Security cam pinged my phone—living room feed. My wife Lissa sat bare-ass naked in her favorite chair, reading, big windows glowing behind her. Then a skinny kid, maybe fifteen, appears outside, starkers, stroking a monster cock—fifteen inches easy. She didn't see him. He pumped and came—a thick wad splattered the glass. Then twenty more globs, rope after rope, till the whole window dripped jizz. The kid knocked. Lissa turned, and instead of freaking, she smiled, pressed her fat tits against the sticky glass.

He stepped out of view. I figured done. But she walked to the front door, opened it. He walked in, grabbed her waist, smacked her big ass hard, and dragged her to our bedroom—no cam there. I heard the bed creak, her moans, his grunts. An hour later he strutted out, door swinging. Lissa lay on the bed, sweaty, wrecked, grinning.

The kid went to the living room, to our photo wall—wedding pics, vacation shots. He whipped out that huge cock and jerked off, blasting his load on every frame. My face, hers—all glazed in jizz. Then the couch—same thing, soaked. Kitchen next. Lissa was there, all our food spread on the table. He started stroking again; she straddled his lap, licked his balls. He blew quick—spunk everywhere, ruining the grub. She grabbed paper and pen, scribbled a note, left it on the cum-drenched table. They walked out together.

The note: