I get this twisted thrill from being a guy’s hidden fucktoy way more than some public arm candy. There’s this married guy, Tom, late 30s, who lives down the hall. He’s got a plain wife, but his eyes devour me every time we pass. Last week, I caught him alone in the laundry room, and I was wearing a crop top, no bra, and leggings that hugged my ass, my pussy already wet from the idea of him.
I “dropped” my detergent, bending over slow, letting him see my thong peeking out. He stepped closer, voice low, “You’re trouble.” I turned, smirking, “Only if you want me to be.” That was it. He pushed me against the washer, his wedding ring cold on my hip, and kissed me hard, tongue claiming my mouth. My cunt throbbed, knowing his wife could walk in any second.
He yanked my leggings down, fingers finding my soaked pussy, rubbing my clit rough and fast. I moaned, grinding into his hand, juices dripping onto the floor. “Quiet, slut,” he hissed, shoving two fingers deep, fucking me until my legs shook. I unzipped him, his cock thick and pulsing, and dropped to my knees, sucking him like I was starving. I gagged, spit coating his shaft, tasting his precum while he gripped my hair, whispering, “She doesn’t do this.”
He bent me over the washer, slamming into my pussy, stretching me wide. My walls clenched, creaming around him, the machine vibrating under us. “You’re my dirty secret,” he grunted, spanking my ass, and I came hard, pussy gushing, muffling my screams in my arm. He didn’t pull out, filling my cunt with hot cum, so much it dripped down my thighs as he zipped up.
I pulled my leggings up, his seed sticky inside me, and we left separately, like nothing happened. Knowing his wife has no clue, that I’m his filthy escape, gets me off harder than any “I love you.” I’m touching myself now, thinking about sneaking into his place next time she’s out, letting him use me again. Being his secret slut feels raw, dangerous, and so fucking alive.
