— Fuck, yes! More! Fuck me like this, deeper! My nails dug into the cool plastic of the kitchen countertop, and my entire body arched in a silent scream from a new, crushing jolt that echoed deep within, causing my insides to clench in a delicious spasm. Sweat trickled down my back, mixing with the tears of madness that rolled down my face. Strong, young hands gripped my hips, pressing them in with such force that there would definitely be bruises tomorrow. Bruises that I would proudly examine in the mirror, a crazy thought flashed through my head. "Mommy's just an insatiable whore," a low, commanding voice rasped right next to my ear, its roughness making me shudder with desire again. "It's been forty minutes, and you're still thirsty. There's already a puddle under you, see?" I lowered my head, trying to catch my breath. The floor did indeed glisten in the light of the kitchen lamp. A puddle. From me. From what he squeezed out of me again and again. "Oh, fuck..." I moaned, my lips stretching into a blissful, shameful grin. "I'm ready to wash this fucking floor every day, you hear me? Every day! Just come... just fuck me like that..." He responded not with words, but with action. He jerked the angle, and I howled, feeling him penetrate deeper than ever before, touching the very core, the very core of my being. The world narrowed to this sensation, to the sound of our bodies, to his heavy breathing behind me. It all started with a stupid, absurd situation. My husband, a lifelong miser, had been putting off calling a plumber for days, saying, "It's just a small drip, you can handle it yourself." And there I was, Irina, fifty years old, standing on all fours in the middle of my own kitchen, trying to change the washer in the faucet with my hand stuck in the dark, wet hole under the sink. I was stuck. Not completely, but awkwardly, stupidly. My summer robe had ridden up, and I usually didn't wear panties around the house. Just then, the door swung open. It was Artyom, my son's friend. It was then that I remembered Artyom was supposed to come get the cable, which was why I'd left the door open. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and smelled of some delicious cologne. His eyes, dark as a ripe plum, immediately found me in my humiliating position. "Irina Sergeevna? Can I help you?" His voice sounded polite, but his gaze... his gaze slid down my back, down the curve of my lower back, over my bare buttocks, and there wasn't a shred of filial piety in it. I muttered something about my husband and the plumber, feeling my whole face burn. He came closer. Not to help free my hand. He knelt behind me. I felt his breath on my skin. "It seems the problem isn't just with the faucet," he said quietly, and his finger, confident and firm, ran over my slit, which, to my horror and delight, was already wet. I gasped, trying to pull away, but I was trapped. Fuck me, he's going to fuck me now, flashed through my head, and the thought sent a heady, forbidden heat spreading through my body. He didn't ask anything. There was no need. My body screamed "yes" at him without a word. He simply unbuttoned his jeans, and a second later his huge, hard cock, scorching hot, entered me with one long, merciless thrust. I screamed. Not from pain. From shock, from the fullness, from the realization of what was happening. From how damn good it felt. And now it's been... forty minutes? More? I lost track of time. He wasn't just changing the rhythm, he was exploring me, testing my strength, finding spots I hadn't even suspected. He made me cum again and again, until I was exhausted, until I was hoarse. "Will you cum again, Mommy?" His whisper burned my skin. He pulled almost all the way out, making me whine from the emptiness, and I, like a slut, shook my ass in front of him, begging wordlessly. "Yes! Fuck, yes, come on! I'm cumming again!" I screamed, feeling a new wave building somewhere deep inside me, knocking my breath away. He thrust into me with renewed vigor, his fingers digging into the flesh of my buttocks, his low groan merging with my squeal. And I came. Convulsively, loudly, with curses and splashes, my body thrashes in his iron grip, and he, growling, fills me from the inside with hot thrusts that make my vision darken. I feel even more moisture trickle down the inside of my thighs, adding to the puddle on the floor. His hands gripped my hips again, digging his fingers into the taut flesh, and with a lustful moan, I arched my back even further, giving in to his powerful, sweeping thrusts. Ah, yes... just like that... exactly like that! He didn't slow down, his body colliding with my backside with a dull slap, making me shake with each powerful thrust. "My husband... oh, fuck!" I breathed out, and the words rushed out of me, dirty and vulgar, born somewhere in the depths of my inflamed mind. "He was stingy with the plumber, bitch! He was stingy! And now... aaah... now his greed is fucking me! His son's friend is fucking his wife doggy style in the kitchen! Awesome!" Artyom let out a low, hoarse laugh, and his next thrust was especially hard, making me howl and dig my fingers into the countertop. God, how deep he goes... "Yes, Irina Sergeyevna," he whispered, his voice, laced with lustful mockery, burning my skin. "She fucks like a total slut. One who cums nonstop." He slowed his movements, almost pulling out of me, causing every muscle inside me to clench in futile anticipation, and then thrust again, sharply, painfully, deeply and completely. A wave of pleasure washed over me with such force that my vision darkened. "I'm going to... fuck, wash this floor every day!" I screamed, almost out of control, my head swaying wildly from side to side. "Every day! And I'm going to curse and remember how you... how you fucked me today! How you drove your young... such a hard... such a huge cock into me!" I began to spring forward, my buttocks dancing in time with his furious movements, capturing every inch of him, every agonizing and beautiful moment of this connection. The wet, loud music of our bodies filled the entire kitchen. "Do you like it?!" I howled, turning to him to see his face contorted with passion. "Huh? Do you like the way a woman services your cock? The way a whore stretches herself all over you?" At that very moment, as if ordered by the devil himself, a shadow fell across the table and my phone rang. A familiar, hated ringtone. My husband. An icy bolt pierced my entire ardor, replacing it with an adrenaline rush of forbidden arousal. I froze, feeling Artyom stop inside me, tense. His gaze became predatory, intrigued. He slowly, pressingly, ran his fingers down my lower back, commanding me to remain silent. I took a deep breath and, without breaking away from Artyom's burning gaze, pressed the call button. My hip spasmed involuntarily as Artyom, without moving fully, began making subtle, circular movements with his hips, continuing to stimulate me from within. "So, what's up?" a bored, concerned voice came over the phone. "Did you figure out the pipes?" I rolled my eyes, and another lewd smile touched my lips. Artyom squeezed my hips even harder, keeping up the game. "I'm figuring it out..." I breathed out, trying to keep my voice from shaking with every micro-movement inside me. "My pipe here... oh... is leaking. It's completely gone limp." I felt Artyom laugh silently, his chest vibrating against my back. "What pipe? The one under the sink?" the husband didn't understand. "No..." I whispered, and Artyom began to enter me again, slowly, slowly, stretching this moment out to infinity. "This... w-wider. So thick... and all wet... right through." An awkward silence fell on the other end of the line. Artyom bared his teeth in a wild grin and sped up, no longer trying to hide his sounds. "Is there a lot of... um... stuff accumulated there?" the husband finally asked, his voice sounding uncertain. Oh, yes! The wave of orgasm was already approaching its very peak, and I, losing the last remnants of shame, grabbed this question like a life preserver. "So much!" I moaned, almost into the phone, completely surrendering to what was happening. "There's... there's white slime all over the floor! My whole pipe... aaah... it's all covered in thick, white slime! I... I'm going to clean it all out... everything!" I threw the phone on the table without waiting for a response and screamed, no longer holding back, my voice breaking into a high, shrill cry of pleasure. Artyom, finally breaking all restraints, acted furiously, like a beast, his fingers digging into me, his belly slapping against my skin. "Come on, auntie," he rasped behind me, his voice sounding like an order. "Come all over this fucking floor. Show me how a slut can cum!" My back arched in a silent scream, my insides clenching around his cock in a final, crushing spasm. "Ahhh, fuck, yes! I'm cumming!" I screamed, and my body shook on his cock, involuntarily and helplessly, squeezing out the last drops of pleasure. The table was wet beneath me, my legs were buckling, but he still didn't let go, holding me by the hips, allowing every muscle to experience this raging wave to the end. Finally, his grip loosened, and I slid trembling off the edge of the table, barely able to stay on my feet. The floor beneath me was soaked, and I noticed it with a lewd satisfaction. Artyom, breathing heavily, took a step back, his gaze blazing with triumph. "See?" His voice was low, hoarse with effort. "What plumber? You just needed a good fucking, Aunt Ira. That's all the repairs were made of." I said nothing, just grinned lewdly, kneeling before him. The floor was cool and sticky, but I didn't care. "Mommy should thank her savior," I whispered, reveling in the power that had suddenly returned to me. Now I was the one controlling his pleasure. My fingers trembled as I wrapped my arms around his cock, still hard and wet from me. It was hot and pulsating, thick, just like I thought it would be. "Your cock is so fucking awesome, Artyom," I breathed, bringing my lips to the very tip. "A real man's tool. Not like..." I didn't finish, but we both understood. Instead of words, I opened my mouth and began sucking, slowly, savoring every inch. I did it with the same desperate passion with which I had just taken him inside. My tongue slid over the tense flesh, exploring every vein, every curve. I plunged deeper, feeling him press against my throat, and I resisted the gag reflex because I wanted to feel him completely. "In this kitchen," I whispered, letting go of him briefly to catch my breath and look him in the eyes, "I cook borscht for your friend, my son. I cook porridge for that greedy fuck, my husband." I took him in my mouth again, sucking only the tip, playing with it. "And now, fuck, I'm sucking this fucking fat dick. And you know what?" I threw my head back, a lewd smirk touching my lips. "I like it a thousand times more." Artyom croaked something in response, his fingers gripping my tousled hair, not pushing, just holding, letting me set the rhythm. His stomach tensed, and I felt him grow even harder. “This is all I want now,” I continued, impaling myself on him again, moving up and down, “to suck and doggy style in this fucking kitchen. For you to come and use me like the lowest whore.” The thought was indecently depraved, and it made my skin crawl. “I’ll get stuck on purpose. Everywhere. Under the couch... on the balcony, when I’m hanging up the laundry... in the bathroom...” Every word was a vow I made to myself. An admission that this casual encounter had awakened something wild and insatiable within me. A rush of madness and desire forced me to rise. I again assumed that obscene, humiliating, and oh-so-divine pose, dropping onto my elbows in front of him, my ass, wet with his cum and my juices, raised high. I continued to suck him, looking over my shoulder, deliberately shaking my ass so that he could see it all—all that convex, ripe flesh he'd just pounded with fury. "Look what Mommy can do," I moaned, feeling something deep inside begin to boil again. And then the phone rang. It was him again. My husband. My heart skipped a beat, but this time not from fear, but from anticipation of a new level of debauchery. I caught Artyom's gaze with pleasure—his eyes widened with excitement. "Don't you dare stop," he whispered, and it was an order I was happy to obey. I picked up the phone from the table, answered the call with a sweat-slick finger, and without saying a word, placed the phone on his sweaty, hard pubis, right next to the base of his penis, which was disappearing into my mouth again. "Hello, dear?" I said, my voice sounding feigned tiredness, but I immediately broke the illusion, groaning softly into the receiver while my mouth was busy. "Ira, where are you? What are those sounds?" His voice, squeaky and perpetually disgruntled, was so pitiful compared to what was happening here. To be continued.