The second my husband leaves for work, you slip inside. I’m already on my knees in the living room, wearing just a tiny black skirt. Your heavy BBC springs free—dark, thick, veined—and I moan before my lips even touch it. I grip the base with both hands and slide you into my mouth, but you don’t let me go slow. Your hand fists my hair, tilts my head, and you push deep—straight past my gag reflex until my nose presses against you and tears fill my eyes. You hold me there, making me gag and drool while spit runs down my chin and onto my tits. Every time I gasp for air you growl “Deeper” and push me back down, training my throat to take every inch. When you finally pull out, my mascara’s smeared and lips swollen. You spin me around, bend me over the back of the couch, and slam into me from behind—hard and deep. The wet slaps fill the empty house as you fuck me relentlessly, stretching me wide while I claw the cushions and muffle my moans. You don’t warn me—you just bury yourself balls-deep and flood me, leaving me dripping all afternoon until my clueless husband gets home.
