His Little Slut Returns

Colette climbed the stairwell of Cody's building with her pulse knocking hard against her ribs. She was twenty-eight. She had a husband at home and a ring on her finger and a lie already told. Two days ago she had let Cody fuck her in this same apartment, raw, until he came inside her, and she had not been able to stop thinking about it since. She worked claims at an insurance office downtown. She had texted Victor that a file review was running late. Her cunt had been wet since she pulled out of their driveway.

Cody opened the door on the second knock. Thirty-five, thick through the chest, gray T-shirt stretched over his shoulders, work pants still on from the shop. He looked at her the way a man looks at something he has already had and means to have again. She stepped inside. The door clicked shut. The apartment was dim, a lamp on in the living room, the bedroom door open down the short hall.

"I went straight home full of you," she said. She didn't sit. She stood in front of him with her hands at her sides and let the confession come out filthy and exact, because that was why she had come. "I didn't clean up. Your cum was still in me. It leaked the whole drive, soaked my panties, and when I got in I let Victor fuck me that same night. He's thirty-two. He came home from his shift and I didn't even shower. I pulled him into bed and let him fuck his wife with your load still inside her. He thought I was wet for him. I wasn't. I was wet from you, and from what I was letting him do on top of it."

Her face burned. Her cunt clenched so hard she had to shift her weight. She could still feel the memory of that bed: Victor's familiar cock pushing into a mess that wasn't his, the obscene wet sound, her own orgasm ripping through her while she bit the pillow and pictured Cody's hands. She had lain there afterward with both of them in her and smiled into the dark like a cheat. The guilt had not cooled her. It had made her ache to do it again.

"I came back," she said, quieter, eager. "I want to submit. I want to be your little slut. Use me. I don't want to put on a show. I just want to get fucked."

Her nipples tightened under the dress. The secret sat between her thighs, wet and shameless, and she wanted his hands on her before she lost her nerve and drove back to the life she was cheating on. She could feel herself leaking, a slow warm slide against the cotton, and the secret of what she had let Victor do sat in her belly like a second pulse. She wanted Cody to hear every filthy piece of it and then take her anyway.

Cody growled, low and possessive, and the heat in it made her knees soften. "You let him fuck my cum," he said. "You went home dripping and spread for your husband like a filthy little cheat." His hand caught her wrist, not hard enough to hurt, firm enough to steer. "Bedroom. Lie down. You're not here to tease me. You're here to get used."

She went. The hall was short. The bedroom was the same as last time: unmade sheets, a cheap lamp, the window blinds half drawn against the evening. Her heart slammed. She wanted this so badly her hands shook when she kicked her heels off. Cody followed her in and shut the door, and the click of it felt like a lock on the rest of her life for the next hour.

"On your back," he said. "No show. No kissing up to me. You said you came to get fucked. So lie there and give me your married cunt."

Colette climbed onto the bed and lay flat on her back, exactly as he had told her. She stared at the ceiling. The paint had a hairline crack running toward the corner. She did not arch. She did not reach for him. She did not put on a voice or a look. Presence was for her husband, for dinner parties, for the woman who smiled in photos. Here she was only a body that had driven across town to be stuffed. The surrender of it made her drip.

She reached down with one hand, hooked two fingers in the crotch of her panties, and pulled the fabric aside. Cool air hit her soaked folds. She spread her legs, knees falling open, and held the cotton out of the way so he could see what she had brought him: a wet, swollen, married pussy, already shining, already his to use. She kept her eyes on the crack in the ceiling. Her breath came shallow. She loved how small this made her feel, how honest. No seduction. No performance. Just a slut on her back with her panties hooked aside, waiting to be fucked.

Cody stood at the foot of the bed and looked at her for a long moment, and the look burned. She could hear him breathing. She could hear his belt. The want between them was raw and mutual and ugly in the best way, a cheating heat that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with his cock and her hole. Her cunt clenched around nothing and leaked onto his sheets. She did not wipe it. She did not speak. She just held herself open and waited, pulse racing, thighs trembling, desperate to be filled by the man who was not her husband.

He shoved his pants down and his cock came out heavy, already hard, the head dark and wet at the tip. Colette saw it in the edge of her vision and did not turn her face to watch. That was the point. She was not here to admire him. She was here to lie still and take it. The knowledge made her pussy flutter and spill another slick line down toward her ass.

"Look at you," he said, voice rough. "Married Colette, flat on her back, panties yanked to the side, not even trying. You love this. You love being nothing but a hole I get to breed."

"Yes," she whispered, still staring up. One word. Then she shut her mouth and waited, because talking too much would turn it into a performance, and she had promised herself she would not perform. Her fingers tightened on the cotton. She pulled it a fraction wider. The elastic bit her hip. She didn't care. Her clit throbbed in the open air. She could smell herself, sharp and sweet, and she knew he could smell her too.

He climbed onto the bed and over her, knees planting on either side of her hips, and Colette stayed almost motionless beneath him. She did not grab his shoulders. She did not kiss him. She kept one hand between them, fingers hooked in her panties, and pulled the fabric farther aside so nothing would catch his cock on the way in. The cotton strained. Her wedding ring flashed once in the lamplight and she did not look at it.

Cody lined himself up and pushed.

The stretch was immediate and thick. He was big, and she was soaked, and he sank into her married pussy in one long drive that shoved the air out of her lungs. Her eyes stayed on the ceiling. Her mouth fell open. She took him. That was all. No roll of her hips, no pretty moan arranged for his benefit. Just the wet, obscene give of her cunt swallowing him to the root while she lay there like a toy he had set on the mattress.

"Fuck," he gritted, and started to move.

He fucked her hard. Missionary, his weight braced on his forearms, his hips snapping down into her with a rhythm that slapped skin on skin and rocked the cheap bed frame. Each stroke punched deep, the head of his cock kissing the end of her and dragging back out through clinging, creamy walls. She could hear how wet she was. She could feel her panties, still clutched aside, the elastic cutting into her fingers. She pulled them farther, baring herself completely for him, and that was the only real motion she gave: that small, obedient tug, keeping her cunt open and offered while he used it.

Her other hand stayed flat on the sheet. Her legs stayed spread. When a thrust jolted her, she let it. She did not chase. The stillness made everything louder: his breath, the wet suck of her pussy, the grunt he made when he bottomed out. She was a married woman lying under her lover and taking a cheating fuck with no performance in it, and the degradation of that lit her up from the inside. Her clit rubbed against him on the deep strokes. Pleasure built in heavy, stupid waves. She bit her lip and stared at the crack in the paint and let him pound her.

"Say it," he ordered, voice broken with lust. "Tell me what you are."

She pulled her panties another inch aside, the fabric twisted and damp, and whispered it into the space above his shoulder without looking at him. "I love being your little slut."

The words made him snarl and fuck her harder. His cock drove in ruthless, fast, the kind of thrusting that wasn't trying to be good for her so much as trying to ruin her. It was good anyway. Her cunt spasmed around him, greedy, milking, and a helpless sound slipped out of her throat before she swallowed the rest. She would not thrash. She would not put on a show. She would lie here and get fucked like the slut she had driven across town to be, and she would love it.

Sweat gathered at the small of her back. The room smelled like sex already, like her cunt and his skin, and the lamp threw their shadow on the wall, his body covering hers, her legs open and useless except as a place for him to kneel. She stared past his shoulder at nothing and let the next dozen strokes land, deep, wet, mean, each one a reminder that she had come here to be a hole and nothing else.

He stayed in her a long time like that, grinding deep, pulling almost out, slamming back in until her tits shook under her dress and the headboard ticked against the wall. Precum and her own slick made a mess at the base of his cock. She felt it smear her folds, felt it wet the hand still holding her panties clear. Every time he buried himself she thought about Victor, about going home full again, about walking into her own kitchen with this man's cum packed in her. The thought shoved her right to the edge. She clenched, motionless except for that squeeze, and Cody felt it.

"Greedy cheat," he said against her ear. "You just lie there and take it. That's all you're good for tonight."

"Yes," she breathed. "Use me. I'm your little slut. Fuck me."

He pulled out suddenly. The loss made her cunt flutter on nothing, gaping and shiny, panties still wrenched to the side. Before she could do more than gasp, his hands were on her hips, flipping her. She went where he put her. Face down. She turned her cheek, then pressed her face into the pillow the way she had the last time, when she hadn't wanted Victor to hear a name that wasn't his. The pillow smelled like Cody's detergent. She grabbed it with one hand and kept the other free.

"Ass up enough for me to get in," he said. "Then stay down."

She shifted her hips a fraction, not a pose, just enough, and he shoved her dress up and mounted her from behind in a prone press, his chest along her back, his cock finding her soaked hole and driving in to the hilt. The angle was deeper. She cried out into the pillow, muffled, and then went still again except for the clutch of her cunt around him.

He pounded her. Deep and fast, prone-bone, his hips slapping her ass, his weight pinning her to the mattress so she couldn't have bucked even if she had wanted to perform. She didn't. She kept her face in the pillow and took the breeding like a hole that had come over for exactly this. Each thrust knocked a broken sound out of her. Her fingers twisted in the sheet. The only time she moved with purpose was when she reached back, found her own ass, and spread herself wider for his cock, pulling one cheek aside so he could sink even deeper into her cheating pussy. She did it again a minute later, both hands back, panties still skewed, holding herself open while he ruined her, then she dropped her face into the pillow once more and let him work.

"That's it," he growled. "Spread that married cunt. Take it. You're getting another load. You're going home full of me again."

She nodded into the pillow, wordless, and reached back one more time to pull herself open, fingers slipping on her own wetness, offering every inch. He fucked into the space she made, brutal and steady, the head of his cock battering deep. Her orgasm hit without warning, a hard clench that rolled through her while she stayed face-down and shaking, not thrashing, just cumming around him in tight pulses, soaking his cock, whispering into the cotton that she was his little slut, his, his.

Cody lost the rhythm. His thrusts went short and mean, buried, and then he slammed in and stayed there, cock kicking, and he filled her. Hot cum pumped into her in thick spurts, a second load, the return breeding, flooding her pussy until she felt it surge and pack her full. He ground through it, groaning, emptying himself as deep as he could get, and she lay under him and took every drop, panties still pulled aside, face in the pillow, his little slut getting bred raw on a bed that was not her husband's. He stayed buried while the last pulses leaked out of him, thick and hot, marking her cunt as his for the drive home.

When he finally pulled out, the sound was wet and lewd. Cody stayed on his knees behind her and watched. His fresh cum welled at her stretched hole and spilled, a thick white drip sliding out of her well-used pussy and onto the sheets, then another, stringing from her folds to the cotton still yanked aside. He didn't wipe her. He looked at the mess he had made of a married cunt and let it run.

Colette lay there a moment longer, face in the pillow, feeling the leak and loving it. Then she pushed up. Her legs were unsteady. She did not ask him to hold her. She quietly pulled her panties back over the mess, felt his cum soak straight through the crotch, and straightened her dress with calm hands.

"Thank you," she said, quiet, not sweet. "For treating me like your personal slut."

She found her heels. She did not kiss him goodbye. At the door she paused only long enough to feel another warm slide of his load escape into her panties, and then she slipped out, down the stairwell, into her car. The drive home to Victor waited at the end of the road. She already wondered when she would sneak back for another secret breeding, another night of lying still and getting filled.

She merged onto the street with Cody's cum drooling out of her fucked cunt, a cheating little slut already hungry to come back and take his next load raw.