Landlord's Wife Spots His Massive Cock

Jake had barely kicked off his sneakers when the chaos began.

He was standing in his new bedroom in nothing but boxer briefs, wrestling a too-small college T-shirt over his head, when the door swung open without a knock. Vanessa filled the doorway like a walking thirst trap: 46 years old, five-foot-four of pure curves, wearing a faded tank top that barely contained her heavy tits and a pair of gray yoga shorts that looked painted onto the most legendary ass in the tri-state area.

Her green eyes dropped straight to the obscene bulge swinging between his legs.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” she blurted, “you smuggling a salami in there?”

Jake froze mid-shirt, arms tangled, face burning. Vanessa’s mouth hung open for two full seconds before her brain rebooted.

“Shit. Sorry. Laundry room’s on the left. Dinner’s pizza at eight. Welcome to the house.” She yanked the door shut so hard the frame rattled.

Both of them spent the rest of the evening pretending the moment had never happened. It didn’t work. The air in the little duplex had turned into pure sexual static.

Over the next week the “accidents” multiplied like rabbits on Viagra.

Vanessa started leaving her bedroom door wide open while she changed. Jake would be brushing his teeth and suddenly get an eyeful of her bending over in a neon thong, that monumental ass framed like a Renaissance painting. She took to wearing the tiniest denim cutoffs known to man, cheeks practically waving hello every time she walked to the fridge. At night she cranked up her vibrator until the walls vibrated, moaning loud enough for the neighbors three doors down to file a noise complaint.