Bb Bio

I fuck my Ex so hard because we couldn't leave each other even after marriage. I employ her as my cook. Each time my wife went out she will rush to me and grab my dick. We fuck in the bathroom, kitchen, parlors. The arrangement started the way most dangerous things do—quietly, with a practical excuse that both of us pretended was innocent. After the divorce papers were signed and the lawyers stopped calling, the ache didn’t leave. It lived under my skin like a second pulse. I married someone else because that was what people did when they were supposed to “move on.” My wife was beautiful, kind, organized. She kept the house running. She never once looked at me the way my ex did, like she already knew every filthy thought in my head and wanted them all. Hiring her as the cook was my idea. I told my wife we needed help with meals now that both of us were busier. My wife agreed without suspicion. She liked the idea of someone competent in the kitchen. She never noticed the way my ex’s eyes lingered on me when she thought no one was watching, or the way my cock twitched the second that familiar perfume drifted through the hallway. The first time it happened, my wife had just left for a weekend with her sister. The door hadn’t even fully closed before my ex appeared in the kitchen doorway, apron still on, hair pulled back the way she used to wear it when we lived together. She didn’t speak. She just walked straight to me, pressed her body against mine, and slid her hand down the front of my pants like she still owned the right. “I missed this,” she whispered against my mouth, already stroking me through the fabric. “I missed how hard you get for me.” I should have stopped her. I didn’t. I pushed her back against the counter, yanked the apron up, and found she wasn’t wearing anything underneath. She was already wet, already open, already grinding against my fingers like she’d been waiting all week. I fucked her right there, standing up, one of her legs hooked around my waist, the other braced on the edge of the counter. The wet sounds of it filled the quiet house. She came first, biting my shoulder to stay quiet even though no one was home. I followed a minute later, buried deep, pulsing inside her the way I used to before everything went to hell. After that, it became a ritual. Every time my wife’s car pulled out of the driveway, the tension in the house changed. My ex would find me within minutes. Sometimes she didn’t even wait for the sound of the engine to fade. She’d corner me in the hallway, drop to her knees, and take me into her mouth with the same greedy hunger she always had. Other times she’d drag me into the bathroom while the shower was already running, strip us both, and let me bend her over the sink so we could watch ourselves in the mirror—her tits swinging, my hands gripping her hips, the flush spreading down her chest as I drove into her harder than I ever did with my wife. The kitchen was our favorite. Something about the everyday normalcy of it made the filth worse. She’d be chopping vegetables or stirring a pot and suddenly my hand would be under her skirt, two fingers sliding into her while she kept stirring like nothing was happening. The second she started to shake, I’d bend her over the island, yank her panties to the side, and fuck her until the only sound left was skin slapping skin and the wet, desperate noises she made when she came. Once I made her come three times in a row against the fridge, holding her up because her legs gave out. She left handprints on the stainless steel. We wiped them away before my wife got home.