Surf Coach Breeds the Hotwife
Hubby's surf coach breeds his eager hotwife in the studio while he watches.
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The studio door clicked shut behind them, sealing the three of them inside a sunlit room that smelled of cedar, warm skin, and faint sea salt still clinging to Dax’s hair. Lena’s heart hammered so hard she could feel it in her throat. She wore a short white sundress that barely skimmed the tops of her tanned thighs, the kind of innocent cover-up that did nothing to hide the fact that she was already soaked.
Jake’s hand rested possessively at the small of her back, but his fingers trembled with excitement rather than nerves. He had planned every detail of this afternoon for months. Tonight wasn’t just a boudoir shoot. It was the day his wife finally stopped fantasizing about their surf coach and let the man breed her while he watched.
Dax stood near the large studio window, arms folded across his broad chest. The ripped thirty-two-year-old looked even more imposing in person than he did slicing through barrels at the reef. Sun-bleached streaks ran through his dark hair, and his golden-tan skin stretched tight over thick slabs of muscle earned from years in the ocean and the weight room. His pale blue eyes locked on Lena the moment she walked in, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a slow, knowing smirk.
“You ready for this, Lena?” Dax asked, voice low and rough like gravel under a wave.
She swallowed, cheeks already flushing. “I’ve been ready for months.”
Jake kissed her temple, then stepped back toward the leather chair in the corner. “She’s been dripping for you since the first time you put your hands on her hips out in the lineup, man. I told her today she doesn’t leave until that fertile little pussy is full of your cum.”
Lena’s breath hitched audibly. Hearing her husband say it out loud in front of Dax made her clit throb so hard she had to press her thighs together.
The photographer’s assistant had already set up the lights and a large white chaise draped in soft linen. A rack of tiny bikinis waited on a rolling rail—strings and scraps of fabric that would barely qualify as clothing. Dax moved first, selecting a metallic gold micro-bikini that would leave almost nothing to the imagination.
“Start with this one,” he said, handing it to her. His fingers brushed hers deliberately. “And lose the dress. Slowly.”