Big Red #1 Hotwife Unleashed

MONDAY (DELIVERY DAY)

The screen door slapped shut behind her husband, his lunch pail clanking as he muttered, "Be safe, Red." She grinned, leaning against the counter, sundress draping over her soft belly. "Safe," she snorted, palming her tits, cantaloupe-heavy, freckled like a cinnamon crime scene. The world called her Marla. Her lovers called her Big Red.

He knew. Of course he knew. Found her panties in the glovebox once, soaked through and stinking of truck stop cologne. He'd just sighed, tossed them in the wash, and kissed her forehead: "Happy looks good on you." Now he worked overtime--conveniently--while she preened for the delivery guy, the plumber, the entire rotary club.

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The "FURNITURE EXPRESS" truck roared into the drive at noon, its liftgate screeching. Two men: one 20, flushed and fidgeting, biceps straining his uniform; the other 70, leathery and leering, veins mapping his. "Where ya want the mattress, ma'am?" the kid squeaked.

Big Red licked her lips. "Master bedroom."

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The old-timer cornered her in the hallway, hands crunching her hips. "Ain't you a ripe melon," he rasped, breath reeking of Pall Malls. His cock, when he unzipped, was twisted--thin shaft, mushroom head purpling with age. The younger one gaped, his own monstrosity springing free--thick, straight, veins ribboning like piano wire.

"Lesson one, rookie," the old man growled, slapping Big Red's ass--THWACK--as she bent over the mattress. "Old wood burns hottest."

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The room stank of stale sweat and new latex. The old-timer plowed her from behind, knobby cock scraping her walls, while the rookie fumbled at her mouth, squeaking, "S-sorry--" as she deep-throated him to the root.

"Relax, baby," she gurgled, milking his shaft with her uvula. The old man snorted, yanking her hair. "Faster, rookie. She eats shame for breakfast."

The rookie bucked, spunk jetting down her throat--salty, sweet syrup. The old-timer followed, grunting like a pig in mud, his bulbous head knocking on her cervix. Big Red screamed, vibrations milking them dry, as the mattress squeaked Morse code for UNHOLY.

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Keys jangled at dusk. The husband paused in the doorway, nostrils flaring at the stink of sex and cigarettes. Big Red lounged on the new mattress, sundress smeared with handprints, smirking.

"Good day?" he asked, toeing a discarded "Furniture Express" hat.

She winked, stretching her cinnamon-dusted limbs. "Productive."

That night, her husband kissed her bruised lips, whispering, "Big Red, huh?" She grinned, feral and unashamed, as the phone buzzed--Unknown Number: "Delivery next week? --FedEx Frank"

TUESDAY (GARDEN OF EDEN)

The sun blasted her backyard, sweat slithering between her breasts as she hacked at weeds, sundress plastered to her spine. No bra, no panties, just raw flesh and the sizzle of July. The wind snatched her hem, exposing ass-cheeks glazed like honey hams, when a voice grated, "Need help, darlin'?"

Her neighbor, Mr. Eli, stood at the fence--65, potbelly straining a Hawaiian shirt, smile cracked but warm. "I need help in my attic," he rasped, thumb jerking toward his ranch house. "Can't reach something."

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The pull-down ladder to the attic groaned as Big Red climbed, sundress riding up to bare her quivering ass. Mr. Eli lingered below, gaze lasered on her folds, glistening in the heat.

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The attic stank of mothballs and Bengay.

"Over there, top left shelf," he murmured, handing her a stepstool.

She climbed it and stretched, tiptoes squeaking, breasts swinging over his face as he stood under her.

His palm smeared her ass cheek, callouses snagging skin. She flinched, then snorted, "Eli." His thumb circled her hole, rough and precise. "Ain't right, lettin' art like this go to waste," he growled, tongue--Jesus, foot-long and purple--slurping up her thigh.

He yanked her down, pinning her to a stack of National Geographics, their spines cracking.

"You sticky as peach cobbler," he hissed, tongue flicking her clit--snap-snap-snap--a pattern that rewired her brain. His fingers, spider-leg long, speared her cunt and ass simultaneously, scissoring her open. "SWEET SATAN!" she howled, hips pistoning as he lapped her gush, suckle sounds echoing in the rafters.

He flipped her, cock springing free--thick as a beer can, veins like barbed wire. She mounted him, but he stood shorter, her knees buckling as she impaled herself, his fat tip kissing her cervix. "Ride me like a rodeo," he grunted, hands kneading her tits, thumbs flicking nipples raw. She bounced, tits slapping her chin, his tongue lashed her asshole--wet, relentless.

He bent her over a Formica card table, crushing a jigsaw puzzle (Paris, 1972). "Ain't done yet," he snarled, spitting on his cock, ramming it into her dripping ass. She screeched, nails clawing the table, as he fisted her hair, yanking her into a backbend. "SING," he demanded, and she obeyed...guttural, screaming hymns.

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She staggered out at dusk, sundress smeared with cobwebs and Eli's Polident gel. He leaned in the doorway, grinning. "Tuesdays," he said, tossing her a fig from his garden. "You'll crave it."

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That night, her shower ran cold, scrubbing failed. Her skin reeked of him Eli. In bed, her husband snored, oblivious. She dreamed of Eli's tongue splitting her like a zipper, his grunt in her ear: "You're my weed now. I'll hoe you weekly."

Her garden died within days. But Eli's fig tree? Bloomed violent, carnal red.