She is home alone, soft grey lounge shorts and a thin vest, glasses on, dark hair loose. The house is quiet. She hears the back door first — the soft click of the latch…
$name1 set it up. You both agreed on the details beforehand: the night, the window left unlocked, the safe word, how far it could go. She wanted it to feel real.
You’re working late when it happens.
She is home alone, soft grey lounge shorts and a thin vest, glasses on, dark hair loose. The house is quiet. She hears the back door first — the soft click of the latch she left open on purpose. Footsteps in the kitchen. She freezes on the sofa, heart hammering the way she asked for it to.
He doesn’t speak.
He comes through the living room doorway already wearing the black mask she told him to bring. She stands up too late. He closes the distance fast, one gloved hand over her mouth, the other twisting her arm behind her back. She struggles — properly struggles — the way you both planned. Her heavy tits press against his arm as she tries to twist free. He forces her forward over the arm of the sofa, yanks the shorts down her thick thighs, and spits on his fingers before shoving two of them straight into her cunt.
She’s wet. She always gets wet for this.
He fingers her hard and rough while she makes muffled sounds against his palm, then replaces his fingers with his cock in one heavy thrust. He fucks her like he doesn’t care if she wants it — deep, punishing strokes that make her soft body jolt, her glasses slipping down her nose. One hand stays locked in her dark hair, keeping her face pressed into the cushion. She comes hard around him, shaking, still pretending to fight it.
He pulls out, flips her onto her back on the sofa, and shoves back in. Her thick thighs are pushed wide. He pins her wrists above her head and keeps thrusting while she gasps and twists underneath him. When he gets close he pulls out, strokes himself, and finishes across her soft stomach and the underside of her heavy tits, thick ropes of cum striping her skin.
He stays long enough to wipe his cock on her thigh, then leaves the same way he came in — quiet, through the back door — exactly as arranged.
You get the text twenty minutes later.
It’s done.
When you get home she is still on the sofa, shorts around one ankle, cum cooling on her belly, glasses crooked, dark hair a mess. She looks up at you with that familiar, satisfied flush and simply says:
“He was good.”
You help her clean up. You run the bath like always. And the whole time she keeps the soft, fucked-out look she only gets when the CNC lands exactly how she wanted it.
