Flowers For Your Cheating Wife

You swing into the driveway like you own it, bouquet riding shotgun for your sweet-ass wife Rachael Cavalli. You even cut out early to spoil her, and that warm, fuzzy feeling hits you hard—like maybe you lucked out scoring such a perfect woman. Bedroom’s empty. You follow the voices. Her flirty giggles, plus some deep-ass chuckle from a dude. Instinct drops you straight into the closet. Door cracks. She struts in wearing nothing but the tiniest lace set that barely cups those big tits. Behind her strolls a ripped, naked bull named Nathan Bronson, hard-on swinging. She climbs on like she’s been starving for it, sinks down onto his thick cock, and starts riding like it’s her last ride on earth. Moans spill out fast—“Fuck, you feel insane!”—while he hammers up into her blonde, tattooed body. Your dick’s throbbing against your zipper, which is sick, but you can’t look away. Enough, though. You crawl for the hall, but she catches the motion. “What the fuck?!” They scramble for sheets. Then she clocks the tent in your pants. Her face twists. “You’re hard? Jesus, you’re pathetic.” She grabs you by the collar, yanks you onto the mattress. You try to turn, but she snaps her fingers and orders you to watch every inch of her next ride. Nathan spits on her glistening pussy, lines up, and slides home while she keeps talking trash, pumping his cock with her fist for your personal viewing pleasure. Those flowers on the kitchen table won’t save you. You’re just the audience now.