Elena slammed the bathroom door behind her, the echo bouncing off the marble like a gunshot. Cum leaked from her pussy, sticky trails down her thighs, George's no, Victor's taste still coating her tongue. She stripped off the dress, peeled the soaked panties away, and sat on the toilet, letting Marcus's load drip out in humiliating plops. Her clit throbbed, untouched, denied. Frustration boiled into rage. How the fuck had this happened? Twenty five years married, and now she was their plaything?
She wiped herself roughly, avoiding the mirror at first. But curiosity won. There she stood: forty six, tits still firm and heavy, ass curved from yoga and denial, pussy lips swollen and red from the pounding. Mascara streaked her cheeks like war paint. She looked fucked. Used. And god help her, part of her wanted more.
Support helps me create the kind of stories that breathe fire, raw, emotional, and unafraid of desire. My goal is to write with honesty, explore the depth of power and surrender, and build a space where readers who crave intensity feel seen. Every bit of support lets me go deeper into the world I’m crafting… and stay committed to telling the truth of these characters.
Write a comment ...