Red Confession: Ravaging the Perfect Wife

Her mules dangle from one hand, feet bare on the hot Paris pavement. We rush to my apartment, bodies electric. Heart hammers. Sweat beads on her neck. She’s a Viking statue in blue skirt, white blouse gaping over heavy breasts. Lips painted bold. Fresh from the salon, blonde waves ready to shatter.

Elevator doors close. I crush her against cold metal. Mouth claims hers. Tongue invades, hot and wet. She pulls me in, thighs parting. Heart races wild. Her breath quickens, nipples harden under silk. Doors open. Eyes lock—hers soft, childlike, begging.

The Fever Ignites

Inside, divan swallows us. Fingers tear at buttons. Blouse falls. Breasts spill free, white, full, swaying. Nipples pink, erect. Skin fever-hot. She yields, hands on my shoulders. Skirt hikes up. String slips off. Pubis blonde, thick V, glistening. Legs spread slow. Aroma hits—musk, desire.

I pin wrists above head. Mouth devours tits. Teeth graze peaks. She gasps, arches. Hand dives low. Clit swollen, huge. Pussy floods my finger. Stroke, circle. She bucks. Eyes plead. I stand her up. Mules back on. Nude goddess towers. Face buries in belly. Finger plunges deep. She sways, grips shoulders. Climax hits—cry escapes, walls clench. She collapses, spent.

Bedroom. She sprawls, legs wide. I strip. Cock throbs, veins pulsing. No words. Kneel between thighs. Thrust deep, brutal. She bites lip, hand to mouth. I rip it away. Hear her moans. Head thrashes. Pulls me close, missionary grind. Orgasms rip her—eyes roll. Legs lock reins. ‘Come in me.’ I erupt, jets flooding her core.

Blaze of Flesh

Week blurs. Mornings: wake spooned, cock slides into slick heat. Slow pumps. She cries out, first real scream. Cum together, sleep again. Feet worship cock—long toes grip, stroke. Jets arc to face, hair. Tits squeezed around shaft, neck bathed in seed. She inhales it, proud.

Anus yields to tongue, fingers. Saliva-slick. Levrette, clit rubbed. Tight ring grips. She quivers, cums after me. Pipes on knees, hand guides. Swallow deep. Hotel lunch: straight to bed, receptionist smirks. No shower days—pussy scent painted on skin, lips, wrists. Dinner: she slips panties in pocket. Sniff, dizzy.

Thursday. ‘Parenthesis closes.’ She flies to family. Skin still burns. SMS: ‘You made me woman again.’ Guilt stabs—Luc’s friend, betrayed. But cock twitches at memory. Weeks pass. She calls. Lunch turns hotel frenzy. Confesses to him. Divorce. Now wife, mother to our girl. Mornings ours—no kids interrupt. Fever never fades.