Slutbunny hotwife

The throw pillow on the couch has a tear in the seam right where her knee keeps pressing into it. I saw it the first night she had him over too. Same spot. You’re standing there in the hallway with the light off so they won’t notice, watching her gray tank top ride up her back every time he pushes forward. It’s the one she wears to bed when she thinks nobody’s looking, faded from too many washes, straps thin enough you can see the freckles on her shoulders. His hand’s spread across her lower back, fingers wide, and every time he drives in deeper her toes curl against the cushion like she’s trying to grab something that isn’t there. I still remember how quiet she was the first few times. Just breathing through her teeth. Now she’s making those little sounds she never makes with me, half-whine, half-gasp, the kind that slip out when she forgets anyone else exists in the room. His cock’s stretching her in a way mine never did, and she’s taking it like she’s been waiting months for exactly that thickness. Her hair’s stuck to the side of her face, sweaty, and she keeps shoving it back only for it to fall again. I caught myself counting how many times she’d come already. Three. Maybe four. Hard to tell when she doesn’t announce it like she used to, just goes stiff and then melts down onto her elbows like her arms gave out. The couch creaks every time he slams in. It’s an old sectional, the kind that’s been moved twice and never quite sits level. One leg shorter than the others. I’ve been meaning to fix it. She’s got her wedding ring on. I saw the flash of it when she reached back to spread herself wider for him. Like she needed both hands. That part still gets me. She’ll take it off for work sometimes, leave it on the nightstand, but not tonight. Not with him. I sat on the stairs after a while. Couldn’t stand in the hallway anymore. The angle was worse but I could still hear everything, the wet sounds, the low grunts he makes when he’s close, how she keeps saying his name like it’s the only word left in her. My own hand was down my pants before I even realized I’d started touching myself. Pathetic. Couldn’t stop though. She came again when he bottomed out and stayed there, grinding instead of thrusting. That one was loud. She buried her face in the pillow and her shoulders shook. He laughed, the bastard, like he knew exactly what he’d done to her. Then he started moving again, slower, like he was punishing her for getting off without permission. I keep thinking about that fucking pillow. How the tear’s gonna get worse if they keep using the couch like this. How she’s probably going to wash the cushion cover tomorrow and pretend nothing happened. How the next time I sit there I’ll know exactly where her knee was digging in while some other man stretched her open. Does that ring stay on when he finally fills her?