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The flyer we got this week was plain—white cardstock, black text, a single photo of the house—but my wife clutched it like treasure. "Open house," she’d said, pressing it into my hands, already halfway out the door. I should’ve burned it right then. The photo showed a colonial with a wraparound porch, sure, but I smelled trouble the second I saw the little handwritten note at the bottom: *Sarah Whitmore, Realtor. Let me show you home.* The ink looked smudged, like she’d licked her fingertip to smooth it. The car hums beneath us, the afternoon sun glaring off the hood. My wife taps her fingers on the wheel, eyes locked ahead like she’s already mentally arranging furniture in a house we haven’t even seen yet. I reach over, thumb brushing her thigh—just a silent question. She swats my hand away without looking. "Not now," she says, like I’ve asked for the moon instead of just a kiss. The house looms ahead, white siding and a porch swing swaying empty in the breeze. It’s too quiet. No cars lined up, no chatter of potential buyers milling around with brochures. Just a lone sign—*OPEN HOUSE TODAY!*—tilting crooked in the grass. My wife frowns as she parks. "Where is everyone?" she mutters. I shrug, but my pulse ticks up. Maybe the realtor’s inside. Maybe she’s waiting. The foyer smells like lemons and fresh paint. The hardwood gleams underfoot, and staged furniture sits just-so—a vase of peonies here, a leather-bound book there—like someone staged a damn movie set. My wife drifts toward the stairs, fingers trailing the banister. "Oh, the molding!" she breathes. I barely hear her. Because you’re there, leaning against the kitchen island, one ankle hooked behind the other. Your blouse clings just shy of decency, the top buttons straining. You grin when our eyes meet, slow and knowing. You push off the counter, hips swaying with each step. "You made it," you say—to her, but your gaze locks onto me. Your voice drips honey. "I was starting to think no one would come." My wife laughs, already wandering toward the dining room. You linger, close enough I catch your perfume—something expensive and dark, like orchids left to rot. Your fingers brush mine as you hand me a glossy brochure. The paper’s warm. "Take your time," you murmur. "Look around." The dining room’s all mahogany and candlelight, but I only see the way your skirt clings when you bend to adjust a place setting. Your ass is a perfect curve under the fabric, the hem riding up just enough to show the lace edge of your stockings. You catch me staring, bite your lip. My wife drones on about crown molding, oblivious. You trail a fingertip along the table’s edge, slow, then pause—right where I’m standing. "Solid construction," you say, pressing down. The wood creaks. Your nail scrapes my wrist. I step back like you’re a lit fuse. The brochure crumples in my fist. Did you notice? Your smile says yes. You tilt your head, chestnut hair spilling over one shoulder, and your blouse gapes—just a flash of lace and soft skin. My throat tightens. You turn away first, hips swaying toward the hallway. "The kitchen this way," you call over your shoulder. Not to her. To me. You lead us through arched doorways, pointing out recessed lighting and granite countertops like nothing happened. Maybe nothing did. Your voice is professional now, crisp as the stainless steel appliances you tap with manicured nails. My wife nods along, already mentally replacing the backsplash tile. You trail a hand along the island’s edge—casual, but your fingers pause where the marble meets wood. Right where my belt buckle would press if I stepped closer. The fridge hums. You lean into it, hips cocked, pretending to examine something inside. The angle stretches your skirt tight across your ass. You know I’m watching. You shift, slow, letting the fabric ride higher—dark lace winks at me before you straighten. “Energy-efficient,” you say, patting the appliance. Your smirk says you’re not talking about the fridge. You shepherd my wife toward the pantry, fingers light on her elbow. “The hinges stick sometimes,” you lie smoothly. “Mind checking?” She steps in, trusting. You flick the latch—just a click, but my gut twists. The door snicks shut before she even gasps. You press your palm flat against it, holding it closed. “Oops,” you murmur, not sounding sorry at all. Your heels click toward me, slow, deliberate. You pause at the basement door, grip the knob—jiggle it like it’s stuck. But your eyes drop lower, lingering where my jeans strain. “We’ll need tools,” you say, voice husky. “Something… sturdy.” Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips. For a second, I believe you. Then your fingers brush my belt buckle. Cold metal. Hot skin. The basement’s damp, dim—all exposed pipes and shadows. You flick a switch. The bulb flickers, painting your throat in gold. You bend—slow, like you’re stretching—over a toolbox left open on the workbench. Your skirt rides up, fabric pulling taut. And there—black lace, sheer enough to see the pink beneath. Too thin, too expensive for showing houses. Your ass tilts higher. A tease, a dare. My fingers twitch. You pluck out a wrench, fingers curling around the steel. But you don’t straighten. Not yet. You pivot, just enough to catch me staring. Your blouse gapes—no accident—and there they are: those tits, full and soft, barely contained in lace that digs into the flesh. The wrench glints in your palm, but I barely see it. Your nipple peeks through the sheer fabric, hard. You exhale—a soft, deliberate sound—and press the tool into my palm. Your fingers linger. The basement air thickens with mildew and your perfume. You lean back against the workbench, hips cocked, skirt hitched higher. Your thigh brushes mine. “Cold down here,” you murmur, though your skin’s fever-hot. You arch your back—just a fraction—and your tits push forward, straining against the lace. The basement bulb flickers, casting shadows between them. Your pulse flutters at your throat. I grip the wrench like a lifeline. Your cleavage yawns deeper than the goddamn Grand Canyon, and I’m a man on the edge. My knuckles whiten. You notice, of course. Your fingers trail up your own sternum, slow, stopping just shy of where the lace bites into soft flesh. “You’re staring,” you whisper. Not an accusation—a reward. Your nail traces the edge of the cup. One flick and it’d spill free. I look away first. Coward. The basement walls press in, suddenly too close, too hot. You laugh—low, throaty—and the sound follows me as you turn toward the stairs. Your hips roll with each step, skirt clinging to every curve. The hem rides higher. Your stockings wink at me, the garters taut against your thighs. At the third step, you pause. Your fingers pluck at the fabric, tugging the skirt tighter—not fixing it, no, just giving me a cleaner view. The lace of your panties cuts into the swell of your ass, the fabric sheer enough to show the shadow between your cheeks. My jaw goes slack. You don’t look back, but your voice drips honey. "Very nice view," you murmur, like you’re talking about the fucking crown molding upstairs. Your foot lifts, slow, onto the next step—your calf flexing, the strap of your garter pulling taut. The air tastes like rust and desperation. I swallow hard. "Yeah," I rasp. "Beautiful." The wrench’s weight drags in my palm. I could drop it, reach out, sink my fingers into that perfect curve. The thought burns like cheap whiskey. Upstairs, my wife’s muffled voice cuts through the tension. "Hello?" She knocks—soft at first, then sharper. "Guys?" Your lashes flutter, feigning concern. "Oh!" You dart up the remaining stairs, leaving me choking on your scent. The pantry door groans as you lift it effortlessly—no tools, no struggle—just your manicured fingers prying it open like a goddamn joke. My wife blinks into the light, disoriented. "Stupid latch," you sigh, shaking your head. "Contractors are coming Monday." You produce champagne from nowhere—three flutes balanced in one hand, the bottle tucked under your arm—like some kind of sinful magician. "For the inconvenience," you purr, popping the cork with a practiced twist. The sound makes my wife jump, but she laughs, accepting the glass you press into her palm. You pour for her first, then me—leaning close enough to see your underwear peeking above your waistband, black lace edged with delicate scallops. You turn your back to my wife, blocking her view, but facing me full-on. The champagne bottle tilts—just a fraction—and a single drop spills onto the swell of your cleavage. It slides slow, catching the light before disappearing into the shadow between your tits. You don’t react, don’t wipe it away. Just lick your lips and pour the rest like nothing happened. My wife sips, oblivious. My glass stays untouched, my fingers tight around the stem. The living room’s all staged elegance—a faux fur throw draped over the sectional, a coffee book spread open to some Tuscan vineyard. You glide ahead, pointing out the fireplace’s herringbone tile with one hand while the other drifts behind you, fingertips brushing the small of my back as you pass. "Original 1920s craftsmanship," you tell my wife, but your nail digs into my belt loop for half a second. The fireplace is cold, but my skin burns where you touched me. You guide my wife toward the built-ins, praising the shelving like it’s the goddamn Sistine Chapel. She nods, running her fingers along the woodgrain while you linger just behind her—close enough that your perfume drowns out the sawdust scent of the house. Your eyes lock onto mine over her shoulder. Slowly, deliberately, you bite your lower lip and let your blouse slip off one shoulder. The strap of your bra—black, lace, sinful—peeks out before you shrug it back up. My wife turns. You’re already gesturing toward the ceiling beams, professional again. “And these bay windows!” you exclaim, pulling her attention toward the drapes. Heavy velvet, the color of dried blood. You stroke the fabric like it’s alive. “Custom-made. The previous owner had them imported from Belgium.” Your fingers trail down the curtain’s edge—slow, sensual—before you pivot toward me. Three steps and you’re close enough that your thigh brushes mine. You grab my wrist, casual as a handshake, and drag my palm flush against your ass under the guise of guiding me toward the window. The fabric of your skirt is thin, warm. I can feel the heat of you through it.. You smile like you’ve won something. Your ass is unholy soft under my grip, so full I can’t help but dig my fingers in deeper. Every time I squeeze, you twitch—just a tiny jerk of your hips, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it. And I am. Your breath hitches when my thumb finds the seam of your panties, pressing against the damp lace. You shift your weight, grinding back into my hand like you can’t help it. My fingers tighten, and you bite back a moan, your nails digging into my forearm through my sleeve. The champagne flute trembles in my other hand, threatening to spill. You notice—of course you do—and press harder against me, your ass flexing under my palm as you pretend to adjust the drapes. “Look at the stitching,” you murmur to my wife, but your hips roll in tiny circles, dragging the lace against my fingers. Your cheek dimples under my grip when I squeeze again, and this time the moan slips out—soft, breathy, disguised as a sigh. My wife hums in agreement, oblivious, tracing the embroidery with her fingertip. Then she turns, and you’re gone—slipping from my grasp like smoke, already gliding toward the hallway. Your skirt sways with each step, the fabric clinging to the curve of your ass where I’d gripped it. You pause at the archway, glancing back over your shoulder—just long enough for me to see the wet spot darkening your panties before you disappear around the corner. My wife follows, chattering about throw pillows. The patio’s a trap—flagstone slick with afternoon rain, the wrought-iron furniture arranged just-so. You lead with your hips, pointing out the outdoor kitchen while my wife admires the grill. “Custom masonry,” you murmur, trailing a finger along the fireplace’s edge. Then your heel catches—deliberately—and you stumble backward into my chest. My hands shoot out, fingers sinking into soft flesh before I can think. One palm cups your tit, the other grips your ass. Too hard. You gasp, arching into it, your nipple pebbling against my palm through the thin fabric. You don’t pull away. Instead, you press back, grinding against my cock while my fingers dig deeper into your flesh. “Oops,” you whisper, breathless, like this wasn’t the plan all along. Your ass flexes under my grip, and I realize I’m squeezing hard enough to bruise. My face burns, but you just bite your lip and roll your hips again, your tits spilling over my fingers. Where the hell else was I supposed to grab you? You’re built like a fucking hourglass with nowhere safe to touch. My wife chuckles, shaking her head at your “clumsiness.” She doesn’t see the way your lashes flutter when my thumb grazes the side of your nipple—doesn’t hear the tiny hitch in your breathing as you pretend to steady yourself. You right yourself with a breathy laugh, smoothing your blouse, but your cheeks are flushed and your pupils blown wide. The fabric clings where I’d touched you, the outline of my fingers still pressed into the silk. The tour continues, all three of us nodding at built-ins and crown molding like we give a damn. You’re a master at this—dropping hints about “quality craftsmanship” while your hip brushes mine every third step, your fingers “accidentally” catching my belt loop when you lean in to point out a light fixture. My wife hums approvingly at the master bath’s marble counters. You hum too—low, throaty—as you trail a fingertip along the edge, right where my hand rests. The tile’s cold. Your skin isn’t. The stairs to the master bedroom creak underfoot, each step dragging up memories of the basement—your ass tilted just so, the wrench in my hand, the way your breath hitched when my fingers dug in. You lead my wife up first, chattering about original hardwood, but your heels click slower than necessary. My gaze drags up your legs—the seam of your stockings, the swell of your calves—then higher. Your skirt clings to every curve, riding up with each step until there’s no mistaking it: no panties. Just bare skin, glistening, a slick trail gliding down your inner thigh. My throat goes dry. When the hell did you—? You pause mid-step, one hand on the banister, and glance back over your shoulder like you’ve caught me staring. Which I am. Your smirk is slow, knowing, as you deliberately shift your weight, letting the skirt hike higher. The dim light catches the wetness between your thighs, the way it glistens as it drips down. You don’t wipe it away. Just bite your lip and take another step, your ass swaying with deliberate, taunting grace. My wife drones on about the wainscoting ahead, oblivious. My fingers twitch at my sides, itching to trace that damp path, to feel how warm you are. The master bedroom is a damn stage—king bed perfectly made, silk sheets rumpled just enough to suggest sin. You stride in ahead of us, arms spread wide like you’re unveiling a masterpiece. “And here’s the crown jewel,” you announce, your voice dripping with double meaning. Your hips tilt as you perch on the edge of the mattress, crossing your legs—slow, deliberate—letting the skirt ride up to reveal the smooth, bare skin of your thigh. No panties. No shame. Just you, grinning like you’ve already won. My wife wanders toward the closet, murmuring about storage space. You uncross your legs just long enough to let me see the glisten between them before snapping them shut again. You spring up, suddenly all business, guiding my wife toward the en suite with a hand on the small of her back. “The previous owners spared no expense,” you say, pointing out the rainfall showerhead like it’s the fucking Holy Grail. The glass stall is spotless, steamless—no one’s ever used it—but you describe the water pressure in obscene detail, your fingers tracing the tiles as if recalling every droplet hitting bare skin. My wife nods, entranced by the marble. You catch my eye in the mirror and lick your lips, slow, like you’re imagining me bending you over that very counter. “Oh! The garden,” my wife blurts, pulling away from the vanity. “We have to see it.” She’s already halfway to the French doors before I can react. You’re faster—slipping between us with a murmured, “Let me grab the keys,” though I know damn well the patio’s unlocked. Your hand brushes my crotch as you pass, fingers lingering just long enough to feel how hard I am. You smirk, tossing your hair as you stride ahead. My wife doesn’t notice—she’s too busy sighing at the hydrangeas—but I see the way your hips roll extra slow when you step into the sunlight, your skirt translucent against the backlight. You vanish around a hedgerow, leaving me alone with my wife. She turns, frowning. “What do you think about the—” I cut her off with a cough. “The financing options,” I lie smoothly. “We should compare rates.” Her face falls. “Ugh, boring. You handle that.” She waves me off, already drifting toward the koi pond. Perfect. I duck inside, hunting for you—only to find the house silent. Every room yawns empty: the kitchen’s abandoned champagne flutes, the basement door ajar, the living room’s drapes swaying like ghosts. Then I hear it—a whisper of silk from upstairs. The master bedroom door’s cracked just enough to see the edge of the bed. I press closer, my breath hitching as the hinge creaks. And there you are—sprawled across the silk sheets, one hand cupping your tit while the other works between your thighs. Your blouse hangs open, lace bra shoved down to free your nipple—already stiff, pink from your pinching fingers. Your skirt’s rucked up past your hips, your bare cunt glistening as two fingers slide in and out with obscene wet sounds. You bite your lip, arching off the mattress, hips rolling into your own touch. The headboard taps the wall in a slow, steady rhythm. You don’t hear me. Don’t see me. Too lost in chasing your own pleasure, legs spread shamelessly wide. The scent of you—musk and champagne—hits me like a punch to the gut. Your breath hitches when you add a third finger, stretching yourself open with a low moan. The sight is filthy—your fingers disappearing into that tight heat, your thighs trembling with each thrust. Your other hand fists in your own hair, tugging hard enough to tilt your throat back. Sweat glistens between your tits. You don’t stop, don’t slow down—just fuck yourself faster, gasping nonsense into the empty room. “Yeah, just like—” You cut off with a whimper, fingers curling inside you, thumb rubbing tight circles over your clit. The bed creaks louder. The headboard slams the wall. Your hips jerk, and I see the moment it hits—your back bowing off the bed, mouth open in a silent scream. Your thighs clamp around your wrist, your cunt pulsing around your fingers as you come hard. Then stillness. Panting. The scent of sex thick in the air. Your fingers slip free, glistening, and you drag them lazily up your stomach—streaking your own wetness across your skin. Your eyelids flutter open, still hazy with pleasure—but they sharpen the second they land on me. You freeze, mid-stroke, fingertips pressed to your lower lip. A beat. Then your mouth curls into that same smirk from earlier. Slow. Knowing. Your damp finger lifts, points at me, then crooks inward—once—in a silent command. *Come here.* Your body lifts in one fluid motion, breasts bouncing, nipples still hard. The defiance of gravity should be illegal. I don’t realize I’ve moved until the door clicks shut behind me, sealing us in. Your hands dart out before I can react—fingers knotting in my belt loops, yanking me forward until my knees hit the bed. You lean back, dragging me down with you, your thighs spreading wider to accommodate my hips. The sheets rustle, silk whispering against bare skin as your legs lock around my waist. The scent of your arousal is overwhelming this close—musky, sweet, shameless. Your breath ghosts across my lips. "Took you long enough," you murmur, rolling your hips up against mine. The friction burns through my jeans. Your fingers dig into my shoulders as I drag your wrists above your head, pinning them to the mattress. Your pulse thrums under my grip—fast, wild, matching mine. Your back arches, pressing your tits against my chest, nipples scraping fabric. The whimper you bite back tells me everything. I duck my head, lips skimming your throat, teeth grazing the flutter of your pulse. "You wanted an audience?" I growl against your skin. Your hips buck. "Too bad." My knee presses between your thighs, nudging them wider. Your breath hitches. The damp heat of you seeps through my jeans. I grind down hard. "Now you get me." Your nails rake down my back as I drag your thighs up around my hips, yanking you closer. The scent of your cunt—ripe, slick, begging—fills my lungs. I bury my face in the crook of your neck, inhaling greedily. You writhe, gasping when my teeth sink into the soft flesh of your shoulder. The taste of salt and perfume coats my tongue. "Fuck," you pant, hips rolling in helpless circles. My fingers tighten on your waist—hard enough to bruise. You moan louder. My hand slips lower—over the trembling curve of your belly, past the damp lace still tangled around your hips—until my fingers find your cunt. You're still dressed, but already ruined—soaked through your ruined panties. The fabric clings to your folds, sheer with wetness. I press my palm flat against you, grinding down in slow, filthy circles. Your back bows off the mattress, a strangled cry tearing from your throat. The pleasure hits you like a brick—eyes rolling back, thighs clamping around my wrist. You've never been touched like this—relentless, unforgiving, no room for gentleness. Your fingers scramble at your blouse, clawing at the buttons like they've personally offended you. One pops free, bouncing off my shoulder. Then another. Your chest heaves—those perfect tits straining against the silk—until the fabric gapes open, revealing the black lace beneath. Your nipples are stiff, dark peaks pressing against the sheer cups. You arch higher, desperate, as my fingers twist against your clit. "Off," I snarl against your throat. You whimper but obey, tugging the blouse down your shoulders until it catches on your wrists—still pinned above your head. The sight is obscene—you half-naked, trapped in your own clothes, my fingers working you open beneath the bunched fabric of your skirt. I bite down on your collarbone—hard—as my middle finger presses into your cunt. You're so fucking wet it slides in without resistance, your walls clenching around me instantly. Your hips jerk, seeking more, but I hold you still, licking a hot stripe up your throat while my finger crooks inside you. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, your thighs trembling around my hips. I can feel your pulse hammering under my lips, the frantic flutter of your carotid as my tongue traces the hollow behind your ear. Your bra's still half-on, one lace cup sagging where I've tugged it down. My mouth finds the exposed nipple—pink, pebbled tight—and I suck hard, teeth scraping the sensitive peak. You arch off the bed with a choked cry, your cunt spasming around my finger. I fuck you slowly with it, savoring the way your breath hitches with each thrust, your hips rolling in helpless little circles. Your free hand claws at my hair, holding me to your tit like you're afraid I'll stop. Fat chance. I add a second finger without warning—just press in alongside the first, stretching you wider. Your thighs clamp around my wrist instantly, your whole body tensing. "Fuck—!" you gasp, nails digging into my scalp. You're so tight it burns, but so wet I slide in to the knuckles without resistance. My tongue swirls around your nipple as I curl my fingers inside you, dragging against that spongy spot that makes your legs shake. You whimper, high and desperate, your back bowing off the mattress. The headboard thumps against the wall again—harder this time. Your hips jerk in uneven circles, chasing the pressure. I bite down—hard—on your tit, my teeth sinking into the soft flesh as my fingers pump faster. Your moan cracks into a sob. The pink skin around your nipple blooms red under my mouth, the mark darkening as I suck harder. My free hand pins your hip down, holding you still while I fuck you rough—knuckles grinding against your clit with every thrust. The wet sounds are obscene. Your thighs tremble, your cunt pulsing around my fingers as you edge closer. I twist my fingers inside you, curling them viciously against that spot that makes your eyes roll back. Your back arches off the bed—a silent scream—before I slam my palm against your clit. The slap echoes. You convulse, your entire body seizing as the orgasm rips through you. Your nails rake down my back, drawing blood, but I don’t stop. I fuck you through it—relentless—until your thighs clamp around my wrist, your cunt fluttering in helpless little spasms. Tears streak down your temples. Your mouth hangs open, gasping wordless pleas. Then I pull my fingers free—slow—watching your slick glisten in the dim light before I grab your nipple. Hard. Pinching the stiff peak between my fingers, I twist—just shy of pain—and your hips jerk off the mattress. Your scream is raw, shattered, as another wave crashes over you. Your thighs shake violently, your cunt pulsing around nothing. Your hands scrabble at my shoulders, trying to push me away or pull me closer—I can’t tell. Doesn’t matter. You’re mine.
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