His penis was long, but just a little thin, and somehow it looked as apprehensive as the rest of him, standing there naked, having pushed his briefs to his ankles finally.

The sheath of skin was pale, but then so was the rest of his body. I should, I suppose, refer to it as a cock, but that would tend to indicate a level of illicitness that I just didn't feel.

He watched; I shucked my clothing, dropping my dress off my shoulders and down to the floor. His penis, until now only somewhat erect, showed definite signs of interest as I flicked my panties in its direction, missing the hook shot by just a few inches. I removed my bra, and waggled my breasts in his face, and his cock rose attentatively to the occasion.

Not lengthened significantly further than when I first spied it, still thin, curved slightly upwards, with a peculiar twitching bend at the tip, it was surprising, unusual, and very desirable.

Joseph was lacking basically all of the traditional sexual tick-boxes. He was a little thin, a little tall, a little slow, and was in possession of the already described little penis, but I wanted him just the same.

And I took him.

He was still staring at my dark bush and my pendulous breasts when I dragged him to the bed and helped him to climb on me. Over me. I loved the way he smelled and the way he felt. I was entranced by the feel of his skin and the slender way that he inserted himself between my drenched thighs.

I was aroused by the tender touch of his thin fingers, and the whispy feel of his dry lips. I was unable to refrain from comparing the feel of his legs between mine with the much more controlled and familiar technique of my lonely fingers in the dark.

I liked the movement of his body, his weight, his panting breath. I was appreciative of his consideration, thankful for his sense of rhythm, prayerful at his ability to sustain the thrusts.

I was ecstatic at coming before him; around him, and relieved that he encouraged me to help myself just a little. I was honoured to have his thin but able cock release its fluid and his tension deep inside me. I was startled, and overwhelmed, by the gasp of pleasure that escaped his mouth, while I was able only to grunt as we shivered together comfortably.

But most of all, more than any of these feelings was the disgust, the horror, and the unbelievably exciting knowledge that he was my sister's husband. That she was familiar with the smell, the weight, the quivering bent tip. She had made love with him many times, I was sure. She might not have fucked him though. We weren't making love. We were not lovers. Not the two of us. We were fuckers. We fucked.

And then, after the fact? After the orgasms? After the feelings and smells subsided, and he lay there beside me, content as only a man can be? Yes, then it felt illicit.

So I gave him a little time to catch his breath, and we did it again, my chubby olive skin on his thinness. I climbed on him, licked his spent member to life, and lowered myself over him. His thin, hard, seemingly brittle cock slid easily into me, and as he kneaded my breasts in his eager, thin hands, I fucked him.

Then I sent him home.