Sex Starved mom in law

It was the kind of morning when the house felt too quiet and her pussy too loud. She walked into the studio barefoot, robe hanging loose, nothing underneath but twenty years of feeling unfuckable. He didn’t even look surprised when she asked if he still needed a model. She just slipped the fabric off her shoulders like old skin, tits small and tight, stomach soft, hips restless with neglect. Paint never touched canvas. He had her bent over the drafting table before the robe hit the floor—hips slammed hard, skin smacking, his cock driving so deep the table legs scraped tile. She took it rough, mouth open, hair sticking to her forehead, drooling because finally someone was fucking the want right out of her. The door stayed unlocked. She came with her nails digging into stretched linen, his hand clamping her mouth to keep her from waking the whole street. He left bite marks on the back of her neck and handprints on her ass that bloomed purple by noon. When his wife came home later, the canvases were still blank, but the son-in-law and the mother-in-law both moved like people who’d fucked the hunger flat.