Black widow

Tiff rolls out of her husband’s stiff coffin posture like the whole performance bores her. Fuck the eulogies, fuck the paperwork. The real show is right in front of her: two broad-shouldered, way-too-eager Pallbearers trading looks. Pants hit tile, cock already throbbing when the first one spins her around and pushes her face-first over the chapel pew. She arches, hot little shiver rippling down her spine. His buddy slides under her, rims the wet seam between her lips till she’s dripping down his chin, then slips inside in one easy, greedy thrust. Up top the other guy lines his shiny head against her asshole, spits once for luck, and pushes straight through. Tiff groans out loud. Full. Stretched just right. She rocks between them like she’s got nowhere else to be and four hands holding her open for it, thick shafts slapping in and out with filthy wet sounds that echo under the pews. Every time she clenches around both cocks the guys grunt like they’re the ones getting blessed.