Catching Her Wife With The Sitter

Paige slams the front door shut and stops dead. There they are—Whitney flat on her back, Paige’s harness still buckled around her hips, Stella bouncing on top, breath hitching every time that silicone cock slams in. Paige’s hands ball into fists. The rage hits like whiskey on a wound. "You’ve got balls," she spits. They freeze. Both mouths drop open, eyes wide, ready with excuses. Paige can’t look away from the glitter of sweat on Stella’s small tits or the slick mess between her thighs where her wife’s borrowed cock has stretched her wide. She tells herself she’s furious, but her pulse is throbbing between her legs now, and God damn, Stella’s tight little body looks filthy-wrong and perfect. "Take that harness off," Paige growls at Whitney. The leather slaps the floor. Paige shoves out of her clothes, drags the wet straps back over her own hips, pushes Whitney onto the couch with her ass up. "Stay there and watch what happens when you steal what’s mine." She nails her wife first—hard, short strokes that rattle the frame. Whitney moans into the cushions, clutching, while Stella kneels beside them, stroking Paige’s thigh, waiting her turn. Paige hauls the sitter over Whitney’s back, folds both girls together so Stella’s cunt is stacked right on top of Whitney’s ass. Then she drives the strap between them, switching from wife to baby-sitter in bruising thrusts, tearing shouts out of each of them until slick runs down their thighs. They beg—more, harder, deeper—and Paige gives it to them, sweat stinging her eyes, the wet smack of bodies filling the room. Every messy, punishing thrust tightens the knot in her gut until all three of them are shaking, gasping, coming so hard the couch creaks and no one’s apologizing anymore.