Confessions of a Man Whore Vol 1 E1

Tyler Drake’s not here for the damn leaves—he’s here to wreck marriages. His arms flex when he scoops a bucket, abs glistening like he just fucked the pool filter, and wives from every cul-de-sac start soaking their lounge chairs before he even says “hi.” Chloe Amour’s no different the second she clocks him out the window. Phone’s down, robe’s open, and that sly smile’s already carving crimes across her lips. She pads barefoot onto the patio with nothing under the silk, nipples doing push-ups against the light, cup of lemonade sweating in her palm like her own skin. “Need a hand?” she asks, voice thick with sin. Tyler glances up, gives her the patented half-grin—teeth like trouble—and nods. She hands him the glass. Her fingers linger, trace his thumb, then she licks condensation off her wrist like it’s Tyler’s cock tip already glistening. He catches the flick of her tongue and his shorts start arguing with his zipper. Chloe’s husband is upstairs, snoring off a hangover. That fact makes her cunt throb with every green-lit beat of her pulse. She drops onto the chaise, lets the robe slide off one shoulder, one bare breast catching a warm lick of sunshine. Her legs part—just an easy spread, knees cocked—so Tyler gets the full wet-glist view of her shaved, already-swollen slit shining between bronze thighs. She slides a finger along the ridge, gathers a slick pearl, then brings it to her mouth and tastes herself with a moan so soft it’s practically a dare. Tyler’s mouth twitches; the outline in his board shorts thickens until the head’s fighting the hem. She crooks her fingers. He comes around, lets the rake clatter. Chloe leans in, kisses his belly through the tank, then drags it up so she can tongue a glistening line from his navel to the waistband. He isn’t wearing underwear—never is—so one tug and his thick, heavy cock bobs free, already dark and slick at the slit. She inhales him like fresh chlorine—salt, soap, sex—then slips the head past glossy lips, jaw loose, eyes locked upward with a brat’s spark. Tyler’s hand knots in her hair; not gentle, not rough, just claiming. She gags happy when he gives that first lazy thrust, mascara already hinting at wreck-age. Spit drips down her chin onto her tits, she smears it over one pebbled nipple, humming around his shaft like the vibration’s a secret he’s the only one allowed to feel. Next thing he knows she’s spun, ass up, robe bunched at her waist, tits pillowed on the chaise cushion. She reaches back, spreads slick folds, that cock-greedy voice tossing words like dirty coins. “Fuck it in. Husband can’t—this is yours now.” Tyler slams home in one stroke. The slap is loud—wet flesh meeting hips—and Chloe cries out, a broken-pleasure sound she never gives at home. He grabs her waist, drills deep, every stroke dragging over that spot that turns wives into shaking, babbling messes. She claws the cushion, growls “don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop,” and Tyler delivers, slapping the curve of her ass in rhythm with the glide of his dick. Minutes later she’s riding him reverse on the lounge, tits bouncing free, knees planted, slick shining on her inner thighs. Tyler leans back, lazy grin, thumbs dug into her jiggling cheeks so the neighbors—if they peeked the fence—would get a first-class view of cock stretching hole. Chloe’s cunt clenches like it’s renegotiating her marital vows with every bounce. She leans down, braces hands on his quads, swings her hips like a dirty metronome. He snakes a hand under her, finds her swollen clit, circles it with callused fingers until her thighs tremble, and the hot rush crashes through her—orgasm clenching so tight Tyler’s cock is nearly pushed out. She doesn’t let it; she slams back down, rides through the crest, cunt squirting faint, messy arcs on his stomach. When he finally growls he’s close, Chloe drops off him, spins, and swallows again. This time she works two-handed, sloppy noisy strokes, tongue lashing the underside until he bucks. Thick ropes shoot down her throat and she swallows every pulse, throat flexing, eyes glossy. She drags off only at the last spurt, letting a pearl paint her lower lip so it glints in the sun. She licks it up, smiles with cum-smeared pride, then kisses the head like she’s making a pinky-swear it’ll come back tomorrow. Upstairs the ceiling fan hums; her husband never stirs. Down here the pool boy tucks his now semi-soft monster away, grabs the rake, and gets back to work like the best yard tool in the neighborhood just had its oil changed. Chloe stays sprawled, robe open, cunt still twitching, a slow drip leaking onto the cushion—proof she’d never done any of that with the man who pays the mortgage, but with Tyler she simply couldn’t stop.