Yoga And Cheating

Mary keeps dropping by this one house even when the wife isn’t there. The husband is always home, young retirement money and nothing to do but sit on the couch and watch the sun move across the living-room rug. Today his wife skips yoga to shop. Mary sees the open calendar on her phone and cancels nothing. She rolls the mat out anyway, stretches down into a long forward bend, and stays low enough that the loose neck of her top hangs open. He watches. No need for words yet. She straightens, peels the tank off one shoulder, then the other, and lets it drop. Her breasts swing free, nipples already tight from the draft through the open balcony door. He gets up, walks behind her, and fits his palms to her hips like he’s been planning the grip all week. Mary stays on all fours, back dipped, ass lifted. He pulls her shorts and panties down together until the elastic snaps against her thighs. The hair between her legs is full and light, the same pale gold as the hair on her head. He frees himself, lines up, and pushes in slow. No warm-up, just one long glide until his hips meet the swell of her backside. Mary gasps, then pushes back, taking him deeper. They settle into a steady grind—her knees sliding on the mat, his hands locked on her waist. When he leans over her to reach her clit she meets him halfway, rocking up so the angle stays sharp. She swings a leg over and settles into his lap, facing him now, knees planted on either side of his thighs. She rides in short, grinding circles, using her own weight to push him right where she wants. Her bush brushes the base of his cock on every drop. Sweat beads at her lower back; he licks it away, then bites the skin. Mary’s breath catches, her thighs start to shake, but she doesn’t speed up. She stays slow, deliberate, drawing it out until the room is nothing but skin and quiet, wet sounds.