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Sex is only a game of power and choices, isn't it?

Rohit and Alok were the most mismatched brothers ever. Where Alok was tall, strapping and athletic, Rohit was short, nerdy and completely negligible. Growing up with a younger brother who was taller and more endowed, left a deep psychological scar on Rohit which made him feel woefully inadequate.

Those scars were now as nothing compared to the tumultuous upheaval of his emotions. The image of his wife's twisted face, moaning in orgasm as his brother banged his complete length and girth in and out was seared in his memory.

Rohit could understand his rage, decipher it even, equating it to the barest betrayal. What he could not understand and what scared him was his deep and almost demented arousal. Why did he, Rohit, feel such pleasure perforating his pain?

Why had he masturbated five times in a row watching the video over and over again? Why had he even watched the damn thing again instead of simply deleting it?

Rohit wiped sweat off his forehead and wondered how he would ever confront his wife or his brother ever again? He could understand his brothers need for womanly companionship after his wife's death, but what need did his wife fill by fucking her own brother-in-law? Did she need a younger man than him or just a bigger cock? Would he have felt a little better if it was someone else other than his brother? It was a complicated question.

And again: Who the fuck sent him the video? and what did they have to gain from all this?

If Rohit did not stop this now, his wife and brother would continue fucking. He had seen their bodies grinding hard against each other and knew that they were very hot for each other and were surely going to fuck again.

Confronting them now would be a disaster. It would wreck everything. He knew he had to make a hard choice. He had to find out how and why this had happened. More importantly he had to find out the agenda of the person sending the videos. Was it blackmail? Was it some enemy of his wife or brother? He had to wait and see if the mystery person would make their next move.

"Uncle Rohit!"

Rohit almost fell of his chair. He hastily slammed shut his laptop, which had been playing the sex tape on a loop.

"Neha," Rohit said, managing a smile he did not feel, as he turned towards his niece, "what are you doing here? Has Ramya returned?"

"Rohit uncle, are you missing your wife that much?" Neha teased. "She is still shopping with papa."

Rohit felt a distinct stab of unease. Normally this new would not have affected him at all. But in light of recent events even such a small thing gained a trajectory of its own. "Well what is it that Ramya wants to buy?" Rohit asked, feigning disinterest.

"Probably something nice to look good for you." Neha continued her teasing.

Rohit adjusted his glasses. So Alok was shopping with Ramya. Was Alok buying his wife sexy lingerie so he could fuck her later in the night? "She never dresses to impress me," Rohit grumbled, "it's probably to impress her boss or someone else."

"Why would you say that?" Neha asked, sounding a bit taken aback.

"Oh it's nothing," Rohit finished, waving his hand. He regarded his niece. She was slim and tall like her father with long black hair. She wore a tight white tee shirt that exposed her belly, like the younger generation did these days. She wore black track pants that hugged her hips tightly.

"Do you really have to dress like that?"

Neha rolled her eyes. "My father doesn't seem to mind."

"Your father doesn't seem to mind many things these days," Rohit said rather casually.

"Rohit uncle is something wrong? What the matter?" Neha came over and placed a concerned hand on her uncle's shoulder.

"I am sorry my dear. Just had a hard day today. Lot of stress. But what am I saying, you are the one with the tragedy. Not me."

Neha's lip quivered slightly. "I miss my mom," she said sadly.

"I wish she was still around. I miss her too."

"Really?" Neha asked, "I did not know you two were close."

"Suffice it to say if your mother was still around things would have been les

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