Discover Scenarios

Four Friends Show Him Why Foreskin Stays

“Wait, you’re actually going through with it?” The host’s voice cuts through the movie. Pizza lies cold on the floor. Four of them surround you in mismatched pajamas, projector light flickering across their faces. You shrug. “It’s just what guys do. My parents scheduled it for next month.” “That’s barbaric.” The serious one from the beanbag speaks. She’s been quiet all night, nursing a cider. The host holds up her hand. “Stop. Can I show him?” Three nods. She pulls out her phone, scrolls, then passes it to you. Your breath catches. A man, erect, a hood of skin pulled back just enough to reveal the head beneath—glistening, pink. “That’s what they’d cut off,” she says softly. The one in the silk robe crawls over, her knee pressing into your thigh. “Diagrams don’t show you the movement. The way it glides. The way it feels.” “You wouldn’t know what you’re missing,” the serious one adds. “I’ve never been with a cut guy,” the host says. “And I never will.” She tugs down her shorts. Parts herself. “Look.” Her clit emerges from its hood—a tiny pearl, then retreats. “Every time I touch myself, that hood moves. Protects. Exposes.” Your mouth goes dry. “Now imagine that on a cock,” the robe whispers. “Imagine the head emerging from its hood.” You imagine. Can’t stop. The serious one sits up. “Foreskin is a thousand nerve endings. A sleeve that moves with the shaft. When a man thrusts, that skin glides over his own head—double sensation. Cut guys? Dry. Friction without flow.” Her hand finds your knee. “We want you to keep it.” “Why do you care so much?” “Because you’re about to lose something that could give you—and whoever you’re with—more pleasure than you can imagine.” The host smiles. “Let us show you. Let us prove it.” Four pairs of eyes. Four hands reaching. The shy one—who barely spoke all night—steps forward. “Please,” she whispers. “Let us show you.” Your heart hammers. The robe’s fingers find your hoodie hem. “May I?” You nod. It comes off. The serious one works your jeans button. The host kneels between your legs. “Just lie back. Consider it sex ed.” Your jeans drop. Boxers follow. The air hits your skin—cool, electric. Four pairs of eyes. All staring at the same place. “Oh,” the robe breathes. “You’re already hard.” The host’s fingers trace the outline of your shaft without touching. “Look at that hood. That’s what they want to cut off.” The shy one’s hand trembles as she reaches out. Her finger pads the edge of your foreskin. You gasp. “That’s just the outside,” she whispers. “Wait until you feel the inside.” Her finger pushes gently, rolling the skin back. The head emerges—wet, swollen, glistening in the blue light. “God,” the robe says. The host leans closer. Her breath is warm against the exposed tip. “Now,” she says, “let us show you what you’d be giving up.” Four faces hover. Four sets of fingers hover. One choice remains.

Stepdaughter's Truck Tease

The door of the Peterbilt slams shut behind her, and the whole world shrinks to the two of you in the dim cab. You’re still behind the wheel, but you’ve twisted sideways, one arm hooked over the seatback, watching her haul herself up onto the running board. She takes her time — the denim cutoffs riding high, the thin white tank clinging to every curve, nipples hard and obvious against the cotton. She straightens up, brushes her ponytail off her shoulder, and gives you that look. The one she’s been giving you for two years, ever since Mark first brought her around. “Where’s Mark?” you ask, though you already know the answer. “Running late.” She steps closer, close enough that you can smell her shampoo — something sweet and cheap. “Figured I’d start without him.” Your eyes drop to her mouth, then lower. The tank leaves nothing to the imagination. She catches you looking and doesn’t bother to cross her arms. Instead she bends down to pick up a trash bag from the floor, the cutoffs pulling taut across her ass, and your mouth goes dry. “You gonna just sit there or are you gonna help?” she asks, straightening with a grin. You don’t answer. You just watch her work — bending, reaching, stretching — each movement a deliberate show. The AC is humming, but you’re sweating. She knows it. She’s loving it. After a few minutes she turns toward the sleeper curtain, lifts it aside, and peers into the dark bunk. “What do you use this for when you’re not hauling freight?” The question hangs in the air like a dare. You push out of the driver’s seat, boots heavy on the cab floor. She doesn’t turn around, but she hears you coming — the leather creaks, the air thickens. You stop right behind her, close enough that your chest nearly brushes her back, and put your hand on the doorframe beside her head. “You know what you’re doing, girl?” She turns, slowly, her lips parted. Her hand lands on your belt buckle. “I’m cleaning your truck.” “Bullshit.” Her fingers curl into the leather of your belt. The heat between you is unbearable. She tugs, just a fraction, and your hips bump against hers. Her eyes are dark, waiting. You’ve got one hand on the doorframe, the other free. The bunk is right there. She’s right here. The only sound is the hum of the AC and your own ragged breathing. What do you do next?

by

ob60

Gatekeeper dominates cuckold's wife

"On your knees." The command cuts through the night air, low and absolute. Your body obeys before your mind catches up. The damp grass presses into your shins, the earth smells raw and turned. Above you, the gatekeeper looms — Saleem, your husband called him. His kurta hangs open, revealing a patch of dark chest hair. His eyes are fixed on the gold chain resting between your breasts: your mangalsutra, the symbol of your marriage. He steps closer, his thumb hooking under the chain, pulling until the links bite into the back of your neck. "Pretty," he murmurs. "Meant for your husband. Not anymore." You don't speak. Your husband told you to obey. To let him. Saleem unfastens his pyjamas. His cock springs free — thick, dark, ten inches of veined flesh, already slick at the tip. He fists a hand in your hair, yanking your head back. "Open your mouth." You obey. He feeds the head past your lips, filling your mouth, stretching your jaw. He pushes deeper until you gag, until your nose presses against his groin. He holds you there, your throat convulsing around him. Tears blur your vision. He groans, pulls back, thrusts forward again. The rhythm builds — wet, loud, obscene. Your mangalsutra swings, gold links slapping against your collarbone. He pulls out, a string of saliva connecting his tip to your lip. "Stand up. Bend over the bench." You obey. The stone is cold against your palms. You arch your back, exposing yourself to the night air. He slaps your ass hard. His fingers drag through your wetness, then smear it across your lips. "Taste yourself." You lick. He positions himself behind you. The head of his cock presses against your entrance, teasing. You push back instinctively. He laughs. "Eager now?" "Please," you whisper. He grips your hips, ready to thrust — but then the back door creaks open. A familiar voice, thin and trembling: "Wait." Saleem's hand freezes. He looks over his shoulder, then back at you, a slow smile spreading. "Well, little wife? Your husband wants to watch. What's it going to be?"

Stepdad's Truck Tease

"You know what you're doing, girl?" His voice is low, rough, the words barely a whisper against your ear. His hand is on your hip, fingers pressing into the denim like he's testing if you're real. You're backed against the sleeper curtain, the thin cotton of your wifebeater doing nothing to hide the hard peaks of your nipples. The cab smells like diesel and old leather and something hungrier. You don't answer. Instead, you let your head fall back, giving him a full view of your throat, the way your pulse flutters just under the skin. His breath hitches. His other hand comes up, not to the doorframe this time, but to your waist, sliding under the hem of your tank top. His knuckles brush bare skin — warm, rough, deliberate. "Two years," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "Two years of those shorts, those looks." You feel a smile curve your lips. "And now?" His thumb traces a slow circle just above the waistband of your cutoffs. The AC hums. The curtains are half-drawn. Somewhere outside, a reefer engine rumbles, but inside this cab the world has shrunk to the space between his mouth and yours. "Now I'm wondering if you're gonna stop me." You don't move. His thumb dips lower, catching the frayed edge of your shorts. The fabric shifts. Cool air hits your hipbone. You hold your breath. "I'm not stopping you," you say. He growls something you don't catch and then his mouth is on yours — not gentle, not asking permission. His stubble scrapes your chin. His tongue pushes past your lips. His hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, and he walks you backward until your shoulders hit the curtain and you tumble through into the sleeper cab, the bunk catching you behind the knees. You land on the thin mattress with him above you, his weight settling between your thighs, his mouth already moving down your neck. "Been wanting this," he rasps against your collarbone. "You don't know." "I know." His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the frayed hem higher. Your legs fall open. The rough denim of his jeans presses against the inside of your bare thigh. His thumb finds the edge of your panties, and then he stops. He looks down at you — eyes dark, jaw tight. "Tell me what you want." Your heart slams against your ribs. His thumb is right there, pressing just enough to make you ache. The choice is yours.

by

ob60

Stepdaughter's Truck Tease

"You know what you're doing, girl?" His voice is gravel and coffee, rough from years of diesel fumes and highway silence. You're standing in the cab of his Peterbilt, the door still open behind you, Texas heat spilling in around your bare legs. The shorts you put on this morning are practically nonexistent — denim cut so high the white pockets hang out like little flags. The tank top is thinner than air, no bra, your nipples already tight from the AC and from the way his eyes have been stuck on you since you climbed the running board. You didn't hurry that climb. You took your time, let the fabric pull tight across your ass, let him watch every inch of you haul yourself up into his world. His hand found your lower back when you cleared the last step — steadying, he said. His palm stayed there a beat too long. You felt the heat of it through the cotton. Now he's close. Too close. His forearm is braided with veins, his flannel rolled to the elbows, and he's got you caged against the curtain that leads to the sleeper bunk. The whole truck smells like him — old leather, pine air freshener, something warmer underneath. His jaw is set, stubble silver across his cheeks, and his eyes travel down your body like a man reading a map he's memorized a thousand times. "I'm cleaning your truck," you say, but your voice comes out breathy. "Bullshit." The word lands between you like a dare. You lift your chin. Meet his gaze. Your heart is hammering so hard you can feel it in your throat, in your cunt, a pulse that answers the hunger in his face. "You've been staring at me for two years," you say. "Ever since Mark brought me to your house for the Fourth of July. I wore that red bikini. You burned the burgers." His jaw tightens. His hand moves from the doorframe to your hip, fingers spreading wide, thumb pressing into the jut of bone. The pressure is electric. You feel it in your knees. "I remember," he says. "I stopped wearing bras to your cookouts for a reason." A low sound escapes his throat — half growl, half groan — and then his mouth is on yours. It's not gentle. It's two years of tension breaking, his stubble scraping your chin, his tongue pushing past your lips like he's been starving. You taste coffee and want. Your fingers find the collar of his flannel and pull him deeper. He walks you backward. The curtain gives way and you stumble into the dim cave of the sleeper cab, the bunk catching you behind the knees. You go down onto the thin mattress, his weight settling over you like a promise. His mouth leaves yours and finds your throat, your collarbone. His teeth graze your nipple through the cotton and you gasp, arching into him. "Been wanting this," he mutters against your skin. "You don't know." "I know." His hand slides up your thigh, pushing the frayed hem of your shorts higher. Your legs fall open. His thumb finds the edge of your waistband, traces it slowly, a question. You can feel the heat of his palm an inch from where you're already slick and aching. The AC hums. The curtain is half-drawn. Outside, the yard is empty. His thumb hooks the fabric. He looks at you, waiting. The next move is yours.

by

ob60

Shy Brother Transforms with Sister and Her Friends

"Jaden!" Your sister's voice cuts through the wall, sharp and bright, followed by a burst of laughter from her friends. You're at your desk, trying to focus on a biofeedback sensor schematic, but the noise from the living room grinds against your skull. You've been hiding in here for two hours, the gulf between you and your sister's world as wide as ever. You save your file, resigned, and reach for your backpack—but something catches your eye. A green gemstone glints on the floor beside your bed, impossibly vivid, warm to the touch. You pick it up, frowning. It must belong to one of them—Selina's art project, maybe. You walk to the living room, holding it out. "I found this. Is it yours?" The three women look up. Your sister, dark hair loose, shakes her head. Selina, elegant and sharp-eyed, shrugs. Vicky, compact and confident, grins. "Pretty rock, little brother. Not mine." The stone glows. Green light floods the room, swallowing everything, and then the heat hits you—a wave of pressure that starts between your legs and rolls upward. Your bones shift, your skin prickles, and when you look down, your chest is swelling, straining against your shirt. Your sister gasps, her own body curving, her clothes tearing as pink fur spreads across her skin. Selina's ears elongate into rabbit ears, her frame softening into a lush hourglass. Vicky cries out as wings erupt from her back. And you—you feel something push out above your ass. Twin tails. Your hands fly to your face—softer, rounder, a muzzle forming. Between your legs, a thick, knotted cock emerges, slick and aching. You are all changing, becoming something new: futa anthros, your bodies curvy and powerful, your cocks erect and leaking. The air fills with moans. Your sister grabs her own shaft, stroking it desperately. Selina cups her enormous breasts, milk beading at her nipples. Vicky's wings flutter as she explores her new length. And you stand there, transformed, your mind flooding with memories of a workshop, blueprints, flight—Tails' genius fusing with your own. The four of you look at each other, wild and hungry, the distance between you gone. One of them has to make the first move.

Mature Lover Begs to Be Filled

Her whisper brushes your ear, honey-thick: 'I want you to fill me tonight.' Your breath catches. Her palm presses flat against your chest, feeling your heart race under her touch. The room is dim, amber light softening every curve of her body as she stands before you in nothing but a worn nightshirt. She lifts her arms without a word, and the fabric pools at her feet. The sight of her—full breasts, dark nipples already hard, the gentle swell of her belly, the shadow between her thighs—makes your mouth dry. She steps closer, pressing her warmth against you. Her hand slides down your stomach, fingers toying with your waistband. Her other hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you into a slow, deliberate kiss. Her tongue tastes of cinnamon and something darker, something she only lets out when the lights are low. She breaks the kiss and trails her lips down your jaw, your throat. Her breath is hot against your skin. 'You've been good today,' she murmurs, her accent curling like warm caramel. 'You deserve a reward.' Her mouth finds your nipple through your shirt—she bites gently, then soothes with her tongue. Your hands find her hips, pulling her closer. She grinds against you, the heat of her pussy soaking through the thin fabric of her shorts. She moans, low and guttural, and the sound vibrates through you. She drops to her knees. Her fingers work your belt, your zipper. She looks up at you, eyes dark and glistening. Her lips part. 'Tell me how you want me,' she says, her voice a husky command wrapped in submission. 'I'm yours tonight.' She waits. Her hand wraps around you, warm and sure. The choice is yours.

Vet Claims Married Slut on Bench

Her heel catches the crack. You're on your feet before she hits the ground. Your arm hooks around her waist, pulling her against your chest. The fabric of her cream dress is soft. So is the curve of her hip under your palm. She smells expensive—floral, clean, nothing like the sweat and bourbon on your skin. "Easy now." Your voice comes out gravel. "Easy." She tries to stand. Her ankle buckles. You catch her again, this time letting your hand slide lower, thumb brushing the swell of her ass through that thin material. She gasps. Doesn't pull away. "My bench is right there." You nod toward the worn slats. "Sit. Let me look." She hesitates. The diamond on her left hand catches the dying sun. Then she winces and nods. You help her sit. Kneel in front of her. Your fingers find the clasp of her heel, slide it off. Her foot is pale, arch high, nails painted pink. You cup her heel. She's warm. "I'm Marcus." You don't look up. "Clarissa." "Pretty name." Your thumb traces the curve of her instep. "Does your husband know you're out here, Clarissa?" Her breath catches. "That's not your—" "I think it is." You look up, hold her gaze. Your thumb presses into the soft flesh of her arch. "Because you're sitting on my bench. Wearing my charity. And your ankle is fine." Her eyes go wide. "I saw you twist. A performance. A good one." Your other hand slides up her calf, pushing the hem of her dress higher. "You wanted to be seen. Wore that dress. Walked past me twice. Wanted me to notice." She tries to pull her foot away. Your grip tightens. "Let me go." "No." "Please—" Her voice cracks. "You're married. You're bored. You wanted a story to tell yourself at night." Your hand reaches her knee. "So let me give you one." The park is quiet. A bird calls overhead. She holds your gaze. Then she nods. Just once. Just barely. You don't wait. Your hands find the hem of her dress and push it up her thighs. She's bare beneath. No underwear. Dark curls, wet lips, the pale skin of her inner thighs. Your cock hardens against your worn jeans. "Look at you." Your voice drops to a growl. "Walking around with this under your dress. Were you meeting someone? Did you hope I'd be bold enough to find out?" Her lips part. A sound escapes—half whimper, half yes. You push her back against the bench. Your body covers hers. Your beard scratches her neck as you kiss down her throat. Her hands find your shoulders, holding you like she's drowning. "This is what you wanted." Your fingers find her wetness. Slick and hot. "This is what you came for." She arches into your touch. "Please. Please, Marcus." You free your cock—thick, dark, already slick at the tip. She gasps. You position yourself between her thighs. "Tell me. Tell me you want this." "You know I do. You knew from the moment I fell." You push inside her. She's tight. Hot. The way she gasps, the way her nails dig into your back—perfect. You give her a long, deep thrust, watching her face contort with pleasure. "You're mine." Each word punctuated by a slow, deliberate motion. "On this bench. This park. You're not his. You're not anyone's. You're. Fucking. Mine." Her head falls back. Her moans echo through the empty park. You take her hard and fast, then slow and deep, your thumb finding her clit and circling until she's trembling. Her legs wrap around your waist. Her dress is bunched around her hips, and the sight of her—this beautiful, married woman, taking a homeless man on a public bench—pushes you closer. "Marcus—" Her voice breaks. "Marcus, I'm going to—" "Look at me." Her eyes find yours. "Come for me. Come on my cock. Let the whole park hear who you belong to." She shatters. Her body convulses around you. Her cries are raw, unfiltered. The sensation of her pulsing around you, the sight of her coming undone, pushes you over. You pull out and spend yourself across her thighs. Hot and thick. You stay there for a moment. Her breath ragged. Yours deeper. Then her phone buzzes from where it landed on the grass. Once. Twice. Then again, insistently. Her eyes find the screen. Her face goes pale. "It's my husband." The name glows. His photo stares up at you. The phone keeps buzzing. You have a choice.

Pinning Down the Idol

"The jacket's wrong," he says, not turning around. You balance your coffee cup against your hip and step closer. "I know. That's why they called me." He finally turns—grey-green eyes, storm-dark, meeting yours. He takes your hand, his palm warm, grip brief but deliberate. "Your new stylist," you say. He doesn't let go right away. The silence thickens. You pull out your measuring tape. "Raise your arms." He does, and you step into his space. Up close he smells like sandalwood and rain on concrete. Your fingers find his collarbone, tracing the dip before running the tape down his spine. He doesn't flinch—but his breath catches. You take your time. Shoulder to wrist, chest to waist, hips to thigh. Each touch lingers a heartbeat too long. "You move like a dancer," you murmur. "Was one. Before." His voice is low, close. You finish the measurements, but neither of you steps back. The tape hangs loose in your hand. His eyes drop to your lips. Then the door opens—a stage manager, calling him for rehearsal. The moment shatters. He pulls away, but not before his fingers brush your wrist, deliberate, hot. That night, backstage at his first event in your designs, you're adjusting his midnight-blue cuff. The fabric clings to every line of him. He looks like he stepped out of a painting. "Nervous?" you ask. "No." "Liar." His hand catches your wrist. His thumb presses against your pulse—it jumps under his touch. "Thank you," he says, voice rough. "For seeing what I needed." The noise of the crew fades. The lights blur. He holds your gaze, mouth open like he wants to say more. Then the stage manager's voice crackles: "Two minutes." He releases you. Steps back. Walks toward the stage—but at the last second, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder. The silence stretches. You can still feel the ghost of his fingers on your skin. The choice is yours.

Stylist Seduces Idol Backstage

Your fingers brush his collarbone as you measure his shoulders. He doesn't flinch, but his breath hitches—just barely. You're close enough to smell sandalwood and rain on concrete. He's wearing a dark green suit that hangs wrong in the shoulders, and you already know you'll have to rebuild it from scratch. "The jacket's wrong," he says, not meeting your eyes in the mirror. "I know. That's why they called me." You smile, keeping it easy. "I'm your new stylist." He finally turns. Grey-green eyes, storm-colored, scan your face like he's deciding whether you're a threat. His handshake is brief, warm, deliberate. "I don't usually work with stylists." "I heard." You let your gaze drop to his chest, then back up. "But here we are." Over the next hour you learn his body the way a dancer learns a partner—by touch, by tension, by the way his spine tilts forward like he's bracing for a blow. You run the tape from his shoulder blade to his wrist, noting the lean muscle beneath the fabric. Your knuckles graze his ribs. His jaw tightens. "You move like a dancer," you murmur. "Was one. Before." "Before what?" "Before this." He gestures at the chaos around you—racks of sequined blazers, hissing steamers, the distant sound of a stage manager's voice. "It pays better." You laugh. "That's the most honest thing any idol's said to me in six months." His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but close. --- The fittings become your secret ritual. Tuesday and Thursday, four to six. He shows up early now. You pin fabric while standing between his legs, your fingers tracing the inside of his thigh to mark a hem. He stops breathing when you touch his waist. You notice. You don't mention it. He tells you about the cage of fame, the family that never understood. You tell him about the torn ligament that ended your ballet career, the year you spent mourning a body that betrayed you. He listens without pity, his grey eyes soft in the dim light of the fitting room. "You care," he says one afternoon, unprompted. You're kneeling at his feet, marking the break of his trousers. "You notice things. You fix them. Even when no one asks." You look up. "Is that a bad thing?" "No." His voice drops. "I don't know what to do with it." "You don't have to do anything." He holds your gaze a second too long. The air thickens. --- The night of his first major event in your designs, you're backstage adjusting his cuff. Midnight blue fabric, cut to follow every line of his body. He looks like he stepped out of a painting. Your hands tremble as you smooth his lapel. "Nervous?" you ask. "No." "Liar." His hand catches your wrist. His fingers wrap around your pulse point, and you feel it jump against his skin like a trapped bird. He steps closer. The noise of the crew fades to static. "Thank you," he says, low and rough. "For seeing what I needed." You swallow. "It's my job." "No." He's inches away now. "You care. And I don't know how to handle that." Your heart hammers. His thumb rests on the spot where your pulse beats wild and fast. You want to close the distance. You want to taste the word on his lips. Then the stage manager's voice crackles through the headset. "Dan Heng, two minutes." He releases you. Steps back. The door slams shut behind his eyes. But as he turns toward the stage, he pauses. Looks over his shoulder. For one electric second, you see the crack in his armor—the question he's too afraid to ask. Then he walks away, and you're alone with the ghost of his fingers burning on your skin. The crowd roars beyond the curtain. And you have a choice to make.

Silent Pool Stranger Claims Me

His hand is on your waist, underwater, pulling you closer. The chlorine stings your eyes but you don't blink. You're pinned in his gaze, the world reduced to the heat of his body against yours. He's lean, tanned, every muscle defined under slick skin. His fingers slide lower, tracing the edge of your swimsuit. You gasp silently, pressing into his touch. Around you, the pool is emptying—children's laughter fading, the lifeguard's whistle signaling close. He doesn't let go. He nods toward the locker rooms, a question in his eyes. You follow. The tiled floor is cold under your wet feet. Echoes bounce off the walls: a dripping faucet, a distant lock clicking shut. He chooses a cabin near the end, small, barely room for two. You slip inside after him, pulling the curtain closed. The air is thick with humidity and the scent of chlorine—and something else, saltier, more urgent. He turns to face you, water still clinging to his shoulders. His hands find your hips, pulling you flush against him. You feel his erection through his trunks, straining against your stomach. His breath is warm on your neck. He tilts your chin up, his lips hovering inches from yours. The silence is deafening. He's waiting for you to make the next move.

Girlfriend Catches Me with Her Mom

Your girlfriend's tongue is making slow, wet laps along the underside of your cock when you first notice her mother watching from the cracked bedroom door. The apartment smells like stale cigarette smoke and cheap vanilla candles. Caroline's lips are wrapped around the head, her dark hair falling across her face, her pale blue eyes looking up at you with devotion. You prop yourself up against the headboard, one hand tangled in her hair, the other gripping the sheet. The door creaks open another inch. You see her mother's shadow first, then a sliver of her face—those sharp features, the same pale eyes as her daughter, but darker, hungrier. She's thirty-eight, with heavy tits and wide hips, and right now she's pressing one hand flat against the wall while the other disappears under the hem of her cotton nightgown. She's touching herself, knuckles moving in slow circles. She meets your eyes and mouths two words: *Shower. Later.* You nod, just barely, and she vanishes. Caroline has no idea. She pulls you onto the bed, spreads her slim legs, and you fuck her tight cunt until she comes three times. Then she falls asleep in your arms, satisfied. But you lie awake, listening for the bathroom faucet. Minutes later, you hear the water running. You slide out of bed, your cock still slick with your girlfriend's juices, and find her mother waiting in the shower. She takes you in her mouth, then bends over the tile, and you sink into her loose, welcoming cunt. The wet sounds fill the small bathroom. She moans your name, and you pound into her harder, losing yourself in the heat. Then the bathroom door creaks open. Caroline's voice cuts through the steam: "What the fuck are you doing?" You freeze. Her mother's hand is still wrapped around your wet cock, her face glistening with your cum. Caroline stands there, barefoot in an oversized T-shirt, her eyes moving from you to her mother and back. Her lip trembles. Her hands ball into fists. "How long?" she whispers. "How long has this been going on?" Her mother straightens slowly, not bothering to cover herself. "Long enough," she says, her voice calm. "Long enough that I'm done hiding. Now we all have a choice." Caroline's eyes lock onto yours, wet and wounded. "So tell me, Mark. What do you want?"

by

kingsparta69