His cock was massive.

Thick, dark, veiny—the kind of size that looked wrong next to a woman like her.

But Selena?

She took it.

Every inch.

Her pussy stretched around it, struggled to fit him. I saw her body fight and give in—tight lips pulled wide, pink folds swollen, soaked, devouring his length like it was what she was made for.

It looked perfect—her soft, honey-brown skin wrapped around a cock that shouldn’t have fit, that should’ve ruined her. It was obscene. Wrong. Beautiful.

Her thick, juicy thighs quivered as he rammed into her from behind, balls slapping against her soaked cunt. She gripped the sheets like she was hanging on for life, moaning his name like she forgot her husband’s.

“Fuck me, D,” she panted. “God—harder—don’t stop…”

Her voice was hoarse. Gone. And the sound of his cock sliding in and out of her wet pussy echoed through the night air, filtering right through that half-open window.

Her ass was red—bruised—from how he slapped her. Her back arched in surrender, like she needed to be dominated. Her curls were stuck to her cheeks, sweat shining on her tattooed back as she bounced against him, taking him deeper with every thrust.

He flipped her.

Just flipped her.

Now she was on her back, legs spread, knees up, feet dangling off the bed. He pushed them wider, made room for himself between her trembling thighs—and slammed back in.

Her tits bounced wildly, nipples dark and stiff. She didn’t cover herself.

She wanted to be seen.

Her eyes were glassy. Her mouth slack. Her body writhing like she couldn’t get enough.

He leaned over her, spit in her mouth.

She swallowed.

Without hesitation.

And then she said it.

“Your cock feels better than his.”

I nearly came on the spot.

Watching her—this married Latina mom, her ring probably still in her purse—get ruined by a black cock while begging for more? It broke something in me.

It broke the illusion.

But I didn’t care anymore.

Because now I knew what Selena really was.

Not a fantasy.

Not a good wife.

Just a thick, filthy slut built to be fucked by something bigger than her husband ever gave her.



She didn’t go to her car.

She went to his.

Back lot. Tinted windows. One of those big black SUVs with seats that fold down.

I followed.

I wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore. I kept to the shadows, moved between cars, breath shallow, heart pounding—not from fear.

From something else.

I had watched her for weeks.

I thought I knew her.

She was married. Quiet. Dedicated. She worked out hard, went home tired, never gave anyone more than a glance. A loyal wife. A mother.

But now?

Now she was being pulled into the backseat of a stranger’s car like she couldn’t wait another second.

I crouched low behind a pickup, the angle just right to see inside once the door shut.

The light didn’t come on.

But I saw silhouettes. Movement. Urgency.

Then her hand hit the back window—fingers splayed, palm open.

My throat dried.

I used to think she was soft. Submissive. The kind of woman who waited for her husband’s call to fall asleep. Who closed her legs and kept her thoughts locked away.

But this?

This was filth.

This was her giving herself over completely.

I could barely make out his figure. Broad shoulders. Head down. His arms moved like he was pinning her, grinding against her.

She was straddling him now. Her hips rocked fast, aggressive, needy. I saw her hair—those messy reddish curls bouncing in silhouette. Her mouth was open. I could tell even from here.

She was moaning. Maybe even begging.

Not the woman I thought she was.

But fuck if it didn’t make me hard.

Watching her get used—not gently, not romantically, but fucked—by a stranger with skin as dark as night, arms wrapped around her waist like he was breaking her in…

It was like seeing the real her for the first time.

The good wife was gone.

And what was left?

A dripping, aching slut riding cock in the dark.
I didn’t know where he lived.

Until that night.

I followed them. No hesitation. No guilt. Just my heartbeat pounding in my ears and my cock hard as stone.

His apartment was ten minutes from the gym. Third floor. Corner unit. Minimal furniture. Dark windows—except for one.

The bedroom.

Curtains half-closed. Sloppy.

Sloppy enough.

I parked down the block and made my way behind the building, slipping between the dumpster and an old fence line. The gravel crunched under my shoes. I crouched below the window and stood slowly—just enough to see.

And there she was.

Selena.

Stripped.

Naked.

Bent over the edge of the bed like she belonged there.

Her thick, peach-perfect ass arched high. Her red curls a tangled mess. Her back tattoo glistening with sweat. Her thighs spread wide, trembling.

She wasn’t making love.

She was getting fucked.

Hard.

His dark hands gripped her hips like he owned her. His hips slammed into her ass, thick and fast, the kind of thrusts that echoed through walls.

Her face—fuck, her face—twisted in something feral. Lips open, tongue out, moaning like an animal in heat.

I couldn’t look away.

She looked wrecked already. Her tits bounced with every thrust, sweat dripping down her stomach. Her fingers clawed the mattress, knuckles white.

And then he slapped her ass.

Hard.

She yelped—but didn’t run.

She pushed back.

I had imagined her so many ways. Sweet. Shy. Needing to be opened up.

But this?

This was pure filth.

She wanted it.

She craved it.

She was dripping—soaked—his cock slick as it slid in and out of her, the sound obscene, echoing through the cracked window.

“Yeah,” he growled. “You like cheating on your man?”

She nodded.

Not even words—just nods.

Desperate. Whimpering.

“Yes… f-fuck yes,” she gasped. “Harder…”

And he gave it to her.

He grabbed her hair. Pulled. Fucked her deeper. Made her scream into the mattress.

My hand was in my pants before I realized it—gripping myself so hard I nearly lost it right there.

This wasn’t just sex.

This was her turning into everything she’d never shown.

And I was watching every second of it.


She started staying later.

That’s how I knew.

At first, Selena was a creature of habit—6:45 in, out by 8. Tight schedule. Probably had dinner waiting at home. Or a kid’s bath time. Or maybe FaceTime with her husband, off wherever they sent soldiers like him.

But now?

She lingered.

Finished her sets slower. Stretched longer. Checked her phone more, but smiled less.

The first time I saw her on the treadmill past 8:30, I thought she was just clearing her head. But when I saw her again the next night—same time, same look—I started to wonder.

And then I saw him.

Tall. Dark. Built like a linebacker. Black hoodie, sweats, wide stance, heavy eyes. Quiet power.

He wasn’t from here. That much I knew.

But Selena noticed him.

Not the way she noticed me—not that flicker of awareness, that little mirror glance.

No.

This was different.

This was curiosity.

I saw her the first time she turned to look at him while stretching. Just a glance. But long enough for me to see the tiny smirk pulling at her lips when he finally looked back.

Something had cracked.

Some part of her—tight, faithful, wound up in loyalty and routine—had started to slip.

And I couldn’t stop watching.

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HIllbill drinking and talking at the bar

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