Forbidden Glances at Her Best Friend’s Father

Simone dropped her duffel bag just inside the foyer of Kiara’s sprawling suburban house and immediately regretted every life choice that had led her to this particular circle of hell. Not the house itself—Kiara’s place was all open-plan luxury and that faint lemon-polish smell that screamed “someone’s mom still deep-cleans on Tuesdays”—but the man currently leaning against the kitchen island like he’d been cast by a horny algorithm.

Bruno. Forty-eight. Stepdad extraordinaire. The kind of ridiculously hot that made Simone’s brain short-circuit into pure static. Tall, broad-shouldered, silver threading the dark hair at his temples in a way that should have been illegal. He wore a soft gray henley that clung just enough to hint at the chest underneath, sleeves shoved up to reveal forearms that looked like they could bench-press bad decisions. And those eyes—hazel, amused, already locking onto hers with that familiar, loaded glint.

“Simone,” he said, voice low and warm, like whiskey poured slow. “Kiara said you’d be crashing. Week-long parent-free vacation, huh?”

“Something like that,” Simone managed, praying her voice didn’t crack. Twenty-two years old and she still felt twelve around him, except twelve-year-olds didn’t instantly picture those hands gripping her hips. She tugged at the hem of her cropped tank, suddenly hyper-aware of the strip of stomach on display. “Thanks for letting me invade. I promise I won’t raid the good snacks. Much.”

Kiara bounded in from the living room, all bright energy and zero clue. “Babe! You’re early. Dad’s making his famous tacos later—don’t even think about saying no.” She slung an arm around Simone’s shoulders, steering her toward the stairs. “Guest room’s ready. Try not to drool on the pillows thinking about my stepdad. Kidding. Mostly.”

Simone forced a laugh that came out more like a wheeze. “Please. He’s ancient. Like, almost fifty. Gross.”

But Bruno’s mouth curved, just a fraction, as if he’d heard every unsaid filthy thought. Their eyes met over Kiara’s head. That glance—the same one they’d been trading for two years now, ever since Kiara’s mom married him and Simone first showed up for a study night in tiny shorts. Forbidden. Electric. A silent dare neither of them had ever cashing in. Both knew exactly how wrong it was. Best friend’s stepfather. Off-limits territory with flashing neon signs and a one-way ticket to awkward Thanksgiving forever. Yet here they were, eye-fucking across the kitchen like it was an Olympic sport.

Upstairs, alone in the guest room that smelled faintly of clean sheets and temptation, Simone flopped onto the bed and stared at the ceiling. Her best friend’s house for seven whole days. Parents of her own off on some anniversary cruise, blissfully unaware their daughter was about to self-combust from proximity to pure silver-fox sin. She could already feel the heat low in her belly, that familiar ache. Every time Bruno looked at her like that—slow, knowing, like he could peel her clothes off with his mind—it left her squirming.

Dinner was worse. Kiara chattered about summer classes and some guy from her poli-sci seminar while Simone sat across from Bruno, trying not to watch the way his throat worked when he swallowed beer, or how his free hand rested on the table, fingers long and capable. He passed her the salsa and their fingers brushed. Sparks. Actual cartoon sparks. She nearly dropped the bowl.

“Careful,” Bruno murmured, that half-smile playing again. “Wouldn’t want you making a mess.”

The double meaning hit like a truck. Simone’s cheeks burned. Under the table, she pressed her thighs together. “I’ve got excellent control, actually.”

“Do you?” His voice dropped just enough that Kiara, mid-rant about group projects, missed it entirely. “We’ll see.”

Kiara snorted. “You two are weird. Pass the guac before Simone combusts from your intense staring contest.”

“We were not—” Simone started, but Bruno just chuckled, low and rumbling, and the sound vibrated straight between her legs.

Later, after Kiara dragged her to the couch for a reality-TV binge, Bruno excused himself to his home office down the hall. Simone lasted exactly eleven minutes before the need for water—and a completely innocent walk past that office door—became critical. She padded barefoot through the quiet house, heart hammering. The door was cracked. Light spilled out. She shouldn’t. She absolutely should turn around, chug tap water like a normal houseguest, and go die of blue balls in privacy.

Instead she paused, just for a second, pulse loud in her ears. Through the gap she caught a sliver of him: seated at the desk, head tipped back, one hand loosely curled on the armrest. The henley had ridden up. A strip of taut stomach. The dark trail of hair disappearing into his jeans. He shifted, exhaled slow, and muttered something she couldn’t quite catch—but her name might have been in there, or maybe that was pure wishful horny thinking.

Simone bit her lip hard enough to sting, thighs slick already. This was insane. She was twenty-two, not some blushing virgin, yet one glance from her best friend’s stepdad turned her into a puddle of bad ideas. Forbidden didn’t even cover it. It was the kind of tension that could detonate a friendship, a marriage, basic human decency. And neither of them had ever crossed the line. Not once. Just those glances—flirty, heavy, promising everything and delivering nothing but restless nights and overworked vibrators.

She forced herself back to the kitchen, filled a glass with shaking hands, and nearly jumped out of her skin when Bruno’s voice came from right behind her.

“Couldn’t sleep either?”

She spun. He filled the doorway, casual as sin, arms crossed so the henley stretched tight across his chest. Up close he smelled like cedar and something warmer, skin-hot. The age gap should have felt ridiculous. Instead it felt like kindling.

“Just thirsty,” she said, holding up the glass like evidence. Her voice came out breathier than intended. “You?”

“Same.” He stepped closer to reach past her for a glass of his own. Their bodies almost brushed. Almost. The air between them crackled. “Kiara’s out cold already, I bet. Girl could sleep through a parade.”

“Lucky her.” Simone tipped her head back to drink, very aware of how the motion arched her throat, how his gaze tracked the swallow. When she lowered the glass, a drop of water clung to her lower lip. She licked it away without thinking. Bruno’s eyes darkened.

“You know,” he said quietly, “you’ve got that look again.”

“What look?”

“The one that says you’re thinking things you probably shouldn’t voice out loud in this house.” His smile was pure trouble, edged with real restraint. “Dangerous territory, Simone.”

She should have laughed it off. Made a joke about old men and delusions. Instead she held his stare, pulse hammering everywhere. “Maybe I like dangerous.”

For a long second neither moved. The refrigerator hummed. Somewhere upstairs a floorboard creaked. Bruno’s hand lifted like he might touch her—just a brush of knuckles along her jaw, something small and catastrophic—then dropped. He stepped back, the moment fracturing but not breaking.

“Get some sleep,” he said, voice rougher now. “Long week ahead. I’m sure we’ll… manage.”

He left her there, glass sweating in her hand, every nerve ending lit up and screaming. Simone exhaled a shaky laugh at the absurdity of it all. Seven days. Under the same roof. Trading glances that could power a small city, both of them knowing exactly how forbidden the whole mess was, neither willing to be the one who finally snapped.

She climbed the stairs on unsteady legs, already inventing reasons to wander the house at odd hours, already wondering how long the tension could stretch before something—someone—gave. In the guest room she stripped down to panties and a oversized tee, crawled under the covers, and stared at the dark, replaying every loaded look, every near-touch. Her hand slipped south almost of its own accord, fingers skating over damp cotton as she pictured those forearms, that mouth, the filthy possibilities neither of them had ever dared speak.

Tomorrow, she told herself, she’d be good. Tomorrow she’d remember Kiara sleeping two doors down and the million reasons this stayed firmly in fantasy land. But tonight the ache was sharp and sweet and nowhere near done with her. And somewhere down the hall, she was willing to bet Bruno was just as wrecked, just as hard, just as carefully not doing a damn thing about it.

Yet.

The house had settled into that deep suburban hush that only kicked in after midnight, the kind where the fridge’s distant hum sounded like a conspiracy and every floorboard plotted revenge. Simone hadn’t meant to make it a habit—sneaking downstairs like some caffeinated raccoon—but sleep had laughed in her face three nights running. Tonight the ache between her legs had turned into a full-blown protest march, complete with signs and chants. She needed water. Or air. Or a cold shower that somehow involved Bruno’s hands. Whatever. She slipped out of the guest room in nothing but an oversized tee that barely covered her ass and a pair of panties that had already surrendered the war on dampness.

Bare feet silent on the stairs, she padded toward the kitchen, brain already drafting excuses if Kiara popped up: “Just hydrating! Totally normal! Not at all picturing your stepdad bending me over the island!” She rounded the corner into the living room’s open gloom—and froze so hard she nearly face-planted into a decorative throw pillow.

There he was.

Bruno, sprawled on the big leather couch like he owned every filthy fantasy in a ten-mile radius. The soft glow from a single lamp painted gold across the silver at his temples and the hard lines of his bare chest. Jeans shoved down to mid-thigh. Cock out. Thick, flushed, glistening at the tip, and wrapped in one big fist that stroked with slow, deliberate pulls. His head tipped back against the cushions, eyes half-lidded, hips rolling up into his grip like he had all the time in the world and zero shame.

And the sounds. Quiet, rough little grunts punched out between clenched teeth. Then—clear as a goddamn bell—“Simone… fuck, baby, just like that—”

Her name. Moaned like a prayer and a curse rolled into one filthy package. Simone’s brain short-circuited so hard she smelled smoke. She should bolt. Scream. Fake a sleepwalking episode involving interpretive dance. Instead her feet glued themselves to the shadows behind the half-wall, pulse slamming everywhere at once. The tee suddenly felt like tissue paper. Her thighs pressed together on pure instinct, slick heat already soaking through cotton.

He stroked faster, thumb smearing the bead of precome down the flushed head, and another low groan rumbled out of him. “Yeah… take it, Simone. Sit on it. Wanna feel that tight little cunt stretch—”

Oh, Jesus. She bit her lip hard enough to taste copper, one hand flying to clap over her mouth so the scandalized laugh-moan hybrid dying to escape didn’t ruin everything. This was peak absurdity. Her best friend’s hot-as-sin stepdad jerking off on the family couch to the mental image of her riding him like a mechanical bull, while she hid three feet away creaming herself like a teenager with a fresh subscription to Pornhub. If karma had a punchline, this was it.

She stayed. Of course she stayed. The view was too good, too forbidden, too ridiculous not to. Shadows cloaked her from the waist up if she crouched just right, peeking through the decorative cutout in the half-wall like the world’s horniest spy. Bruno’s fist twisted on the upstroke now, slick sounds wet and filthy in the quiet. His free hand dragged down his own stomach, fingers splaying over that dark trail of hair, then lower to cup his balls. Another moan—her name again, drawn out and wrecked. “Simone… Christ, the way you’d look bouncing on this cock—”

Her free hand slid under the hem of her tee without permission, fingers skating over damp panties. She circled her clit through the fabric, biting back a whimper, hips rocking in tiny helpless jerks. Heat coiled low and vicious. She was dripping, fucking dripping, while he stroked himself raw to fantasies of her. Every filthy syllable punched straight to her core. She pictured climbing over that couch, straddling him, sinking down until he filled her so full she forgot her own name. Or dropping to her knees and licking every drop of precome off that thick head while he groaned encouragement. Or just staying right here, touching herself in the dark like the shameless voyeur she’d apparently become.

Bruno’s rhythm turned punishing. Hips punching up. Abs flexing. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room. “Gonna come so deep in you… paint that pretty pussy… Simone—fuck—”

She was right there with him, two fingers rubbing frantic circles, breath hitching in silent gasps. The absurdity hit her again mid-stroke and she nearly lost it: somewhere upstairs Kiara was probably drooling on a pillow, blissfully unaware that the living room had turned into a live-action porno starring her best friend and her stepdad. Simone’s shoulders shook with a silent, hysterical giggle even as pleasure knifed through her. This was so wrong it looped back around to comedy gold. Academy Award for Most Inappropriate Houseguest, coming right up.

Then Bruno’s eyes opened.

Not a vague glance. Not a sleepy flutter. He looked. Straight. At. Her.

Hazel eyes locked onto the exact shadow where she crouched, and a slow, wicked grin curved his mouth. The kind of grin that said gotcha and don’t you dare stop and I’ve known you were there the whole fucking time, all wrapped in pure silver-fox sin. He didn’t freeze. Didn’t cover up. His fist kept moving—slower now, deliberate, putting on a show—while that grin widened. He tipped his chin just slightly, inviting, almost lazy, and mouthed her name again like a private toast.

Simone’s entire body lit up like a Christmas tree on fire. Embarrassment, arousal, and sheer dumbstruck lust crashed together so hard she saw stars. He knew. He’d known. And he wanted her watching. The realization soaked her panties clean through. She didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stayed frozen in the shadows, fingers still pressed to her throbbing clit, heart trying to punch free of her ribs, while Bruno stroked himself for her eyes alone and that filthy grin promised this was only the beginning of the week’s worst—and best—ideas.

Simone’s breath snagged in her throat like a bad punchline. Bruno’s grin only widened, that silver-fox bastard still fist-fucking himself slow and showy while his eyes pinned her in the shadows. The absurdity of it crashed over her again—crouched behind a half-wall in damp panties, best friend’s stepdad putting on a private porno starring her name—and a hysterical little giggle nearly escaped before she smothered it.

Fuck it.

She stood. The oversized tee rode up her thighs as she stepped out from behind the half-wall, bare feet silent on the rug, heart hammering a ridiculous samba against her ribs. Bruno’s strokes faltered for half a second, then resumed, deliberate, his cock glistening and thick and aimed straight at her like an invitation written in precome. Hazel eyes locked onto hers—hungry, mutual, zero hesitation. Consent crackled between them louder than the fridge hum.

“Took you long enough,” he rasped, voice wrecked and amused. “Enjoy the show, baby?”

“Best seats in the house,” Simone shot back, heat flooding her cheeks even as she closed the distance. The tee clung to her sweaty skin; her panties were a lost cause. “You’re lucky I didn’t charge admission. Kiara’s dad jerking it to me on the family couch? Peak comedy. Someone should write this down for the wedding toast someday.”

Bruno’s laugh was low and filthy. He released his cock just long enough to crook two fingers. “C’mere and shut that smart mouth with something better.”

She dropped to her knees between his spread thighs like the floor had yanked her down. Leather creaked. Up close his cock was even thicker, veins standing out, the head flushed dark and leaking. Simone wrapped both hands around the base, marveled at the heat, the way it twitched, then leaned in and licked a broad, sloppy stripe from balls to tip. Salt and skin exploded on her tongue. Bruno groaned, hips jerking.

“Fuck—yes. That’s it. Open up for me.”

She did, enthusiastically, stretching her lips wide and sinking down until her nose brushed the dark hair at his base. Spit immediately flooded her mouth; she hollowed her cheeks and bobbed, messy and eager, drool slicking her chin and dripping onto his jeans. One hand pumped what she couldn’t take, twisting on the upstroke the way he’d been doing for her. The other cupped his balls, rolling them gently while she swirled her tongue under the head on every retreat.

“Christ, look at you,” Bruno praised, voice gravel and whiskey. His fingers slid into her hair, not forcing, just holding, thumbs stroking her temples. “Such a good girl taking my cock so deep. Knew that mouth would be filthy. Been thinking about those lips stretched around me for two goddamn years—yeah, just like that, sloppy, let me hear it—”

Simone moaned around him on purpose, the vibration making his abs jump. She pulled off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting her lips to his cock, and grinned up at him, eyes watering. “You talk too much for a guy who just got caught red-handed. Literally.”

“And you watch too much for a houseguest.” He tugged her hair lightly, guiding her back down. “Keep sucking. Show me how bad you’ve wanted this.”

She did—obscene, wet, loud. Gagging a little on purpose when he hit the back of her throat, tears pricking, spit everywhere. Her free hand snuck between her own legs, rubbing frantic circles over her soaked panties while she worshipped him. Bruno’s praise kept spilling out in that rough, husky cadence: “Perfect. So fucking pretty on your knees. Gonna ruin that throat… that’s my girl…”

When she finally pulled off, gasping, chin shiny, he hauled her up by the arms and spun her. “Couch arm. Now. Ass up.”

Simone scrambled over the thick leather arm of the sofa, tee rucking up around her waist. Bruno yanked her panties down to her knees in one rough tug; cool air hit her dripping cunt and she shivered. He kicked her feet wider, gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, and notched the fat head of his cock against her entrance.

“Quiet,” he murmured, leaning over her back, breath hot on her ear. “Bite the pillow if you have to. Kiara’s upstairs.”

She grabbed the nearest throw pillow and stuffed the corner between her teeth just as he thrust home—one long, brutal slide that stretched her open and punched the air from her lungs. Full. God, so full. The stretch burned sweet; her walls fluttered around the thick intrusion. Bruno didn’t give her time to adjust. He drew back and slammed in again, setting a hard, punishing rhythm that made the couch creak and her tits bounce under the tee.

“Fuck—Bruno—” she mumbled around the pillow, drooling into the fabric. Each snap of his hips drove her forward; the leather arm dug into her belly. He fucked her like he’d been starving, deep and relentless, one hand sliding up her spine to fist her hair and arch her back deeper. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the living room. Simone bit down harder, moans vibrating into the pillow, eyes screwed shut as pleasure coiled vicious and bright.

“That’s it, take it,” he gritted, pounding into her. “Tight little cunt gripping me just like I pictured. Been dying to wreck you on this couch—gonna feel you for days—”

She pushed back to meet every thrust, shameless, the absurdity of it—her best friend’s stepdad railing her silly while she chewed furniture—only making her wetter. Her clit throbbed, neglected and desperate. Bruno must have read her mind; he reached around, found the swollen nub, and rubbed tight circles in time with his hips.

But he wanted more. With a low growl he pulled out, spun her again, and lifted her like she weighed nothing. The coffee table—solid wood, bless whoever bought it—took her weight as he laid her back across it. Magazines skidded to the floor. Simone’s legs hooked over his elbows; he folded her nearly in half and sank back in to the hilt in one smooth thrust. Eye contact slammed into place, intense and raw. No hiding. No shadows.

“Look at me,” Bruno ordered, voice wrecked. He started fucking her again, slower now but just as deep, every drag of his cock lighting her up. One hand braced beside her head; the other snaked between them to rub her clit in firm, perfect strokes. “Wanna watch you come on my cock. Don’t you dare look away.”

Simone couldn’t have if she tried. Hazel locked on brown. Sweat slicked her skin; the tee was shoved up under her chin, bare breasts bouncing with every thrust. She reached up, cupping his jaw, thumb brushing the silver at his temple. The intimacy of it was almost funnier than the porn—tender eye-fucking while he drilled her into the coffee table like a man possessed.

“Harder,” she breathed, then louder when his thumb pressed just right. “Fuck—Bruno, I’m—”

“Come for me. Loud. I wanna hear it.”

The coil snapped. Simone came with a sharp, broken cry she couldn’t swallow, walls clamping down hard around his cock, thighs shaking, pleasure ripping through her in white-hot waves. She kept her eyes open the whole time, watching his face contort with filthy satisfaction as she pulsed and dripped around him. He fucked her through it, grinding deep, rubbing her clit until she was whimpering and oversensitive and laughing breathlessly at how completely wrecked she felt.

Bruno didn’t come. He slowed, still buried to the root, still hard as iron inside her fluttering cunt, and brushed damp hair off her forehead with a wicked little smile that promised the night—and the week—was nowhere near finished. Upstairs a floorboard creaked. They both froze, hearts slamming, his cock twitching inside her, the taste of almost-getting-caught sweeter than any orgasm.

Tension coiled fresh and electric between them, unfinished and hungry for whatever came next.

They stayed locked like that for three endless heartbeats, Bruno’s cock still buried to the root and twitching like it had opinions about the floorboard upstairs. Simone’s walls fluttered around him on pure adrenaline, her bare breasts heaving under the rucked-up tee, legs hooked over his elbows so she was folded open and helpless on the coffee table. Magazines lay scattered like evidence of a crime scene. Neither of them breathed.

Then the house settled again. No footsteps. No Kiara calling down. Just the fridge humming its conspiracy and the wet, filthy sound of Simone clenching around him on instinct.

“False alarm,” Bruno rasped, that wicked silver-fox grin sliding back into place. “Guess the universe wants me to finish wrecking this pretty cunt first.”

Simone laughed—breathless, half-hysterical, the sound vibrating straight through his cock. “Rude of the floorboards to cock-block mid-railing. You gonna finish what you started or should I start charging late fees?”

He answered by drawing almost all the way out, the fat head dragging over every sensitive ridge inside her, then slamming home so hard the coffee table jumped. Simone’s laugh turned into a punched-out moan. Her hands flew up to grip his shoulders, nails biting in as he set a brutal, deep rhythm that made her tits bounce and her eyes roll. Sweat slicked the hard planes of his chest; a drop fell onto her collarbone and she wanted to lick it off.

“Been dying to do this for two goddamn years,” he gritted, hips snapping, free hand finding her clit again and rubbing tight, perfect circles. “Every time you showed up in those tiny shorts, looking at me like you wanted to climb me. Every holiday. Every sleepover. Drove me fucking insane.”

“Same,” she gasped, pushing back to meet every thrust, the stretch so good it bordered on comedy. “I’ve ruined so many pairs of panties thinking about this exact dick. Kiara’s stepdad. Peak trashy. Someone should give us a trophy.”

Bruno’s laugh was low and filthy. He hooked her legs higher, folding her tighter, pounding deeper until she felt him in her stomach. The wet slap of skin filled the living room again—obscene, rhythmic, ridiculous. Simone’s orgasm built fast and mean, coiling low while she watched his face contort, silver at his temples damp, mouth parted on rough grunts of her name.

“Simone—fuck—gonna fill this tight little hole. You want it? Want me to come so deep you feel it tomorrow when you’re sitting across from Kiara at breakfast pretending you’re innocent?”

“Yes—God—do it—” She was already shaking, walls clamping, the absurdity of it only winding her tighter. Best friend’s house. Family coffee table. His cock splitting her open while upstairs his stepdaughter slept like a rock. “Come in me. Paint me. I want to drip back upstairs.”

That did it. Bruno’s rhythm stuttered, hips grinding deep as he buried himself to the hilt and came with a low, wrecked groan of her name. Hot pulses flooded her, thick and endless, so much she felt it leak around his shaft on the next shallow thrust. The feel of it—claiming, filthy, perfect—shoved Simone over right after him. She came hard, crying out into his shoulder to muffle it, cunt milking every spurt, thighs quaking, vision whiting out in waves of stupid, perfect pleasure. Her fingers dug into his back hard enough to leave crescent moons.

They stayed locked, panting, dripping, laughing quietly into each other’s skin at the sheer audacity of it. Bruno finally eased out; a thick trickle of his come immediately slid down her ass crack and onto the wood. Simone stared at it, then up at him, and dissolved into silent giggles.

“We’re going to hell,” she whispered. “And the coffee table needs therapy.”

“Worth it.” He stood on unsteady legs, cock still half-hard and shiny with their mess, and offered a hand. Simone took it, wobbly as a newborn foal, come sliding down her inner thighs in warm rivulets. Bruno spun her gently, grabbed her discarded panties from the floor, and crouched.

“Lift,” he ordered, voice playful now, eyes dancing. She braced on his shoulders and stepped in one foot at a time while he guided the damp cotton up her legs. His knuckles brushed her sticky folds as he settled the waistband, smearing their combined mess deliberately. “There. Back in your sleep shorts—well, panties—like a respectable houseguest who definitely did not just get railed on the furniture.”

“Sleep shorts, panties, same difference when they’re this ruined.” Simone grinned down at him, hands still on his shoulders. “How long have you actually been dying to do that, old man? Be honest. I need data for my future blackmail scrapbook.”

Bruno stood, tugging her oversized tee back down over her hips with exaggerated care, like he was dressing a particularly naughty doll. “Since the first time you bent over to grab a textbook in those fucking shorts two years ago. I went upstairs and jerked off so hard I saw God. You?”

“Since Kiara introduced us and you said my name like it tasted good.” She stepped into him, rising on tiptoe to steal one last messy kiss that tasted like sweat and victory. “I’ve been accidentally flashing you ever since. Strategic. Calculated. Extremely mature of me.”

He swatted her ass lightly, the sound sharp in the quiet. “Get upstairs before I bend you over again and we really do wake the whole block. Go on. Shoo.”

Simone backed toward the stairs, still grinning, come cooling sticky between her thighs. At the bottom step she paused, gave him one last cheeky wink over her shoulder, and mouthed, “Same time tomorrow, stepdaddy?”

Bruno’s answering look promised filthy things. She tiptoed up the stairs barefoot and quiet, every step squelching faintly with the evidence of what they’d done. In the guest room she shut the door, collapsed face-first onto the pillow, and laughed into the cotton until her shoulders shook. Her cunt throbbed, full and claimed, his come already leaking into the sheets as she squirmed.

She grinned into the pillow, already plotting the next “accidental” late-night trip downstairs—maybe next time she’d “forget” panties entirely and catch him stroking again, then sink onto that thick cock reverse-cowgirl so he could watch her ass bounce while he pumped her full a second time, leaving her dripping all the way back to bed with his cum still warm inside her spoiled little hole.