The little brother who satisfied his big sister's longing!

My name is Gal Ritchie. I'm 25, and my husband, David, is 40. We live in a quiet semi-detached house in Stockport, just outside Manchester. My family back in a small town near Bolton was never well-off, so when David – steady job in logistics, nice car, mortgage almost paid – proposed, everyone said yes quickly. The age gap didn't matter; security did. I like the comfortable life: nice kitchen, weekends in the Lakes, no money worries. But in the one place it really counts, I'm left wanting.

I've always had a high sex drive. Since puberty I've devoured erotic stories online, late at night under the covers. At school and sixth form I only had close girlfriends – boys made me shy. I never dated, never even kissed anyone properly. I stayed a virgin until our wedding night.

But I knew the effect I had. My measurements are 36-26-36; my breasts developed early, full and firm. In college, guys – students, even a couple of lecturers – would start conversations looking at my face, then their eyes would drift down. I'd catch them, give a playful frown, and they'd snap back up, flustered. I loved it. Walking through the corridors, my long hair swinging, hips moving, I'd feel their stares on my bum and secretly thrill at it. I'd play the sweet, innocent girl, but inside my body responded – nipples hardening, knickers damp. The second I got home I'd lock myself in the bathroom, strip, tease my trimmed pussy with two fingers, circle my clit with my thumb, and come hard, biting my lip to stay quiet.

I waited for a man to give me that pleasure properly. Then came our wedding night.

David tried, bless him. The first touch felt exciting – my first real cock inside me – but he finished in under two minutes. No effort to make me come, no oral, nothing. In three years he's never once brought me to orgasm during sex. He comes quickly, rolls over, and sleeps. I've never squirted with him, never even got close during intercourse.

Enough of the sad part. Here's what happened yesterday.

David's old school friend has a nephew, Ryan, 24, who's staying with us while he finishes his MBA at Manchester Met. Ryan's gorgeous – not bulky like some gym lads, but toned, broad shoulders, smooth chocolate skin, easy smile. He jogs every morning in shorts and a vest; I watch from the kitchen window, heart racing, imagining those arms around me. It's torture being married to someone twice my age when a guy my own age is sleeping two doors down.

Yesterday morning he came back sweaty and glowing. I went straight to the bathroom, locked the door, pulled my nightie up, and started touching myself over my knickers, picturing his chest, his strong hands. I was already moaning softly when I glanced up.

The small frosted window above the shower had a cracked pane – someone had replaced part of the obscure glass with clear by mistake months ago. Through it, two eyes were watching me.

At first I froze – who the hell…? Then excitement hit. Someone was seeing me like this. I carried on, rubbing faster, peeking sideways. It was Ryan. Of course it was. No one else knew my routine or that the window was broken just enough.

Knowing he was watching sent me wild. I yanked off my bra and knickers, plunged two fingers inside, worked my clit hard with my thumb, pinched my nipples with the other hand. Our eyes met through the gap; I saw raw hunger in his. I imagined his tongue on me, his cock filling me. My breathing turned ragged. I fucked my fingers faster, twisted them, rubbed my clit in tight circles. Sweat ran down my back. Then it hit – a powerful orgasm, liquid gushing over my hand, legs shaking. I sank to the floor, panting.

When I stood and dressed, his eyes disappeared. I went to the kitchen. Moments later Ryan came in through the back door.

I blushed, looked down. “Morning, Ryan. Fancy some breakfast?”

He hesitated – probably wondering if I'd seen him. “Just finished a run, Gal. I'll grab a shower first.”

I knew exactly what kind of “exercise” he'd been doing at that window.

The rest of the day my mind churned. That evening David came home late again – “Long day, love. Ate at the canteen.” He changed into pyjamas and crashed. I tried to sleep beside him, but everything – the morning, the film I'd watched earlier about frustrated teenage desire, my dreams of Ryan holding me, licking me – had me soaked.

I slid a hand under my nightie, rubbed myself quietly. It wasn't enough. Frustrated, I rolled over, draped a leg over David's hip, kissed his cheek, his neck. He stirred, pulled me close. His hands went to my bum, squeezed. I kissed him harder, felt him harden against my thigh. I stroked him through his pyjamas.

Then he pulled away, stood, stripped naked. His erection was modest but stiff. I thought tonight might be different.

He pushed me back, yanked my nightie off, tugged my knickers down. I expected foreplay. Instead he guided my head down. I'd never done this – David never asked. But I wanted to please him. I kissed the tip, licked, took him in. Two sucks and he groaned, “Gal… oh God…” He held my head, thrust shallowly, and came in my mouth almost instantly. I swallowed, stunned at how quick.

He collapsed, spent. “Thanks, love… so tired…”

I stared at the ceiling, burning. My pussy throbbed, untouched. Anger, hurt, lust all mixed. I dressed silently and left the room.

David turned over, guilty, avoiding my eyes. I didn't care. I walked to Ryan's door. Light was still on.

I knocked softly. He opened, book in hand, wearing just a T-shirt and boxers.

“Gal? Everything okay?”

I stepped inside, closed the door. Without a word I took his hands, pulled him close, kissed both cheeks.

“Gal, what are you—”

“I know you watched me this morning,” I whispered. “I know you've been looking at me for weeks. I want you, Ryan. Please.”

Shock flickered, then understanding. He pulled me into his arms. I kissed his forehead, his cheeks, his lips. He kissed back, hesitant at first, then deeper, tongue finding mine. It felt electric – real passion.

He lifted me effortlessly, laid me on his bed. “God, Gal… is this actually happening? I've dreamed about you for months.”

He peeled my nightie off slowly. I tugged his T-shirt over his head. We stared at each other, breathing hard. My breasts strained against my bra; he smiled, eyes dark with want.

“You're incredible,” he murmured.

I reached for his boxers. He helped me slide them down. His cock sprang free – thicker, longer than David's, hard and ready.

We kissed again, bodies pressing. He unhooked my bra; my breasts spilled out. He cupped them, thumbs brushing my nipples. I moaned into his mouth.

Everything after that was heat and need. His hands explored me like he'd memorised every curve he'd stolen glances at. When he finally slid inside me – slow, careful, filling me completely – I gasped. He moved steadily, watching my face, adjusting to what made me whimper.

For the first time, a man fucked me until I came – hard, shaking, crying out his name. He followed soon after, groaning, spilling deep.

We lay tangled, sweaty, quiet. No guilt yet – just the sweet ache of being truly wanted.