Tiffany bracelet Jake had given her.
And then he walked in.
Tall. Impeccable charcoal suit. Hair perfectly styled, not a strand out of place. He looked like he belonged on Wall Street, not across from me in a booth.
He barely looked at me.
Just a polite nod. A stiff, "Nice to meet you, Jessica. Cindy's told me so much about you."
Cindy did all the talking. Joked. Laughed. Made sure I wasn't left out, passing me the bread basket, refilling my iced tea.
And Jake?
He ate his filet mignon in silence. Serious. Controlled. Untouchable.
And for a moment — just a moment — I felt… invisible.
Was it because I wore my old cardigan from home? Because my dress was off-the-rack while his suit was clearly tailored? Because I wasn't sleek, polished, expensive like him?
Maybe.
Or maybe — as I'd later realize with sickening clarity — he was waiting.
Because then, Cindy excused herself to the restroom, touching up her lipstick.
And we were alone.
Silence stretched between us, filled only by the clinking of silverware from nearby tables and the soft jazz playing overhead.
Then —
He looked up.
Not a glance.
A stare.
His eyes — dark, heavy-lidded, predatory — locked onto mine across the table.
And something shifted.
The corporate coldness melted.
His expression softened into something dangerous, intimate.
And in that instant, I saw it —
The hunger.
It wasn't polite.
It wasn't kind.
It was primal.
Like he could already see me on my knees in that leather booth.
Like he could already taste my lipstick smeared across his skin.
Like he'd been imagining me naked, trembling, and owned since the second I'd walked in wearing my cheap sundress.
He didn't smile.
He didn't speak.
But his gaze — God — his gaze said everything.
You're mine, it whispered. You just don't know it yet.
And I felt it.
Deep.
Low.
Between my legs.
A warmth. A tingle. A pull that made me squeeze my thighs together under the table.
Then Cindy returned, heels clicking on the hardwood, laughing about the line for the ladies' room.
And just like that — the mask snapped back on.
Serious. Distant. The perfect gentleman.
But I'd seen it.
That flash of possession.
That promise of violation.
And part of me — the part I'd spent a year trying to bury under textbooks and part-time jobs and denial — wanted to see it again.
------
Present: The Dining Room
Jake's fingers are back on me now.
Circling. Pressing. Testing my control.
And my body?
It answers like a whore.
Every nerve alive.
Every muscle tense.
My pussy throbbing, aching, begging for more than just fingers — begging for the thick hardness I know is straining against his dress pants.
"Please," I whisper inside my head, my eyes fixed blankly on the centerpiece of white lilies.
"Please don't stop. Please ruin me. Please make me yours right here while she's pouring the gravy."
And then —
He leans in.
So close I smell his cologne — Tom Ford, sandalwood and smoke and danger.
His lips brush my ear, his breath hot against my sensitive skin.
"You're dripping, Jessica," he murmurs, voice like gravel and velvet. "Your panties are soaked through. Your pussy's clenching around my fingers like it wants to swallow them… because it wants my cock. Admit it."
My breath stops.
"You hated me touching you under the table?" he continues, thumb pressing harder, making me see stars. "Then why is your clit swollen like a little cherry? Why are you grinding against my hand like a desperate slut?"
Tears prick my eyes.
Not from pain.
From shame.
From arousal.
"You want me to stop?" he whispers, his teeth grazing my earlobe. "Say it. Say 'stop,' and I'll pull my hand away and finish my wine like a good brother-in-law."
Silence.
My hips move — just a fraction — into his touch, my body answering for me.
He grins, wicked and victorious.
"That's what I motherfucking thought."
And then he squeezes — hard — right on my clit, pinching and rolling it between his fingers.
Lights explode behind my eyes.
My mouth opens in a silent cry, my hand knocking over the water glass. Ice water spills across the white linen, soaking the tablecloth.
And somewhere, distantly, I hear Cindy say:
"Jess? Oh my god, are you crying? And you're soaked!"
But I don't answer.
Because I'm coming.
Hard.
Silent.
Violently.
Right there at the dinner table, while my sister blots at the spilled water with her napkin, my pussy spasms around Jake's invading fingers, my orgasm crashing through me in waves of wet, filthy heat.
And I don't want it to end.
Even as my sister fusses over the mess, even as Jake calmly sips his wine like nothing happened, even as my body trembles with the aftershocks of shame and pleasure —
I don't want it to end.
Because part of me — the part I hate the most — already knows the truth:
I'm not afraid of what Jake will do to me.
I'm afraid of how much I'll enjoy it.