Flowers For Your Cheating Wife

You pull into the driveway and kill the engine. Flowers sit on the passenger seat, tight little secret you're dying to spring on Rachael Cavalli. Clocked out early for once, thinking how sweet she's been, wondering if you even rate that kind of treatment. Upstairs, the bedroom's empty. Then her voice carries from the next room, all giggles and breathy talk. Another voice answers. Deep. Male. You duck into the closet fast. She steps into the bedroom wearing nothing but a tiny lace set. Nathan Bronson—naked, cut, and already hard—follows right behind. He drops onto the bed and she climbs on, sinking down on his cock in one smooth move. Then she's bouncing, moaning how fucking incredible he feels, how long it's been since anyone split her open like that. You watch her tits shake, watch his abs flex every time she drops. Your cock swells even while your stomach knots. You can't take it. You try to crawl out, but her head snaps toward the closet the second she hears you. "Oh my god! What the hell are you doing here?" They both scramble for sheets, but her eyes drift lower and catch the bulge in your pants. "You're hard? You're fucking hard watching this?" She laughs, sharp and mean. Tells you how pathetic it is to hide instead of fighting, how you're just some sick little voyeur who wants a front-row seat. Fine—then you'll get one. She grabs you by the collar, drags you onto the bed, orders you to look. Nathan spits on her pussy and lines up again. Your wife's already stroking his shaft, grinning while she tells you to sit there and keep your eyes open. Nothing you brought home is going to save you now. Flowers, apologies, whatever dignity you think you have left—gone. She was always out of your league, and both of you are finding out at the same time.