Part One: The Taunts and the Pact
The Gaithersburg duplexes sweltered under June’s oppressive heat, the air heavy with humidity and festering grudges. Two weeks after Emmy’s sexfight victory, the wounds still stung, raw and unhealed. Andrea, 35, her blonde hair tied back in a fierce ponytail, moved through her days with a seething resolve. Her 32G breasts, swollen with milk, ached with fullness, a testament to her body’s defiance and her burning need to reclaim her pride. Her blue eyes flared at every buzz of her phone, Paul’s taunting texts slicing into her like shrapnel.
Paul, smug and relentless, tormented Kyle at every chance. At the mailbox, he’d grin, voice low. “Your wife’s got a hell of a mouth, Kyle. Sucked me like she was born for it. You coaching her?” In neighbor chats, he’d slip in jabs. “Kyle, you stocking up on formula again? Andrea’s got other skills.” His texts were vicious, crude daggers. “I can still feel Andrea’s lips on my cock, man. Bet she’s dreaming of round two with my dick.” Kyle, 38, his IT exec calm cracking, burned with each word, his jaw clenched, his cock stirring despite the rage. The image of Andrea on her knees, Paul’s cum dripping down her chin, gutted him, humiliated him, but it lit a dark fire in his groin, the primal clash of their wives stoking a hunger he couldn’t deny.
Andrea saw Kyle’s tension, his gaze lingering as she nursed Wade, her nipples stiff under thin tanks. She knew Paul’s taunts drove him to the edge, felt it in the way he fucked her harder now, his thrusts raw, his groans thick with anger and lust. One sticky evening, with Wade asleep in his crib, Kyle slumped on their couch, phone glowing with another of Paul’s barbs. “Andrea’s throat was magic, buddy. You holding up?” Kyle’s knuckles whitened, his erection straining his shorts. He tossed the phone aside and looked at Andrea, her red nursing bra barely containing her 32Gs, gray leggings clinging to her toned thighs.
“Babe,” he said, voice rough, shifting to ease the ache in his pants, “Paul won’t quit. Keeps bragging about how you sucked him off. It’s driving me fucking crazy, but hell, it’s hot too, thinking about you fighting Emmy again. You up for another round? Same stakes, loser sucks the winner’s husband, but this time, you milk each other dry. Save up all week, use bottles and pumped milk for Wade. Whoever’s drained and flaccid loses, and the winner’s the better wife.”
Andrea’s breath hitched, her nipples hardening, milk beading as her body surged with the challenge. She crossed her arms, wincing at the pressure on her swollen chest, her eyes blazing with certainty. “Damn right I’m in,” she said, voice fierce. “I’ll save every drop, Kyle. My tits are already loaded, and I’ll make sure they’re bursting by Saturday. I’ll milk that bitch empty, leave her saggy and useless. She got lucky last time, but I’ll drain her dry, prove I’m the better wife. Set it up. I’ll wreck her.” Her thighs clenched, arousal flooding her at the thought of squeezing Emmy’s 36DDs until they gave out.
Kyle’s cock pulsed, his grin wide as he grabbed his phone, texting Paul. “That’s my queen,” he murmured, his hand grazing her thigh. “You’ll empty her. I want to see her choke on me when you win.”
Next door, Emmy, 32, basked in her triumph, her 36DDs bouncing as she rode Paul on their bed, her thick brunette mane wild, brown eyes glinting with a victor’s glee. Since the sexfight, they’d been fucking like fiends, morning quickies and late-night marathons, her pussy soaked from replaying her dominance over Andrea. Paul’s taunts to Kyle only fueled her fire, each one a spark to her feral pride. “God, Paul,” she’d purr, grinding on him, “rubbing Kyle’s nose in how I broke his wife? Makes me want to crush her again.” Her meaty ass jiggled, her clit throbbing at the memory of Andrea’s defeated moans.
When Andrea’s challenge hit Paul’s phone, relayed through Kyle, “Rematch. Saturday, 8 p.m., your place. Milk each other dry, loser sucks the winner’s husband. Same stakes, bottles for the kids all week,” Emmy laughed, a deep, wicked sound, her thighs clamping Paul’s hips. “Oh, hell yes,” she said, snatching the phone. “That blonde thinks she can outmilk me? I’m game. I’ll save up, pump my tits full, and drain her until she’s flat. She’ll be flaccid while Henry drinks like a king.” She rocked harder, her pussy slick, arousal spiking at the thought of another war. “Tell her it’s on. I’ll milk her dry and own her again.”
Paul grinned, his cock swelling inside her, hands gripping her thick thighs. “Knew you’d love it. Text Kyle, make it real.” He thrust up, groaning. “Fuck, Em, I can’t wait to see you break her. Maybe I’ll get Andrea’s mouth again.”
Emmy smirked, typing fast. “Saturday, 8 p.m., our place. Milk fight, loser’s drained and sucks. I’m ready to ruin her.” She sent it, tossed the phone, and bit Paul’s neck. “She’ll choke on you again, baby, after I leave her tits empty.”
Part Two: The Preparation
The week dragged, the duplexes pulsing with anticipation. Andrea and Emmy turned their bodies into milk factories, driven by a manic need to dominate. Andrea used bottles and pre-pumped milk for Wade, her 32Gs growing heavier each day, swollen and taut, veins prominent under her skin. She drank gallons of water, ate oats and fenugreek, and massaged her breasts nightly, coaxing every ounce of production. By Wednesday, her nursing bras strained, milk leaking at the slightest pressure, her confidence soaring. Seeing Emmy at the mailbox, she noted the brunette’s tight tank, her 36DDs bulging, nipples dark and stiff, and smirked, knowing her own chest was just as loaded.
Emmy matched her, feeding Henry from bottles, her 36DDs engorged, heavy with milk, aching with fullness. She chugged herbal teas, popped lactation supplements, and pumped just enough to keep production high without wasting a drop. Her nursing tanks were stretched thin, her meaty thighs and soft belly roll quivering with energy. Spotting Andrea in the Wegman’s lot, she saw the blonde’s sports bra straining, her 32Gs round and hard, and grinned, certain her own supply would bury her rival.
They exchanged glares, no words needed, their swollen chests a silent challenge. Each woman’s body screamed readiness, their milk-heavy breasts weapons primed for war. The tension was primal, sexual, their hate laced with a twisted thrill at the thought of draining the other.
Kyle and Paul refined the rules over texts, their cocks hard at the setup. “Saturday, 8 p.m., your place,” Kyle wrote. “They sit on a big leather ottoman, face-to-face, husbands behind to hold them in place. One hour, milk each other dry. Whoever’s drained and flaccid loses, her man watches her suck the winner’s husband. The better wife wins.” Paul replied, “Fuck yes. Ottoman’s ready, we’ll keep ‘em locked in. Emmy’s tits are bursting, Andrea’s done for.”
Andrea and Emmy nodded to the rules, their confidence feral. Andrea told Kyle, straddling him one night, her chemise tight over her swollen chest, “I’ll squeeze her dry, leave her saggy while my tits stay full. She won’t last.” Kyle groaned, his cock plunging into her, their sex a vow of victory. Emmy, grinding on Paul, purred, “I’ll milk her flat, make her watch Henry drink while Andrea’s empty. She’s no match.” Paul’s hands roamed her mane, his dick aching as she planned Andrea’s ruin.
Part Three: The Husbands’ Fence Talk
Friday night, the sun bled red over Gaithersburg, the air thick as Kyle and Paul met at the back fence, their erections already straining their jeans. The promise of tomorrow’s milk war hung heavy, their wives’ swollen tits and fierce glares fueling their arousal. Kyle leaned against the slats, adjusting himself, his voice tight. “Tomorrow’s gonna be fucking intense, man. Andrea’s tits are like rocks, so full she’s leaking. She’s gonna drain Emmy dry, leave her flaccid while you watch me get sucked.”
Paul laughed, his cock tenting painfully, shifting to ease the pressure. “Dream on, buddy. Emmy’s 36DDs are bursting, milk practically spraying already. She’ll milk Andrea flat, and I’ll be the one getting Andrea’s lips again. Bet she’s been practicing.” His grin was smug, his dick throbbing at the thought of Emmy’s victory.
They stood there, banter flowing, their voices rough, cocks pulsing. Kyle smirked, his hand brushing his bulge. “Andrea’s been eating like a machine, pumping those tits full. She’s got this fire, man, this need to crush Emmy. I’m hard just thinking about her squeezing those 36DDs empty, milk spraying everywhere.”
Paul nodded, his own hand grazing his jeans, precum dampening the fabric. “Emmy’s the same, chugging teas, massaging her chest. She’s obsessed, says she feels every ounce building. I can’t stop picturing her hands on Andrea’s tits, draining her while Andrea begs. Fuck, it’s hot.” His breath hitched, his cock straining harder, a wet spot growing.
The talk stretched, their arousal mounting, precum beading through their jeans. Kyle’s eyes glinted, his voice dropping. “You know what’s gonna happen, right? Andrea’s gonna pin Emmy’s arms, milk her like a cow, leave her saggy and useless. I’ll be behind her, holding her steady, watching Emmy’s face as she loses.” He unzipped, freeing his long, slick cock, stroking lightly, the fence hiding him.
Paul matched him, unzipping to let his thick, veined cock spring out, precum drooling as he gripped it. “Bullshit. Emmy’s gonna lock Andrea down, squeeze those 32Gs until they’re empty. I’ll keep her in place, feel her power as she breaks your wife.” He stroked, his tip glistening, the air crackling with their mutual heat.
They stepped closer to the fence, drawn to a gap where a slat had warped, their eyes catching the glint of each other’s waving cocks in the fading light. Kyle’s shaft bobbed, slick with precum, Paul’s thicker length pulsing, drooling onto the grass. Their banter grew raw, voices thick. “Andrea’s tits are gonna stay full,” Kyle grunted, stroking faster. “She’ll drain Emmy and laugh while you watch her suck me.”
“Emmy’s the better wife,” Paul shot back, his grip tightening. “She’ll milk Andrea dry, and I’ll fuck your wife’s mouth again.” Their cocks twitched, inches apart through the gap, the tension unbearable.
Paul moved first, reaching through the gap, his forearm brushing Kyle’s as he grabbed Kyle’s cock, pumping slow and firm. “Let’s see who’s got more stamina, asshole,” he growled, his hand slick with Kyle’s precum. Kyle gasped, then retaliated, his hand snaking through to grip Paul’s thick shaft, stroking with deliberate pressure. “You’ll bust first, prick,” he hissed, their forearms rubbing, bodies pressed against the fence.
They pumped each other, huffing, straining, goading as their cocks throbbed. “Emmy’s gonna sag,” Kyle grunted, his hand relentless, Paul’s precum coating his fingers. “Andrea’s tits’ll be drained,” Paul countered, his strokes faster, Kyle’s slickness easing his grip. Their hips bucked, the fence creaking, their breaths ragged, each trying to milk the other’s load while holding their own.
Paul’s control cracked first, his cock pulsing hard, cum erupting in thick ropes, splattering Kyle’s hand. “Fuck!” he groaned, his body shuddering. Kyle smirked, pulling his hand back and smearing Paul’s cum across his face, the hot, sticky mess streaking Paul’s cheek and lips. “Weak, man,” Kyle taunted, his voice tight as Paul’s hand kept working him. Paul, panting, redoubled his efforts, his cum-slicked face burning with shame, and Kyle’s cock spasmed, unloading across Paul’s wrist, his groan sharp.
They leaned against the fence, spent, cocks softening, Paul wiping his face with a scowl. “Emmy’s gotta know,” Kyle said, zipping up. “Your stamina’s shit. She better not lose.” Paul nodded, grim, his mind racing. “She won’t,” he muttered, but doubt crept in as he trudged back to tell Emmy.
At home, Paul confessed, his voice low. “Kyle outlasted me at the fence, Em. Got me off first, smeared my cum on my face. I fucked up.” Emmy’s eyes widened, her 36DDs heaving, a flicker of worry crossing her face. “Jesus, Paul. If I lose, what’s Andrea gonna do to me?” Her pussy clenched, fear and arousal mixing, but she squared her shoulders. “Doesn’t matter. I’ll drain her. I’m the better wife.”
Part Four: The Fight
The Gaithersburg duplex pulsed with raw tension on Saturday night, the living room transformed into a primal arena. A large leather ottoman sat at its center, the rug cleared, the air thick with lust, vengeance, and the faint, sweet scent of milk. At 8 p.m., the red sunset had bled into a sultry black, amplifying the heat within. Kyle and Paul positioned themselves behind their wives, dressed in loose cotton shorts, their cocks free and already stirring, the thin fabric doing little to hide their growing arousal. The stakes were merciless: one wife drained and flaccid, her husband watching her suck the winner’s man, the better wife crowned, her superior tits undeniable.
Andrea and Emmy knelt on the ottoman, sitting on their heels, bare feet tucked beneath their big, round asses, the curves of their soles pressing into soft flesh. Their bodies gleamed, meticulously prepared to outshine each other. Andrea, 5’7” and 160 pounds of toned fury, had her blonde hair styled in loose waves, cascading over her shoulders, framing a face with smoky eyeliner and crimson lipstick. Her manicured nails, painted scarlet, matched her pedicure, toes flexing against her ass. Her red lace chemise clung to her 32G breasts, engorged to bursting, veins stark under taut skin, nipples stiff and leaking faintly, the fabric stretched to its limit by her milk-heavy chest. Her shaved pussy glistened beneath, her thighs quivering with readiness, driven to prove she was the sexier, better wife.
Emmy, 5’6” and 150 pounds, radiated predatory power, her thick brunette mane swept into a high ponytail, strands gleaming under the light, her brown eyes lined with kohl, lips glossy pink. Her manicured nails, painted black, matched her pedicure, toes curling under her meaty ass. Her black lace teddy hugged her 36DDs, swollen beyond reason, milk beading at her nipples, the lace taut over her veined, heavy breasts. Her thick bush framed slick folds, her thighs trembling with energy. Both women had starved their boys this week, feeding Wade and Henry less, using bottles and pumped milk to hoard every drop for this war, their breasts aching with fullness, their need to dominate bordering on madness.
Kyle, behind Andrea, gripped her shoulders, his cock half-hard, brushing the leg of his loose shorts. Paul, behind Emmy, held her steady, his own dick twitching, the outline clear through the thin fabric. The women locked eyes, hands flexing, fingers curling with anticipation, their swollen chests heaving, milk sloshing audibly. Andrea’s gray eyes burned into Emmy’s brown ones, each wife measuring the other’s engorged tits, the air crackling with their mutual hate and a twisted, sexual thrill. Neither spoke, but their glares screamed: I’ll drain you. I’m better.
Kyle cleared his throat, voice rough, his cock stiffening further, tenting his shorts. “One hour. Milk each other dry. Drained and flaccid loses, winner’s the better wife, her tits superior. Loser sucks the winner’s husband. We’ll hold you in place.” He reached forward, his hands slow and deliberate, grasping the straps of Andrea’s chemise. With a gentle tug, he peeled the lace down, her 32Gs spilling free, massive and taut, milk beading at her dark, rigid nipples, veins pulsing under pale skin. The room seemed to pause, Emmy’s eyes narrowing at the sight, her own chest heaving faster.
Paul followed, his hands trembling slightly, sliding Emmy’s teddy straps off her shoulders. The lace fell, her 36DDs bouncing out, heavy and veined, milk dripping in thin streams, her nipples bold and stiff. Andrea’s lips twitched, her hands flexing harder, the pressure building for both women and their men. Kyle and Paul’s cocks now jutted from the legs of their shorts, tips glistening with precum, their breaths shallow as they held their wives, the tension a living thing, coiling tighter. “Go,” Paul rasped, his voice thick, his dick throbbing against Emmy’s back.
The women lunged, a wet slap of flesh, hands darting to each other’s breasts. Andrea’s scarlet nails sank into Emmy’s 36DDs, squeezing with fierce precision, milk jetting in thick, creamy arcs, splattering her thighs and the ottoman. “You’re done, cow!” she hissed, thumbs pressing Emmy’s nipples, streams soaking her lap. Emmy’s black nails clawed Andrea’s 32Gs, milk gushing over her wrists, hitting her belly. “Fuck you, slut!” she snarled, twisting until Andrea’s milk sprayed across her chest, a sharp moan escaping. Their bare feet flexed under their asses, toes digging into flesh, their styled hair swaying, makeup smudging with sweat, the effort to outshine each other etched in every move.
The ottoman glistened with milk, the leather slick under their knees. Andrea pinned Emmy’s wrists with one hand, her other kneading Emmy’s left tit like a farmer, milk spraying in rhythmic jets, the streams thick and relentless, soaking her red-painted toes. Emmy’s face twisted, her ponytail swinging, her lips parting in a gasp as she felt her supply surge out, the weight in her chest shifting, a flicker of shock in her eyes. “No, shit!” she grunted, wrenching free, her hands clamping Andrea’s 32Gs, squeezing with desperate force, milk flooding her lap, the streams hitting her meaty thighs. Andrea’s moan was raw, her waves of blonde hair sticking to her neck, but she held firm, her nails digging deeper into Emmy’s breasts.
Kyle’s cock jutted fully from his shorts, rubbing Andrea’s back as he held her shoulders, his hands trembling with pride and lust. “Drain her, babe,” he whispered, his tip leaking precum, the friction against her skin electric. Paul’s dick pressed into Emmy’s spine, his shorts stretched, his own precum dripping as he gripped her tighter, urging, “Keep going, Em, empty her!” The women’s goading was strained, their voices hoarse from effort and pain. “You’re softening, bitch,” Andrea rasped, her fingers relentless, Emmy’s milk spraying her face, the taste bitter on her lips. “You’re leaking out, whore,” Emmy shot back, her thumbs twisting Andrea’s nipples, milk hitting her chin, but her own chest felt lighter, a creeping fear in her gut.
Their bodies rocked, milk pooling beneath, the ottoman a mess of creamy streams and sweat. Emmy shoved Andrea’s hands away, her nails raking Andrea’s tits, milk jetting sideways, hitting Kyle’s shorts. Andrea’s eyes widened, a flash of panic as her 32Gs yielded slightly less, the streams thinning, but she retaliated, squeezing Emmy’s 36DDs until the milk slowed, Emmy’s groan guttural, her face paling with shock. “Fuck, no!” Emmy gasped, her supply faltering, her once-proud tits softening under Andrea’s grip. The husbands’ cocks throbbed, their hands steadying their wives, the room echoing with wet squelches and ragged breaths, the war only beginning.
The struggle deepened as the clock turned. The fight grew brutal, the women’s bodies slick with milk and sweat, their styled hair matting, makeup streaking down flushed faces. Andrea straddled Emmy’s hips, her knees pinning Emmy’s thighs, her hands working both 36DDs with savage rhythm, milk spraying in weakening streams, Emmy’s chest sagging further, the flesh looser under her fingers. Emmy’s eyes widened, horror dawning as her supply dwindled, her lips trembling, a choked sob escaping. “You can’t, you bitch!” she hissed, her voice cracking, but her hands fought back, clamping Andrea’s 32Gs, squeezing until milk jetted across her ponytail, the streams still strong but less forceful. Andrea’s face tightened, a flicker of fear as she felt her own weight lessen, her tits yielding slightly.
Kyle’s cock rubbed Andrea’s back, fully exposed now, his shorts low, precum smearing her skin as he whispered, “You’re winning, babe, she’s fading.” His hands gripped her shoulders, steadying her, his arousal a fire as he watched Emmy’s tits soften. Paul’s dick jutted against Emmy’s spine, his shorts slipping, his tip slick as he growled, “Don’t let up, Em, drain her now!” The women’s taunts were barely audible, their energy consumed by pain and effort. “You’re flaccid already,” Andrea grunted, her nails leaving welts, Emmy’s milk barely trickling now, her 36DDs drooping. “You’re next, slut,” Emmy managed, her fingers twisting Andrea’s nipples, milk still flowing but slower, her own defeat looming.
Their bare feet flexed harder, toes curling into their round asses, the pressure unbearable. Milk coated their thighs, their pedicures glistening, the ottoman a slick battlefield. Emmy lunged, twisting to break Andrea’s hold, her hands desperate, squeezing Andrea’s tits until milk sprayed her face, but the streams were thinner, Andrea’s chest still firm. Andrea shoved back, pinning Emmy’s wrists, her fingers ruthless, Emmy’s milk reduced to drops, her breasts slack, her expression pure panic. “No, fuck, no!” Emmy wailed, her voice raw, her pride crumbling as Andrea’s hands kept working, relentless, the gap between them widening.
Then, the tide turned. Exhaustion clawed at them, but fury held, their bodies trembling, hair plastered to sweat-soaked skin, makeup a smeared ruin. Andrea locked Emmy’s arms behind her back, her knees digging into Emmy’s thighs, her hands a blur on Emmy’s 36DDs, squeezing with surgical precision, milk barely dripping now, the flesh soft and empty. Emmy’s face contorted, shock and fear etched deep, her brown eyes wide, tears pricking as she felt her supply vanish, her once-mighty tits flaccid, useless. “Stop, you fucking whore!” she sobbed, her voice breaking, but her hands clawed Andrea’s 32Gs, milk still streaming, though slower, Andrea’s chest softening but holding strong.
Kyle’s cock throbbed against Andrea’s back, his precum a steady drip, his hands firm on her shoulders, urging, “Finish her, Andrea, she’s done!” Paul’s dick pressed into Emmy’s spine, his shorts around his thighs, his tip slick as he gripped her, desperation in his voice. “Fight back, Em, you’re not empty yet!” The women’s goading was gone, replaced by pained grunts, their bodies screaming, their breasts burning. Andrea’s fingers dug deeper, Emmy’s tits yielding nothing, her defeat stark, while Emmy’s hands worked Andrea’s 32Gs, milk trickling, Andrea’s face tight with effort to hold on.
The ottoman was a swamp of milk, their bare feet slipping, toes flexing against their asses, their manicured nails leaving red marks. Andrea shifted, straddling Emmy fully, her thighs clamping Emmy’s hips, her hands relentless, Emmy’s 36DDs now slack bags, milkless, her sobs loud and raw. Emmy’s final squeeze on Andrea’s tits drew only a thin stream, but Andrea’s chest remained firm, her supply dwindling but not gone. “You’re empty, cow,” Andrea rasped, her voice hoarse, Emmy’s wail echoing as her pride shattered, her body trembling under Andrea’s dominance.
The war reached its peak, the women drenched, their bodies quaking, hair matted, faces streaked with sweat and ruined makeup. Andrea pinned Emmy’s wrists to the ottoman, her knees crushing Emmy’s thighs, her hands working Emmy’s 36DDs with final, brutal force, squeezing until nothing came, the flesh flaccid, red, and sore. Emmy’s face was a mask of horror, tears streaming, her voice a broken plea. “Please, fuck, stop!” she cried, her chest empty, her defeat absolute. Emmy’s hands, weak now, grabbed Andrea’s 32Gs, milk dripping in faint streams, Andrea’s tits softening but still yielding, her eyes blazing with triumph.
Kyle’s cock jutted high, precum pooling on Andrea’s back, his hands steady, his voice fierce. “You’re the better wife, babe, end her!” Paul’s dick throbbed against Emmy’s spine, his shorts gone, his grip faltering as he whispered, “Em, don’t give up,” but his voice cracked, his own defeat from the fence echoing in her loss. The women’s breaths were ragged, their bodies spent, their bare feet slipping in milk, toes curled tight. Andrea’s final squeezes drew nothing from Emmy, her 36DDs drained, while Emmy’s last grip on Andrea’s 32Gs pulled only drops, Andrea’s chest still firm, her victory clear.
The buzzer sounded, Andrea rising, panting, milk dripping, her 32Gs softened but not flaccid, veins still prominent. Emmy slumped, her 36DDs slack and empty, tears streaking her face, her pride obliterated. Kyle and Paul stood, their cocks rigid, shorts low, precum glistening. Kyle reached around Andrea, cupping her 32Gs, his fingers expert, squeezing gently, a heavy spurt of milk jetting out, hitting Emmy’s flaccid tits and Paul’s hands, a creamy rebuke. “Fuck yes,” Andrea crowed, her voice thick with triumph, her tits proving their superiority.
Paul cupped Emmy’s 36DDs, his fingers desperate, squeezing hard, but not a drop came, her breasts soft and spent. Emmy moaned, a low, humiliated sound, her body trembling, her loss undeniable. “No, fuck,” she whispered, her eyes downcast, the better wife crowned beyond question. Andrea’s 32Gs, still leaking faintly, stood as the superior milking mom’s, her victory absolute.
Andrea smirked, standing over Emmy, her blonde hair a sweaty halo, her red nails gleaming. “You’re done, cow. Get to work.” She nodded to Kyle, who stepped forward, his cock thicker than Paul’s, jutting from his shorts, heavy balls swaying, loaded despite his fence duel. Emmy’s eyes widened, stunned, her belief that Paul’s thickness was unmatched shattered. Kyle’s shaft, veined and slick, dwarfed her husband’s (well, okay, by maybe a half inch), and his balls looked primed, brimming with cum.
Emmy crawled to Kyle, kneeling on the ottoman, her bare feet still under her ass, her face a mix of shame and reluctant awe. Paul watched, his cock softening, his face twisting with agony as his wife faced Kyle’s massive dick in their living room. Andrea gripped Emmy’s ponytail, guiding her to Kyle’s shaft, her voice cruel. “Suck him, loser. Show us how much you love it.” Emmy’s lips parted, taking Kyle in, her gag muffled as she stretched around his girth, her tongue swirling, hands cupping his heavy balls, rolling them gently. She popped off briefly, her voice low, “Your pre-cum’s so fucking good, Kyle,” before diving back, her throat opening, the slurp-slurp loud as she drove down, eager despite her defeat.
Andrea held Emmy’s head, fingers on her chin, pushing her onto Kyle’s cock, watching it disappear into a seemingly willing throat. “That’s it, choke on my man,” she taunted, her eyes glinting, her 32Gs still dripping faintly, a stark contrast to Emmy’s empty chest. Paul’s face crumpled, his heart breaking as Emmy slobbered, her lips tight, her hands working Kyle’s balls, her enthusiasm a knife in his gut. “Fuck, she’s good,” Kyle groaned, his hands in Emmy’s ponytail, his thighs trembling, savoring her desperation.
Kyle’s climax built, his cock pulsing, and he let go with a guttural groan, four massive throbs, four heavy pulses flooding Emmy’s throat. Emmy’s hands squeezed his balls, milking every drop, her gulps loud, her pussy gushing unexpectedly, a hot, humiliating orgasm soaking her thighs as she swallowed, her body shuddering with unwanted pleasure. Kyle pulled out, his cock slick, a final bead of cum on the tip, and grinned at Paul, his voice mocking. “Your wife throats like a champ, Paul. Took every drop, loved it. Better than you’d ever do.”
Paul’s face burned, his cock limp, his shame complete as Emmy slumped, cum dripping down her chin, her eyes downcast. Andrea laughed, swatting Emmy’s ass. “Next time, bring more milk, loser.” Emmy glared, whispering, “This isn’t over,” but Andrea’s smirk was iron. “You’re drained, cow. I’m the better wife, and my tits proved it.”
The room reeked of milk, cum, and defeat, the feud a roaring fire, another clash inevitable, Andrea’s superior tits etched in history.
