Trans gangbang

One week later.

The kitchen smells of coffee and toast, morning light streaming through the curtains – everything deceptively normal. Alina sets down her mug with a casual clink, looks directly at my wife, and says, "Three girlfriends are coming to stay for us for a week."

My wife shivers. It's subtle—a ripple across her shoulders, a tremor in the hand reaching for her orange juice—but I catch it. Does she know something? Does she understand what this means, what Alina is orchestrating? I watch her face, searching for recognition, for fear, for anything.

"How nice," my wife answers, her voice steady, betraying nothing. She reaches across the table and caresses Alina's arm, her fingers trailing along the skin with a familiarity that makes my stomach tighten. "When do they arrive?"

"Tomorrow."

Seven days. Alina has been fucking my wife for an entire week now—every night, sometimes multiple times, occasionally during the day when I'm at work. I've listened through walls, watched through cracked doors, and learned the rhythm of their coupling like a second heartbeat in the house. And now, watching my wife's body respond to Alina's proximity, I see the evidence. Her nipples harden beneath the thin fabric of her summer dress, two dark points pressing against the cotton, visible and undeniable.

Alina notices too. She smiles, slow and predatory, and pushes back her chair. The scrape of wood against tile cuts through the morning quiet.

"Dad," she says, not looking at me, her eyes locked on my wife. "Could you hold her wrists, please? I'm going to take your wife's rectum again."

My wife stands up immediately, as if expecting this, as if they've rehearsed it. Her chair tips slightly, catching against the table leg. She doesn't look at me. Her face is flushed, her breath already coming faster, her nipples now achingly prominent against the dress.

Alina moves behind her, swift and purposeful. Her hands grip the hem of my wife's dress and shove it upward, all the way up to her waist, bunching the fabric around her ribs. My wife is naked underneath—just as Alina likes her, just as she's been instructed to remain, accessible and ready. The morning light catches the curve of her ass, the pale skin unmarked and waiting.

"Your tits too," Alina commands.

My wife complies without hesitation. Her hands find the straps of her dress and push them down over her shoulders, the fabric pooling at her elbows, releasing her heavy breasts into the air. They hang pendulous and full, nipples dark and erect, swaying slightly as she moves. She bends forward over the kitchen table, her cheek pressing against the cool wood, her arms extending forward, wrists presented to me like an offering.

I grab them. Her skin is hot against my palms, pulse hammering beneath my thumbs. I hold tight, spreading her arms slightly, pinning her in place. She tests my grip immediately, instinctively, and I tighten my fingers. She can go nowhere. She is held, trapped between my hands and what is coming.

Alina doesn't prepare her. No lube. No fingers. No gentle opening. She simply releases her cock from her shorts—it springs out thick and throbbing, already hard, veins standing in sharp relief along the shaft—and positions the swollen head against my wife's unprotected hole.

Then she rams it home.

The sound my wife makes is inhuman—a strangled shriek that dissolves into a gurgling cry, her body jerking violently against my grip. Her back arches, spine contorting, muscles locking in protest as Alina's cock tears past the resistant ring of muscle and plunges deep into her anal canal. No mercy. No gradual entry. Just pure, brutal penetration, the full length buried in one savage thrust.

"Hold her," Alina grunts, already pulling back, already driving in again. "Don't let her move."

I grip tighter. My wife's wrists twist in my hands, her fingers clawing at the table surface, nails scratching wood. Her face is turned towards me, eyes squeezed shut, mouth open in a silent scream, tears already leaking from the corners. The pain must be exquisite—burning, tearing, the violation of dry entry into tight muscle. But she doesn't say safe words. She doesn't ask me to release her. She simply endures, held in place by my hands, impaled on Alina's cock.

The fucking starts immediately. Hard. Fast. Alina's hips slam against my wife's ass with meaty, wet impacts, each thrust forcing the air from my wife's lungs in sharp grunts. The table begins to move—scraping across the tile with each shove, inch by inch, protesting the violence. Plates rattle, cups dance, and the butter dish slides towards the edge and teeters precariously. A fork falls, clattering against the floor, then a knife, then a spoon, cutlery raining down as the rhythm intensifies.

Slap-slap-slap-slap.

"Taking it," Alina pants, her hands gripping my wife's hips, fingers digging into flesh, pulling her back onto each thrust. "Taking it raw. No lube. Just my cock in your shithole, Mommy. Hurts, doesn't it?"

"Yes—" my wife manages, voice broken. " Yes—hurts—*good*—"

"Going to fill you fast," Alina warns, pace becoming erratic and savage. "Going to empty my full balls into your brown canal. Going to pump you full while he holds you down."

Slap-slap-slap.

The table scrapes another inch. A glass tips, rolls, shatters against the floor. Neither of them flinch. Alina is hammering now, using my wife's body with single-minded purpose, chasing her own release with brutal efficiency. Her balls slap against my wife's cunt with each impact, heavy and full, ready to discharge.

"Here—" Alina snarls, burying herself to the root, hips stuttering. "Here it comes—taking it—"

She erupts. I can see it—the base of her cock pulsing, her abdominal muscles clenching in rhythmic waves, and the way her thighs tremble with the effort of release. My wife feels it too—the hot flood of cum shooting deep into her rectum, filling the canal that was forced open only moments ago, the warmth spreading through her bowels, obscene and intimate.

The orgasm hits my wife like a seizure. Her body locks up, spine arching impossibly, her scream tearing through the kitchen as her anal muscles clamp down around the pumping shaft. It's shattering—convulsive, transcendent, her legs giving out completely so that only my grip on her wrists and Alina's cock inside her ass hold her up. She collapses forward, face pressed flat against the table, breasts squashed against the wood, held only by my hands as wave after wave rips through her.

"Milking me," Alina groans, still twitching, still releasing. "Milking my cum with your ass. Good slut. Good fucktoy."

She stays buried, pumping the last drops into my wife's conquered hole, ensuring every jet stays sealed inside by the depth of her penetration. My wife whimpers beneath her, limp and used, her body still occasionally spasming with aftershocks.

Alina finally withdraws with a wet, obscene sound, and I watch my wife's hole gape briefly before closing, the cum sealed inside by gravity and the tightness of her muscles. She lies flat on the breakfast table, dress bunched around her waist, tits pressed against wood, wrists still held in my hands, breathing in ragged gasps.

"Thank you, Dad," Alina says, tucking herself back into her shorts. "You can let her go now. She's not going anywhere."

I release my wife's wrists. She doesn't move. She simply lies there, marked and filled, her body still trembling, as Alina picks up her coffee mug and takes a sip, casual as morning.

"Tomorrow," Alina reminds us, setting down the mug. "Three girlfriends. One week. I hope you've both recovered by then."

My wife whimpers softly into the table, and I realise she hasn't even sat up yet. She may not be able to.

...

"The girls," Alina announces, and we all move towards the front door, drawn by the sound of tyres on gravel.

I follow my wife onto the porch, the morning sun bright and merciless. Three figures emerge from a dusty sedan, stretching and laughing, and I find my eyes dropping immediately, instinctively, to their crotches. What I see makes my throat tighten—large, prominent bulges straining against fabric. One wears a sundress, the hem fluttering in the breeze, but the silhouette beneath leaves no doubt. Another in tight denim shorts, the outline unmistakable. The third, the tall black girl leading the pack, wears athletic leggings that do nothing to hide the heavy weight between her thighs.

"Is that the wifey?" the Black girl calls out, not breaking stride, not waiting for introductions. She reaches my wife in three long steps, and her hand lands on my wife's ass without preamble, without permission, fingers sinking into the flesh and kneading possessively. "Mmm. Soft. Alina said you trained her well."

My wife shivers. It's visible—a full-body tremor that ripples from her shoulders down to her knees. The way she's being handled, treated as an object, a free-use fuck doll available to any hand that reaches for her. I watch her nipples harden immediately against her dress, betraying her arousal at the degradation.

"I hear she likes it in the asshole," the Black girl continues, her hand still working my wife's cheeks, spreading them slightly through the thin cotton, testing the resistance. Her fingers probe lower, almost casually, pressing against the seam where my wife's legs meet. "Don't you, wifey? Like a big cock stretching your shithole?"

My wife whimpers, unable to speak, her face flushing crimson.

"Why don't you get ready on all fours, honey?" the Black girl suggests, though it's not a suggestion. It's instruction. "So I can give you some black cock."

My wife's voice emerges small and broken after a week of being fucked raw and sore by Alina. "Where?"

"Right here." The Black girl gestures to the wicker lounger in the front yard, positioned facing the street, in plain view of anyone passing by. "On the lounger. The one in front. The one in plain view."

My wife doesn't hesitate. Her hands find the hem of her summer dress, and she pulls it upward, the fabric dragging over her skin, revealing her nakedness beneath—just as Alina requires, accessible and ready. The dress bunches around her ribs, then over her head, discarded onto the porch boards. She stands exposed for a moment, breasts heavy and swaying, nipples dark and erect, before she moves to the lounger.

She climbs onto it gracefully, despite her trembling, positioning herself on all fours. Her knees spread wide on the cushion, her back arching to present her ass properly, her face turned towardss the house but her body angled towardss the street. Her cheeks spread naturally in this position, the pink bud of her asshole visible, slightly swollen from Alina's morning use, glistening slightly with residual lubrication or arousal.

"That's a good proper slut you made for us, Alina," the Black girl praises, her eyes devouring the sight. Her hands move to her own shorts, pushing them down her long legs, and her cock springs free—thick, black, heavy, bouncing up against her flat stomach with an audible slap. It's massive, veined, the head swollen and dark, already leaking precum. "Look at that ass. High in the air. Waiting for her thick black treat like a good bitch."

My wife pushes back slightly, involuntarily, her body responding to the words, to the presence of that weapon behind her. She wants it. Despite the pain she knows is coming, despite the soreness from a week of constant use, she wants to be filled, to be claimed, to be used as the fuck doll she's become.

The Black girl—Amalia, I hear one of the others call her—positions herself behind my wife, gripping her own shaft and dragging the heavy head along my wife's cleft, coating herself in the wetness she finds there. Then she lines up, the broad head pressing against the resistant ring of muscle, and pushes.

The scream that tears from my wife's throat is immediate and piercing. Amalia's cock is thicker than Alina's, thicker than anything my wife has taken, and the penetration is brutal, unrelenting. The head pops through with an audible sound, and Amalia doesn't pause, driving forward in one continuous stroke, forcing inch after inch of thick black meat into my wife's unprepared canal.

"Taking it," Amalia grunts, her hands gripping my wife's hips, fingers digging into pale flesh. "Taking that black cock in your white ass. Scream for me, bitch. Let the neighbours hear."

My wife screams again, her back arching, her head thrown back, but even as she cries out in pain, her body betrays her. She pushes back, impaling herself deeper, wanting more, wanting to be filled completely, to be stretched around this invader until she can't remember her own name.

"Good bitch," Amalia praises, beginning to move. Her hips draw back and slam forward, each thrust forcing the air from my wife's lungs in sharp grunts. "Good anal slut. Look at that hole open for me. Look at it take black dick."

The other girls have gathered around, watching, and they add their voices to the chorus.

"Beautiful gape," one murmurs, leaning close to watch the penetration. "She's opening up so well."

"Trained properly," another agrees. "Alina did good work. Look at her pushback. She wants it deep."

"Doing a good bitch job," the first one says, reaching out to slap my wife's hanging breast, making it swing. "Taking that black cock like she was born for it."

Amalia keeps fucking her, hard and relentless, the lounger creaking beneath them, the wicker protesting the violence of the rhythm. My wife's screams have dissolved into continuous moans, broken only by the impact of Amalia's hips against her ass. She comes first with a shriek, her body locking up, her anal muscles clamping down on the invading shaft, milking it instinctively.

"Coming on black cock," Amalia laughs, not slowing. "Coming like a whore in the front yard. Let's give her another."

She changes angle, driving deeper, and my wife's second orgasm hits within minutes, even more violent than the first. Her arms give out, her face pressing into the cushion, her ass remaining high, presented, and available, as her body convulses around the relentless pounding.

It's then that the mail truck rounds the corner.

The mailman slows and stops, and his eyes widen as he takes in the scene—the naked woman on all fours on the front lawn lounger, the Black girl behind her with hands on her hips, and the obvious act of penetration visible even from the street. He sits frozen, mailbag in hand, staring.

Amalia doesn't stop fucking. Instead, she reaches up and grabs her own tank top, pulling it over her head in one smooth motion, revealing her magnificent black breasts – heavy, full, with hard brown nipples pointing proudly upward. She arches her back, displaying herself, making it clear that this is no man fucking my wife, but a woman, a true woman with magnificent tits and a huge black cock, claiming her place in broad daylight.

"Watch if you want," Amalia calls out to the mailman, her hips never slowing. "Watch me breed this ass. Watch me empty my balls into your neighbour's wife."

She turns back to my wife, gripping her shoulders, and drives deep, burying herself to the root. Her balls draw up tight against my wife's cunt, heavy and full, and I can see the moment she releases—the rhythmic pulsing of her shaft, the way her abdominal muscles clench, and the shudder that runs through her powerful frame.

"Here it comes," she snarls, pressing deep, grinding. "Here it comes, slut. Taking my black seed. Taking it deep in your ass."

My wife feels it—the hot flood of cum erupting into her bowels, filling the canal that Amalia has been pounding raw. The warmth spreads through her, obscene and intimate, pumping from those heavy balls in thick jets that coat her insides. Amalia keeps twitching, keeps releasing, emptying everything she has into my wife's conquered hole, ensuring every drop stays sealed inside by the depth of her penetration.

"So much," my wife whimpers, her voice muffled by the cushion. "Oh god, so much cum—"

"Black cum," Amalia corrects, still grinding, still milking the last drops. "In your white ass. While your husband watches. While the mailman watches. While the whole fucking street knows you're a Black cock slut."

She finally withdraws, her cock sliding out with a wet, obscene sound, and I watch my wife's hole gape, twitching, before slowly closing, the cum sealed inside, her ass still raised high, presented, marked and claimed on our front lawn for anyone to see.

...

The mailman stands frozen on the boardwalk, mailbag slipping from his shoulder, his mouth hanging open in speechless shock. He doesn't move. He doesn't look away. He simply stares at the scene unfolding on our front lawn—my wife still on all fours, cum leaking from her ass, her body trembling with aftershocks.

"Your turn, Dad," the blonde says, stepping forward. She's been watching, stroking the prominent bulge beneath her sundress, and now she reaches out, grabbing my shoulder with firm fingers. "Next to your wife. Position."

I don't think. I don't hesitate. A week of listening, of watching, of being ucked by my own daughters' cock has broken something in me, or perhaps awakened something. My hands find my shorts, and I push them down, stepping out of them, exposing myself completely on our front porch. My asshole is still sore from Alina's treatment earlier this morning—the rough, dry fucking over the kitchen table left me tender, swollen, and burning. But I don't protest. I simply move to the lounger, dropping to my knees besides my wife, mirroring her position. I lower my chest to the cushion, spread my knees wide, and lift my hips, presenting my sphincter high into the air, making it easily available and accessible, offering myself the way my wife was offered.

"Open your cheeks, honey," the blonde whispers, her voice soft but commanding, right next to my ear. "Show me where you want it."

My hands move behind me, trembling, and I grip my own ass, spreading myself open, exposing the tight pink bud that has never been breached by anyone but Alina. The morning air hits my exposed hole, cool against the heat of my skin, and I feel more naked than I've ever been—spread and presented on my own front lawn while the mailman watches.

The blonde doesn't make me wait. I hear the rustle of her dress, the wet sound of lubrication—she's at least kinder than Alina—and then the heavy weight of her cockhead pressing against my entrance. She's thick. God, she's thick. The pressure builds, my muscles resisting, fighting, and then she pushes forward with steady, merciless pressure.

The stretch is immediate and overwhelming. I cry out, my voice breaking, my back arching involuntarily as she forces her way inside. She opens me wider than Alina did, her girth stretching my canal in ways that feel impossible, burning, tearing. My fingers dig into my own ass cheeks, holding myself spread as she sinks deeper, inch by agonising inch, filling my tunnel properly, completely, until I feel her hips press against my ass and know she's buried to the root.

"Alina," the blonde breathes, her hands gripping my hips, her cock throbbing inside my violated canal. "You trained such a tight bitch. Look at this. Gripping me like a fist."

She pulls back slightly and drives forward, and I scream into the cushion. The ploughing begins—hard, deep strokes that make my vision blur. Each thrust forces the air from my lungs in sharp grunts; each withdrawal leaves me feeling empty and desperate before she fills me again. She's using me, properly using me, her hips working like pistons, her heavy balls slapping against my own with each impact.

"He doesn't even need lube, girls," she calls out to the others, her voice admiring, impressed. "So well trained. Taking it dry. Taking it rough."

I try to cope with her thickness and try to relax into the pounding, but my body is fighting, clenching, and my anal canal spasms around the invading shaft. Beneath me, my penis hangs rock-hard, swollen and dark, dripping precum onto the cushion, but it has no function here. None at all. It's merely a source of frustration, of blue balls, of denied release while my ass is claimed.

Somebody chuckles behind me—one of the other girls. "Look at that little thing," she says, her voice carrying clearly. "Poor wifey. No wonder she needed real cock."

"Don't worry, darling," another voice says, closer, and I realise she's talking to my wife, consoling her, stroking her hair as she remains on all fours besides me. "We'll take care of your holes. All of them. You won't even remember he exists by the end of the week."

The blonde's pace quickens, her grip on my hips bruising, her cock swelling even thicker inside me as she approaches her peak. I can feel it—the rhythmic pulsing, the way her thrusts become erratic, savage. She's going to fill me. She's going to empty herself into my colon, claim me the way Amalia claimed my wife, and the way Alina has claimed us both.

"Here it comes," she grunts, burying herself deep, grinding against my ass. "Taking it. Taking my cum deep in your colon, bitch."

The heat floods me—thick, pulsing jets of cum erupting into my bowels, filling the canal she's been ploughing, coating my insides with her seed. My own balls ache, blue and heavy, denied release, swinging uselessly beneath me as she pumps me full. The sensation is overwhelming—being filled, being used, being marked as property while my cock throbs in denied agony.

She finishes with a final twitch, a final pulse, and then she unceremoniously pulls out. The withdrawal is sudden, leaving me gaping, empty, her cum already beginning to leak from my abused hole. She gives my ass a hard slap, the crack of her palm against my flesh echoing across the lawn.

"Go make cappuccino for me and the girls," she orders, stepping back, tucking herself into her dress. "We're thirsty. And don't bother cleaning up—you're leaking."

I stay frozen for a moment, on all fours, cum dripping from my ass onto the cushion, my cock hard and useless beneath me. Then I slowly rise, my legs trembling, my anal canal burning, and I walk towards the house, naked, marked, and used, leaving a trail of her seed behind me as I go to serve the women who have claimed my home, my wife, and my body.

The mailman is still watching. I don't meet his eyes.

...

"Can I have her on the sofa?" the redhead asks, her green eyes tracking my wife's naked form as she trembles on the porch, cum still leaking from her ass, her body marked and used.

"Sure," Alina replies casually, sipping her coffee, as if discussing the loan of a garden tool. "My cunt is your cunt. Use her however you want."

The redhead—Claudia, I hear her called—takes my wife's hand. Her fingers are warm and strong, wrapping around my wife's wrist with proprietary confidence. She leans close, her lips brushing my wife's ear, and purrs, her voice thick with promise. "I'm going to ruin your pussy, wifey. Going to stretch that married cunt around my fat cock until you forget what your little prick's husband feels like. Going to pump you so full you'll be leaking redhead cum for days. You want that? Want me to use your fertile womb like the cheap fuckhole it's become?"

My wife whimpers, nodding, her nipples hardening visibly at the words, at the degradation. Claudia leads her inside, her hand firm on my wife's waist, guiding her towards the living room. I follow, unable to stop myself, unable to look away.

"Suck me first," Claudia commands, settling onto the sofa, her legs spreading wide. She reaches into her shorts and pulls out her cock—half-hard already, thick and veined, the head a swollen mushroom, precum beading at the slit. She grips it at the base and shoves it towards my wife's face. "Get me hard. Use that mouth."

My wife drops to her knees without hesitation, her hands finding Claudia's thighs for balance. She opens her mouth and takes the half-hard shaft inside, her lips stretching around the girth, her tongue immediately working the underside. She sucks eagerly and desperately, her head bobbing, taking more with each downward stroke. I watch her cheeks hollow as she applies suction and watch her tongue swirl around the head when she pulls back, lapping at the precum and moaning around the shaft as it thickens and lengthens in her mouth.

Claudia's hands find my wife's hair, gripping, guiding her pace. "That's it. Good slut. Take it deeper. Let me feel your throat." She pushes down, holding my wife in place, and I watch my wife's eyes water, her nose pressing against Claudia's pelvis as the cock swells to full hardness down her throat. She stays there, impaled, until Claudia releases her with a gasp.

"Fully hard now," Claudia announces, her cock standing rigid, glistening with my wife's saliva, veins pulsing along the shaft. "Place yourself on the armrest, ass up. Offer me that married cunt."

My wife moves quickly, shivering visibly, her body trembling with anticipation and fear and need. She positions herself over the armrest of the sofa, her chest pressed against the cushions, her knees on the seat, and her ass elevated high into the air. The position presents both her holes obscenely—her cunt, still swollen and dripping from Amalia's use, and her ass, leaking the black girl's seed, both available, both offered like cheap holes for the taking.

Claudia stands, aligning her veiny fat cock against my wife's cum-dripping birth canal. The head presses against the entrance, slick with saliva, poised to breach.

"No lube needed!" Alina shouts from the kitchen doorway, laughing, watching the scene unfold. "I bet you cannot sink your cockballs deep in one thrust, Claudia!"

Claudia laughs, a rich, dark sound, and grips my wife's waist with both hands, fingers digging into the flesh. "Hold tight, honey," she coos, her voice deceptively gentle. "This might hurt."

She rams forward with brutal force. My wife screams, her body jerking, her hands clawing at the sofa cushions. The cock plunges deep, but not deep enough—not quite.

"Almost!" Alina shouts, laughing harder, enjoying the spectacle.

Claudia laughs too, not deterred, still gripping my wife's hips. "My first time with her, honey," she says to my wife, her voice playful. "I need some credit here."

She pulls back slightly and drives forward again with her second thrust, and this time she sinks completely, her pelvis slamming against my wife's ass, her cock buried to the root, the head pressed flush against my wife's womb. The impact makes my wife's breath catch, her eyes rolling back.

"Like that, Alina?" Claudia giggles, wiggling her hips, grinding against my wife's ass. She starts fucking, establishing a deep, slow pace, each thrust dragging her full length out before driving back in, the fat mushroom head rubbing deliberately against my wife's swollen clit with each inward stroke.

The stimulation is immediate and overwhelming. Within minutes, my wife is coming, her body convulsing, her cunt clamping down on the invading shaft like a vice. It's a shattering orgasm—her back arches impossibly, her head thrown back, her scream raw and broken. Her inner walls ripple and contract, milking Claudia's cock involuntarily, the muscles fluttering in rhythmic waves that draw gasps from the redhead.

"Fuck," Claudia breathes, feeling the suction. "Listen to that. Your cunt is sucking me. Gripping me like it doesn't want to let go. Good girl. Milk my cock with those married walls."

She keeps fucking, praising the sensation, the way my wife's contracting cunt grips and releases, and the wet sounds of her arousal mixing with the cum already inside her. Then she picks up speed, her hips becoming a blur, the pace turning savage.

I hear her balls slap against my wife's ass cheeks—heavy, wet impacts that punctuate each thrust. My wife's tits dangle back and forth with each hard shove, swaying violently, nipples dragging against the sofa fabric. The room fills with the sounds of flesh striking flesh, of wet suction, of my wife's continuous moans.

"Going to fill you," Claudia grunts, her thrusts becoming erratic, her grip bruising. "Going to pump this married cunt full of redhead seed. Flood your fertile womb while your husband watches."

She drives deep one final time and holds there, her body shuddering, her cock kicking violently inside my wife's channel. The pumping is visible—the base of her shaft pulsing, her balls drawing up tight as they empty. Thick jets of warm cum erupt directly into my wife's womb, flooding her fertile passage, coating her insides, seeking her egg with desperate urgency.

My wife feels it—the heat, the fullness, the obscene intimacy of being seeded again. She comes instantly, her second orgasm triggered by the sensation of hot cum filling her womb. She screams Claudia's name, her body convulsing, her cunt milking the invading cock, trying to draw every drop deeper.

Claudia keeps twitching, keeps releasing, and empties everything she has into my wife's claimed cunt. Then, without ceremony, she simply pulls out. Her cock slides free with a wet sound, and immediately cum begins to leak from my wife's gaping hole, dripping onto the armrest and onto the floor.

Claudia tucks herself back into her shorts and turns to me, still standing frozen in the doorway.

"Make breakfast," she says, casual, dismissive. "We're hungry. And make it quick—we're not done with her yet."

She walks past me towards the kitchen, leaving my wife draped over the armrest, cum leaking from both holes, her body still trembling with aftershocks, her fertile womb swimming with another woman's seed.