I used to pride myself on being the ideal wife—dressing to please my husband, spreading my legs whenever he demanded, and keeping dinner hot on the table. Like proper wives should, I saved every inch of my body for him alone. But that all shattered when we rented the spare room to a college student. The way his eyes raked over my tits lit a fire in me I couldn’t ignore. I could feel his hunger, and just the thought of him tearing into me left my pussy dripping. Fighting the urge was pointless. My fingers weren’t enough—I craved his hands, his mouth, his cock.
Soon, I was doing things I’d never imagined: huffing the scent of his shirts, grinding the fabric against my nipples and clit, picturing him pinning me down. I even fingered myself outside the bathroom door, listening to the water run as I came, trembling. The tension was unbearable. I needed him inside me.
So I slipped into a dress I knew would make him snap, dragged him to the bed, and peeled off his jeans. ‘Stay quiet,’ I warned, sinking onto his thick cock. Moaning wasn’t an option, but coming was—good thing he gagged me with my panties, because his dick stretched me so deep, I nearly screamed.
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