After a long day's work and psychotic-break-inducing traffic, you finally reach your neighborhood. As you drive into the winding cul-de-sac, you slow down, both to not hit the kids playing near and on the streets and to give yourself a moment to calm your nerves. A little breathing room to wind down, let work, upper management, finance, and other things melt away into a blur. You are here. You are home, your little corner of the world, the king of your castle. Your beautiful young wife is waiting at home, no doubt baking your meatloaf and potatoes just the way you like it.
You roll down the windows to take in the sound and smell of a gentrified suburban life. The whiff of pine trees tickles your nose, and the sound of children laughing and yelling grows louder. You watch Mrs. Smith taking Old Jenny on a stroll. The Jones are preparing a barbecue. You wave at Bobby doing a power walk in his gay-ass fanny pack, and you avoid Harper and Willow dancing seductively for the camera.
Finally, you reach your white picket fence. Nobody else in the neighborhood has fences, but your wife insisted on them,
"It's not about security, darling, it's about capturing the American dream!" she said as she bounced her thick brown booty on your cock. Your wife is an excellent negotiator. You gave in when she swallowed your cock and balls, skillfully licking your scrotum like cherries until you came straight down her throat. When you said, "Okay, honeybuns, whatever you want, dear," she looked up at you with gratitude as mascara tears rolled down her shiny cheeks. Then she opened her cum smelling mouth for you to unload your piss in. She drank every droplet to not stain her brand new bed sheets.
You laugh as you remember that steamy night and how she so easily manipulated you into getting what she wanted with her fine-ass body. You touch your silver ring. Now and then you have to remind yourself that you're a married man and your gorgeous wife is not some drug-induced wet dream you're having. You park the car and go through your white picket fence. Take a moment to appreciate the bushes of purple and pink hydrangeas your wife planted on the front lawn, and climb up the steps to your red wooden door.
But the second you step across the threshold into your house, your palace, you sense a presence in the house that doesn't belong to your wife. You know this gut feeling to be true as you take in the environment. It's the extra cup in the dishwasher. It's the TV remote not being in the right place. It's the foul smell of cologne, sweat, and cum lingering in the air. Someone else is in your house, had fucked, or is fucking your wife. You take off your black leather shoes and sneak through your domain. You see socks lying on the oak floor, then a shirt, then pants, then your wife's favorite polka dot dress.
You step over the scattered pieces of clothing, not making a single sound. But there are sounds in the house. Moaning, fresh pounding, bed shaking sounds echo through your sunflower wallpapered corridor. The source is behind a door at the end of the hallway: your bedroom. You see warm light casting blurry shadows on the floor. There is movement--a rhythm--an abstract projection of mankind's primal desires. You approach the door and push it open as quietly as you can. There're creaks and squeaks, but the occupants don't seem to notice. The sound of moaning, banging, and dirty talking buries the squeaking noises. And there she is, your wife, the woman of your dreams, your legally bound whore is fucking another person on your bed. It's your neighbor.
It's always the neighbor, isn't it? As your beautiful whorish wife is sitting at home, doing housework and waiting dutifully for her husband to return. It's always the neighbor who's always there, keeping her company, complimenting her on her cute polka-dot dress, the little mole under her left eye, and the way she swings her hips so artfully. It's always the neighbor. And now both of them are before you, fucking like animals, not noticing that the man who paid for everything in this house with blood, sweat, and tears is back, standing in his bedroom, watching someone else fucking his wife.
You stare silently as a big brown cock slides into a pussy. The cock is twelve inches long and is so thick it contorts the pussy to conform to its shape. It slit back and forth, back and forth into the gaping gushing hole. With every thrust, there's a bulge on the lower abdomen, and as the cock slits back, it scraps the insides of the vagina like a grinder. Five fingers yanks on long red hair which is scattered and shone like silk with sweat and a rush of hormones. The other five are choking on a small bony neck, strong enough to make the woman's eyes roll up, but not strong enough to stop her from moaning and screaming,
"Harder, Ollie! Fuck me harder! Cum in my gaping cunt!" You almost laugh at those words--almost.
You sit on your dark leather chair and rest your cheek on your right hand. You regret not taking a glass of brandy with you, or a cigar, or ropes, or a certain shooting instrument. No, you have nothing with you right now so you simply sit there and watch--watching someone besides you fucking your beautiful young wife--your whorish sex freak materialistic wife. You watch as she fucks and sweats and spits out naughty words from her glossy red lips. Those lips that whispered sweet words into your ears and kissed and sucked your cock so well are now screaming another's name with a panting breath.
You don't move an inch up to the very end. As two brown hands choke the frail neck hard, the massive cock unloads a stream of hot cum, flooding the pussy, and sticky white semen drips out of the cunt onto your wife's precious bedsheet. The hands stop choking, but the twitching brown cock is still docked deep in the cunt, bathing in its own warm jeez, preparing for round two, or maybe round three or four. You don't move an inch, barely breathing. You sit back and burn the images into your retina and allow the intense smell of perfume, sweat, cum, and pussy juice to envelop you. As you're thinking about what to do next, the redheaded woman who is crying and panting spots you.
"Huh!? Oh, hi, Mr. Parker! When did you come in?" the ginger says with a smile.
"Hello, Hannah." You give the neighbor girl a little wave as the owner of the big brown cock turns her head around.
"Darling! You're home early!" your wife says and quickly pulls out her cock. White cum spills from Hannah's gaping cunt onto the bed, but your wife ignores it as she hops on your lap like a little girl, showering kisses on your lips. You feel her wet and sticky twelve-inch cock rubbing on your white shirt. But it doesn't matter as she's the one who's going to dry clean it afterward. The same goes for the bed.
"Oh, darling, you should've called! I would've prepared dinner earlier and done my makeup!"
"You're beautiful the way you are, honeybuns." You kiss her rosy lips and lick the sweat off her brown face.
"Oh, don't say that! If I start slagging now, I'll continue to spiral down into loose t-shirts and hot pants! Do you want your wife to become a plain Jane!?"
"Now that's tempting." You smile and caress her thick cock, feeling cum and other bodily fluids on her lovely rod. You sniff your hand and give it a lick. It tastes salty and sour, just the way you like it.
"Don't even kid about it, darling!" Your wife pouts, then leaps off your lap. She rushes to the cabinet, and the next thing you know, you're holding a glass of icy scotch. "Wait for me as I prepare dinner, alright? You can fuck my sloppy second if you want to." She kisses your cheeks and paces out the door with her cock hanging in the wind.
"Sloppy seconds... gee, thanks a lot Olivia, that'll do wonders for my mental health," Hannah says as she sits up on the bed. Her curly red hair is a mess, and she has red and purple bruises all over her pale body. Hannah is a barely twenty college dropout who got addicted to your wife's cock too early in life and now spends her days being her cumdumpster. "So what do you say, Mr. Parker? Do you want a taste of this sloppy second?" Hannah widens her white thighs at you, showing a gaping cunt full of delicious white juice. You gulp down your drink and take off your ties.
"Sure, why not? Ollie takes forever to dress up."
"Awesome!" Hannah smiles. She looks at you with eyes of expectations, a different expectation than the ones she has for your wife.
