The smell of fried onions wafted from the kitchen, filling the house with the comforting illusion of normalcy. Diana was humming to herself, flipping something over in the pan. Mike sat on the couch in the living room, a football match playing silently on the TV. But he wasn’t watching.
His eyes were on Karen.
She moved like she knew he was watching.
In a tight tank top and shorts that clung to her hips, she leaned over the kitchen counter, deliberately slow, deliberately teasing. Her hair was tied in a messy bun, a few strands falling around her neck. She looked innocent. Domestic, even. But Mike knew better. There was nothing innocent about Karen.
She turned her head slightly, just enough to catch his gaze.
That was all it took.
She padded softly into the living room, barefoot, every step sending a jolt through his nerves. Mike’s heart pounded in his chest like a war drum. He should’ve gotten up. He should’ve walked away.
But he didn’t.
Karen didn’t speak. She sat on the edge of the couch, facing away from the kitchen, her body angled toward him. Her thigh brushed his. Electricity.
Diana’s voice floated in from the kitchen. “Five more minutes and lunch will be ready.”
“Okay,” Mike called out, his voice a little too tight.
Karen’s hand slid across his thigh. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers traced patterns over the fabric of his sweatpants, inching closer. Mike’s breath caught.
“This is crazy,” he whispered.
“Shh,” Karen said, eyes never leaving his.
She slid onto his lap, straddling him. Light. Gentle. Her movements were careful. Calculated. Silent.
Mike’s hands trembled as he gripped her waist. His mind screamed at him to stop. But his body was already lost.
Karen leaned forward, her lips brushing his ear. “Don’t make a sound.”
Then she sank down.
He was already hard, already aching. She guided him inside her with practiced ease, muffling a gasp as she took him in.
Mike clutched the back of the couch, eyes shut tight, trying not to groan. She was warm. Wet. Perfect.
Her hips began to move. Just slightly. Just enough.
Mike gritted his teeth, trying to stay silent. Karen bit her bottom lip to keep from moaning. The risk of being caught only made it hotter.
The TV continued to play quietly. From the kitchen came the sound of Diana opening a drawer, humming a song Mike didn’t recognize.
Karen’s nails dug into his shoulders. Her breath was hot against his neck.
“You feel so good,” she whispered.
He thrust up gently, his hands gripping her thighs. Each movement was slow, controlled. Every push inside her was electric, filled with need and danger.
She clenched around him.
He almost lost it right there.
Karen’s lips brushed his cheek. “c*m for me,” she whispered.
“I know you like it when she’s very close to us.”
He groaned softly—barely audible.
Then he came.
His whole body tensed, wave after wave crashing through him. Karen held him close, burying her face into his neck as she trembled.
They stayed like that for a moment—breathing, hearts pounding, both dazed.
Then she slowly slid off, adjusting her shorts like nothing happened.
Diana called from the kitchen, “Can you set the table, babe?”
Mike swallowed hard, wiped the sweat from his brow, and forced himself to stand. “Yeah… yeah, sure.”
Karen gave him one last look. That smile again.
And just like that, the storm passed.
But its mark was burned into the couch.
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