Angela leaned into , whispering hoarsely against my ear: "I almost ca three tis... just from walking... my clit’s so fucking sensitive now... if I move wrong, I’m gonna squirt right here in front of them..."
Mira sat across the fire—eyes locked on Angela’s lap, on the obvious wet spot, on the way Angela’s thighs kept twitching. She didn’t speak. But her breathing was fast, shallow, fingers twisting in the grass, thighs rubbing together in tiny, desperate circles.
Lisa tossed another log on the fire, sparks flying up.
The night stretched out—warm flas crackling low, wet denim clinging to Angela’s thighs, her bare pussy leaking steadily beneath the ruined crotch of her jeans, and Mira watching across the fire like she was starving.
Her eyes kept flicking to Angela’s lap, to the dark, spreading stain on the front of her pants, to the way Angela’s hips kept twitching in tiny, involuntary circles every ti she shifted.
The web was choking her now. And Angela—pussy bare and dripping under her jeans—was the perfect bait.
Mira and Lisa sat opposite us, leaning back against the wide trunk of an oak, knees drawn up, firelight painting their faces in shifting gold and shadow.
Lisa looked relaxed, almost amused; Mira looked wrecked—cheeks flushed, lips parted, breathing shallow and quick, thighs pressed so tightly together I could see the faint tremor in her muscles.
I caught Angela’s eye and raised my voice just enough to carry across the fire. "Wife... let’s go to sleep."
Angela glanced at Mira—deliberately slow—then nodded once. She crawled over to on hands and knees, the motion making her jeans rub cruelly against her naked clit.
When she reached , she slid into my arms, pressing her back to my chest, legs tangling with mine. Her lips found my ear, breath hot and shaky.
"I feel... itchy... in my pussy..." she whispered, voice cracking on the last word. "It’s throbbing so bad... every ti the denim drags over my bare clit I almost cum again... fuck, Dexter, you ruined ."
I hugged her tighter, one arm banding around her waist, the other sliding down to cup the soaked crotch of her jeans—pressing the wet fabric right against her swollen lips. She shuddered hard, biting her lip to kill the moan.
Then I turned us both over in one smooth motion—so that I was spooned behind her, my chest to her back, my hips flush against her ass.
Angela faced Mira and Lisa across the dying fire; her front was exposed to their view, while my body shielded most of what my hands were about to do.
I buried my nose in her dark hair—inhaling the scent of smoke, sweat, and the faint tang of her earlier piss-soaked arousal—then slid my hand down over the curve of her ass, squeezing one cheek hard enough to make her gasp softly.
My cock—still rock-hard, still leaking—pressed insistently against the back of her jeans, right where her bare pussy leaked beneath the denim.
Angela’s breath hitched. She didn’t moan—couldn’t—but her body arched subtly, pushing back against , silently begging.
She lifted her head just enough to speak across the fire, voice steady despite the tremor running through her. "Mira... Lisa... you can sleep. Husband will keep look-out. Don’t worry."
Mira and Lisa nodded—Lisa with a lazy "Night," Mira with a small, uncertain "Okay..."—and lay down on the grass.
But Mira turned onto her side, facing Angela directly. Their eyes t across the low flas—Mira’s wide and glassy, Angela’s heavy-lidded and dark with lust.
I had a plan.
My fingers found the already-damp crotch of Angela’s jeans. I hooked two into the seam just below the zipper—and tore.
A slow, deliberate chrrrrrrrr ripped through the quiet night—fabric giving way under my strength, the tear opening a ragged slit right over her bare pussy.
Mira’s head jerked up. "What’s that sound?"
Angela’s eyes flew wide in panic. She forced a calm, breathless laugh. "It’s... nothing. Probably... so rustling of leaves due to wind..."
Mira frowned, gaze dropping to Angela’s lap—but the firelight and the angle hid the damage for now. She settled back, still watching, still breathing too fast.
I didn’t wait.
I yanked my zipper down—cock springing free again, thick and slick, head glistening with fresh pre-cum. Angela felt the blunt tip nudge between her thighs imdiately. She tensed, thighs parting just enough under the torn denim.
I gripped her shoulder—firm, possessive—lined up, and pushed.
The head of my cock breached her in one slow, relentless slide—stretching her bare, piss-slick walls wide, forcing her swollen lips to part around my girth. Her cunt was molten velvet—hot, dripping, clenching greedily the instant I entered.
The wet schlick of penetration was faint but obscene, her juices coating instantly, dripping down my balls in warm rivulets.
Angela’s eyes flew wide. She bit her lower lip so hard a bead of blood welled up. A muffled moan vibrated in her throat—"Mmmphhh..."—barely contained, disguised as a sleepy sigh. Her whole body jerked once, hips rocking back involuntarily to take another inch.
Mira’s brows furrowed. "Angela? You okay?"
Angela forced a shaky smile, voice cracking, words tumbling out in stamrs as I sank deeper—another thick inch stretching her fluttering walls, cockhead grinding over her g-spot. "Y-yeah... I’m f-fine... just... nnh... tired... long night... hah..."
I bottod out—balls pressed to her ass through the torn denim, every pulsing vein buried to the hilt inside her spasming cunt. Her inner walls rippled wildly around , milking my shaft like a desperate fist, clit throbbing against the rough edge of ripped fabric.
A fresh gush of her juice leaked out around my base, soaking the denim further.
Angela’s hand flew back—nails digging into my hip, silently begging to move even as she fought to stay quiet. "Mira... you... you should sleep... really... we’re... we’re all safe... nnnghh..."
The last sound slipped out as a muffled whimper—high and needy—when I pulled back half an inch and thrust in again, slow and deep, stirring her soaked depths.
Her pussy clenched hard, walls fluttering, trying to suck back in. The wet schlurp was louder this ti; she clamped her thighs together instinctively, trapping my cock tighter inside her.
Mira propped herself up on one elbow, concern mixing with sothing darker—curiosity, hunger. "You sure? You sound... weird. Like you’re in pain or sothing."
Angela’s eyes rolled back for a split second as I rolled my hips—grinding the fat head of my cock against her cervix, dragging every ridge along her sensitive front wall.
Her clit caught on the torn denim seam, rubbing raw with each tiny movent. A fresh wave of cunt-juice squirted out around my shaft, soaking my balls and dripping onto the grass.
"I-I’m... f-fine... really..." Angela stamred, voice pitching higher on each word as I started a slow, punishing rhythm—shallow thrusts that kept buried deep, cockhead bullying her g-spot relentlessly. "Just... ah... sore... from... from walking... nnh... earlier... hah... my legs are... are shaking..."
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