You knew she’d matched with someone on Tinder that week. She didn’t hide her phone as carefully as usual. You caught the edge of a few messages—flirty, blunt, the kind she only sends when she’s already decided.
You knew she’d matched with someone on Tinder that week.
She didn’t hide her phone as carefully as usual. You caught the edge of a few messages—flirty, blunt, the kind she only sends when she’s already decided. On the Friday she told you she was meeting a friend for drinks. She left the house in a tight black dress that clung to every soft curve, dark hair down, glasses on, looking like the sweetest, most ordinary wife… and nothing underneath.
He picked her up in his car.
Tall. Broad. White. Early thirties. They didn’t even make it to the bar.
He drove them to a quiet multi-storey and parked on the empty top level. The second the engine was off she turned in the passenger seat, looked at him over her glasses, and slowly parted her thighs. The dress rode up. She was already glistening. He reached across and stroked her for a long time with two thick fingers, watching her face while she got wetter and wetter under his hand. She came quietly in the passenger seat, hips lifting, one hand gripping the door handle, biting her lip behind her glasses.
Only then did she lean over and free his cock.
It was huge.
Long, thick, heavy in her soft hand. She stared at it for a second, then wrapped both hands around it and stroked, almost in awe, before taking the fat head into her mouth. She could barely stretch her lips around it. She sucked what she could, drooling, eyes watering behind her glasses, while he held her dark hair and watched her struggle so prettily.
When she couldn’t wait any longer she climbed into the back seat. He followed. She lay back, dress shoved up around her waist, soft thighs spread wide, and watched him line that massive cock up against her chubby pink cunt. The stretch was slow and intense. She moaned the whole way in—low, broken, almost pained—until he was finally buried to the hilt and she was trembling underneath him, completely full.
He fucked her deep and steady in the back of his car, one hand braced on the window, the other holding her thigh open so he could watch every thick inch disappearing inside her. She came twice like that, shaking, glasses fogged, dark hair stuck to her face, before he finally growled and pumped her full of cum. There was so much of it that it started leaking out around his cock before he’d even finished.
He stayed inside her a long time afterward. She kept her legs wrapped around him, still pulsing, still taking it, while the windows ran with condensation. Only when she was ready did she let him pull out. A thick river of cum followed, running down over her arse and onto the back seat. She looked down at the mess between her soft thighs, then up at him, and simply said, “Again.”
You were already in bed when she finally came home after two in the morning. She slipped in beside you smelling of sex and unfamiliar cologne, still wet between the legs. When you rested a hand on her hip she was warmer than usual… and distinctly tender.
She didn’t say a word about the Tinder date or the huge cock that had just stretched her open in the back of a stranger’s car.
She didn’t need to.
You could feel it in the way she moved—carefully, slowly, like she was still full of him.
