Read Novel Full Chapter 961: Bathroom Fidelity (r-18)
Chapter 961: Bathroom Fidelity (r-18)
She was still on her knees, lips stretched obscene around me, throat working in angry, sloppy, choking strokes when I felt the shift—her rhythm stuttering, faltering, like she’d hit her limit and was begging to break past it and reach the deepest parts of her throat.
I tightened my fingers in her hair—not guiding yet, just anchoring—and she moaned long and wrecked around my cock, the vibration ripping straight through my balls. We were way past polite.
I pulled her off with a loud, wet pop—thick silver strands of spit stretching from her swollen, abused lips to the glistening, spit-shiny head like obscene spiderwebs.
She gasped—ragged, desperate—chest heaving, eyes glassy and red-rimmed, mascara already carving black rivers down both cheeks in messy tracks. Beautiful, fucked-up disaster.
She did not look satisfied with her work yet.
"Up," I said, voice gravel.
She rose on trembling heels. I spun her fast—her back slamming to my chest—then I shoved her forward until her palms slapped the stall wall.
Her dress was still bunched at her hips, I yanked the thong aside, the view was beautiful... her pussy lips were puffy and dripping, slick shining down her inner thighs from where she’d mauled her clit earlier.
I helped her stance wider, stepped in-between her widened legs, and dragged every thick, veined inch between her thighs—not entering, just sawing the shaft along her soaked slit while my hands found the fragile neckline.
Thin straps.
Expensive silk. I hooked fingers under the fabric at her shoulders.
She caught my wrists. "Wait—keep it intact. How the fuck do I walk back out there looking like nothing happened?"
Playing pretend huh, like we do not know how you like this.
I pressed my mouth to her ear, one hand sliding down to roughly palm her tit through the dress, thumb scraping the hard nipple, the other still gripping the neckline like I was seconds from shredding it.
"We both know that’s bullshit," I murmured. "You’ve gotten off a hundred times picturing this—walking out of a bathroom stall looking like you’ve been used hard, dress in rags, tits out, no way to hide it.
"You want the evidence written all over you. You want every single person who looks at you tonight to know you just got your throat fucked raw by a stranger while your husband smiled at waiters."
She gasped—sharp, involuntary—whole body jerking against me, pussy clenching visibly around nothing.
My cock throbbed hard between her thighs at the sound. She twisted just enough to glare back over her shoulder, lips parted, voice already hoarse.
"How the fuck do you know that?"
I didn’t answer, words were a waste of time now.
I yanked.
Straps snapped with a sharp rip. Fabric tore straight down the front in one violent split—tits spilling free into the cold air, nipples dark and painfully tight. I didn’t stop.
Grabbed the torn edges and ripped wider—another loud, echoing tear—until the dress hung in useless black tatters from her waist, upper body completely bare, skin flushed, shining with sweat and spit-droplets.
Back arched hard, pushing those heavy breasts forward while her ass ground back against my hips.
From behind she was pure sin: spine curved, waist dipping, ass full and round, cheeks still bearing red finger-marks, ruined dress clinging like battle remnants—silk shredded open, exposing the smooth sweep of lower back, dimplesabove her ass, thong cutting high between her cheeks and framing everything.
Thighs were quivering, slick running in thin rivulets down the insides, pussy swollen, parted, dripping onto the marble in soft pat-pat-pats. Hair wrecked, mascara streaked, wedding ring flashing like a cruel joke every time her hand braced the wall.
I pressed my chest to her back, let her feel how brutally hard I still was. One hand collared her throat—not squeezing, just owning—while the other dragged down her front, rough palm scraping a nipple, then lower, fingers finding her clit and pinching once, mean.
She whimpered, hips bucking.
"Turn around."
She obeyed—shaky, slow—until she faced me again. Tits rising and falling fast, torn dress dangling like flags of surrender, pussy juices visibly trailing down her thighs.
Eyes locked on mine—wild, pupils blown, pleading and furious.
I fisted my cock, gave it one slow, deliberate stroke—head slick and angry-red—then stepped in and pressed it to her lips.
"Open."
She did. Wide.
I didn’t ease in.
I thrust—deep, brutal, straight to the back of her throat in one vicious stroke.
She gagged hard—immediate, wet, violent—eyes flooding instantly, throat spasming around the head like it was trying to reject me and swallow me at the same time. Her hands flew to my hips—not pushing, pulling, nails digging crescents as she tried to force another inch past her limit.
I gave her half a second—then started fucking her face in long, punishing strokes. She could only take maybe half at first—lips stretched white, cheeks hollowing desperately, gagging wetly every time I hit the back of her throat.
Thick silver spit bubbled at the corners of her mouth, frothing, dripping in heavy ropes onto her bouncing tits, streaking down her stomach, pooling on the floor between her knees.
But she wanted more.
Her head started moving faster—frantic, sloppy, urgent—shoving herself onto me harder, choking herself deeper with every forward bob.
She pulled off just enough to gasp—"Harder"—voice wrecked, then dove back, sucking viciously, tongue flattening, throat opening wider on pure instinct.
She gagged louder, wetter, retching sounds echoing off the marble, but she didn’t stop—she rammed her face forward, nose grinding against my pelvis, forcing the last stubborn inches down until her lips kissed the base and her throat fluttered wildly around me.
Full throat now. No fraction left. She held it—shaking, tears streaming, mascara rivers joining spit on her chin—then swallowed hard, rippling muscles milking me so tight I groaned.
She pulled back—slow, deliberate—silver strands snapping between her lips and my cock—only to slam forward again, faster, harder, urging me with every desperate thrust of her head.
I got the message.
Both hands fisted her hair now—holding her steady while I fucked her throat mercilessly—deep, rapid, balls slapping her chin with every stroke. Her body rocked violently—tits bouncing wildly, torn dress flapping, spit and tears mixing into a glistening mess on her chest.
She looked up through soaked lashes—eyes pleading, defiant, owned—gagging around me on every downstroke, choking wetly, moaning brokenly when I bottomed out.
The taboo aura throbbed hotter with every gag, every swallow, every flash of that wedding ring pumping the base she couldn’t reach with her mouth. Sin resonance made her throat relax unnaturally—taking me deeper, easier, greedier—until she was face-fucking herself on me as hard as I was using her.
I pulled out slow—inch by glistening, spit-drenched inch—until just the head sat on her tongue. She panted—ragged, sobbing breaths—thick silver drool stringing from her wrecked lips to my cock, dripping in long, obscene strands.
"Look at you," I rasped. "Married but on your knees in a public bathroom stall, dress shredded, tits out, throat raw and gaping, mascara ruined, still wearing the ring while she chokes herself stupid on cock that isn’t her husband’s."
She whimpered—small, shattered sound—then leaned forward and licked the underside, chasing more, tongue swirling through the mess of spit and precum.
I smiled, dark.
Then I fed it back in.
And started ruining her again—faster, deeper, harder—