The Sister-In-Law Season 2 - Episode 5 – The Public Mask

Sunday dinner at his mother-in-law’s house was a special kind of hell. The air was thick with the scent of roast chicken and forced pleasantries. Daniel sat at the dining table, a knife in one hand, a fork in the other, feeling like a surgeon about to operate on the entire family.

To his right, Sheila was the picture of the doting wife. Her hand rested on his thigh, her fingers tracing idle patterns that were both a comfort and a brand. Every so often, she would lean in and whisper something sweet, a private joke for a couple in love. Her performance was flawless, radiant, and utterly sickening.

Across the table, Rita was a study in quiet tension. She kept her eyes on her plate, pushing a single pea around with her fork. She looked pale, fragile. But every time Daniel glanced at her, he felt the weight of her gaze, a silent, electric current passing between them over the mashed potatoes and gravy. She was the ghost at the feast, the secret he was hiding in plain sight.

“And how are things at the firm, Daniel?” his mother-in-law asked, beaming at him as if he were still the golden son-in-law.

“Busy,” he said, taking a sip of water. “But good. Very rewarding.”

“Daniel’s been working so hard,” Sheila chimed in, squeezing his thigh. “But we’re making sure he gets his… rewards at home.” She gave him a look that was pure filth, hidden behind a veneer of wifely concern. He saw Rita’s hand clench her fork, her knuckles turning white.

The conversation moved on, but the real one was happening without a single word. It was a three-way chess match played with glances and subtle touches.

Later, while the women were clearing the table, Daniel found himself alone in the living room with Rita. She was by the fireplace, pretending to admire a framed photo.

“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” she murmured, not looking at him.

“Enjoying what?” he replied, his voice low. “The chicken? Or the show?”

She finally turned to him, her eyes burning. “Her touching you. Her looking at me like she’s already won.”

Daniel stepped closer, invading her space, the scent of her perfume—a floral note he now associated with raw desperation—filling his senses. “She hasn’t won,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “She doesn’t even know she’s playing.”

He reached out, his fingers brushing a stray strand of hair from her cheek, a touch that was both intimate and possessive. “You look beautiful tonight, by the way.”

Rita flinched as if he’d struck her. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?” he pressed, his thumb stroking her skin. “Don’t notice you? Should I pretend you’re not here? Should I pretend I don’t remember how you felt this morning?”

“Stop it,” she breathed, her eyes wide with panic and a dark, undeniable excitement.

“Or what?” he leaned in closer, his lips next to her ear. “What will you do, Rita? What will you do right here, in front of everyone?”

He pulled back just as Sheila walked into the room, her smile unwavering. “Everything okay in here?” she asked, her eyes flicking between them.

“Perfect,” Daniel said, his expression placid as he took a step back from Rita. “Rita was just telling me she thinks she might be coming down with something. Isn’t that right?”

Rita could only nod, her face a mask of misery.

“Oh, you poor thing,” Sheila cooed, walking over and putting a comforting arm around Rita’s shoulders. It was a gesture of sisterly love, but to Daniel, it looked like a python coiling around its prey. “You should go home and rest. Daniel and I can handle the dishes.”

It was a dismissal. A power play. And as Sheila led her sister away, shooting Daniel a triumphant look over her shoulder, he realized the public mask was more than just a performance. It was a weapon. And they were all learning how to use it.

The drive home was suffocatingly silent. Sheila’s hand remained on his thigh, but the touch was different now. It was no longer a performance; it was a claim, a silent, gloating reminder of her victory in the family arena. Daniel could feel the smug energy radiating from her. She thought she’d won the battle.

Once inside the house, the mask finally slipped.

“You know, for a minute there, I thought she was going to cry,” Sheila said, tossing her purse onto the couch with a light, airy laugh. She unzipped her dress, letting it pool at her feet, standing before him in just her lace lingerie. “Did you see her face? So pathetic. Still so desperate for your attention.”

Daniel watched her, his face unreadable. He didn’t move. He didn’t speak. He just let her monologue, let her dig her own grave.

“It’s sad, really,” Sheila continued, walking toward him, her hips swaying with renewed confidence. She ran a single red nail down his chest. “But it’s also a good reminder. Of what happens when you’re not the one in control.” She leaned up, her lips brushing his. “But you and I… we’re in control now, aren’t we, baby?”

In a blur of motion, Daniel’s hands shot out, gripping her upper arms. He spun her around and slammed her back against the wall, hard enough to knock the wind from her lungs. The shock on her face was instantaneous, her triumphant smirk dissolving into wide-eyed fear.

“Control?” he snarled, his face inches from hers, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “You think that was control? You think parading your victory in front of her makes you powerful?”

He hooked his fingers into the delicate lace of her panties and ripped them. The sound of tearing fabric was obscene in the quiet room. He freed himself, his cock already hard, thick with a rage she had mistaken for passion.

“This is control,” he grunted, lifting her legs and wrapping them around his waist. He drove into her in one brutal, unceremonious thrust. She cried out, a sharp, pained sound that was half shock, half unwilling pleasure. He pinned her to the wall with his body, his hands holding her wrists above her head.

He fucked her against the wall like he was trying to break her, to fuck the smugness out of her, to replace her victory with his own raw, punishing reality. Each thrust was a punishment for her condescension, for her performance, for the way she had looked at Rita. There was no love, no forgiveness, only the brutal, primal act of domination.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged. When her eyes, glassy with tears and confusion, met his, he saw it. The flicker of understanding. She wasn’t winning. She had just unleashed something she could never hope to contain. He was no longer the man she could manipulate. He was the man who would use her body to remind her of her place.

He came with a guttural roar, his teeth gritted, his body slamming into hers one last time. He held himself there for a moment, then let her slide down the wall to the floor. He left her there, a heap of torn lingerie and shattered confidence, and walked away without a backward glance.

An hour later, showered and changed, Daniel sat on the edge of the bed in the dark guest room. His phone buzzed. It was a text from Rita.

Are you proud of yourself?

He stared at the words, then a slow, cold smile touched his lips. He typed back a single reply.

Very.

He hit send, and the phone immediately buzzed again. Not a text. A picture. It was a selfie of Rita, in her own bathroom, her face tear-streaked and blotchy. But her eyes were blazing. She was holding up a small, silver key—the emergency key to his house that he’d forgotten she even had.

She hadn’t gone home to rest. She had gone to his house. To wait.

The public mask was off. The private war had just begun.

The battlefield is no longer the family dinner table; it's their home, their bed, their very souls. What happens when the player with the emergency key decides to use it?

Like, comment, share, and follow for more! You can read Episode 6 right now on my blog. Link in the comments and on my Bio.