Sixty-Nine

Ann’s D-cup curves and dripping-wet rebellion against her tame past ignited me from our first stolen grope in her living room. My hands memorized every inch of her heavy tits, her round ass melting against my palms as we devoured each other’s mouths—teasing, denying, inflaming until that stormy third date shattered her last barrier. Her soaked red panties hit the floor…then my throat hit her pussy, her nails clawed my cock, and her screams announced a woman unshackled. Marriage unleashed her: vibrators buzzing against cream-slick thighs, our porn collection growing stickier than our weekend body-painting rituals, strangers’ hands grazing her in group jerk-off circles where boundaries evaporated like her modesty. Divorce couldn’t drown our heat—even after claiming four women’s moans in an orgy, she returned at midnight, sheer swimsuit clinging to her needy cunt, begging my dick to remind her why she craved cock…but promised pussy would keep luring her. Did those hungry green eyes ever stop hunting new thrills, or did she drown in her own dripping obsession? Read her filthy crescendo… [Read More]