The bedroom door clicks shut behind them, sealing off the rest of the house like a vault. Alexis leads Mike by his hand, his calloused fingers warm against her palm, the grip of a man who has spent months tearing out drywall and hauling lumber across the street. She had watched him from her front porch for weeks, exchanging glances over the rim of her coffee cup while he hammered shingles onto his roof, sweat carving rivers through the dust on his bare chest. An ex-marine. A fixer-upper in more ways than one.

She positions the camera on the nightstand first, angling it toward the bed, checking the frame twice to make sure both she and Mike will be visible. Her husband thinks it is fine to f*ck his secretary. Fine to come home smelling of cheap perfume and lies. She is going to show him exactly what fine looks like.

Mike stands by the window, the afternoon light catching the ridges of his abdomen, the dog tags he still wears glinting against his skin. He pulls the pack of American Spirits from his jeans pocket, the bl*e and yellow packaging crinkling as he taps one free. He crosses to where she kneels on the carpet, the hardwood cool beneath her knees, and gently places the cigarette between her lips. The filter tastes of him, of tobacco and sawdust and honest sweat.

He produces a lighter, silver and worn, and strikes the wheel. The flame blooms orange and steady. He holds it to the tip of her cigarette with the care of a man who has learned patience under fire, who understands the value of a slow b*rn. She inhales, cheeks hollowing, the ember flaring bright, and looks up at him through her lashes. His c*ck strains, already hard, pulsing with his heartbeat.

She takes three puffs in quick succession, building the coal, filling her mouth with smoke. Her hand finds his thigh, and she leans forward to drag her tongue beneath the pronounced mushroom tip of his c*ck. The skin is hot, salty, taut. She circles him slowly, teasing, the cigarette held effortlessly in her other hand, smoke rising in a thin column toward the ceiling.

Mike takes the American Spirit from her lips, his fingers brushing her chin, and brings it to his own mouth. He inhales deep, his chest expanding, the dog tags shifting. She watches his throat work as he holds the smoke, then releases it in a cloud that drifts down toward her face. She leans into it, breathing him in, and wraps her hand around his shaft.

Her strokes are light, teasing, her grip loose enough to let him feel every ridge of her fingers. She keeps her mouth on his head, l*cking, sucking, her tongue flickering against the slit, gathering the bead of precum there. The cigarette passes between them like a sacrament, each drag shared, the smoke mingling with the scent of s*x and skin. She glances back at the camera, holding the lens with her eyes, imagining her husband's face when he presses play.

She worships Mike's c*ck with her mouth, her free hand cupping his b*lls, feeling their weight, the tightness building there. The American Spirit dangles from her lips as she works, ash lengthening precariously, smoke wreathing her face. She takes another drag, holds the smoke, then pulls back to exhale directly over his shaft. The gray cloud envelops him, makes him glisten, and she watches his c*ck twitch in the haze.

She hands the cigarette back to him, her fingers sticky, and focuses on the task of draining him. Both hands come into play now, twisting in opposite directions, her mouth sealing over the head and sucking hard. The sound is wet, the rhythm building as she bobs her head. Mike's body rocks toward her, his hips thrusting, seeking deeper warmth. His free hand finds the back of her head, fingers tangling in her hair, and he pulls her down.

She takes him, more than half of his eight inches, her throat opening, her eyes watering. He holds her there, buried to the limit she has shown him, and she feels the pulse of him against her tongue, the urgency building. When he releases her, she comes up gasping, giggling, spit trailing from her lips to his tip. She loves this, loves being his f*ck toy, his neighbor's secret, his afternoon release.

Mike offers her the last drag of the American Spirit, the filter slightly crushed from his grip, and she takes it willingly, smiling around the paper. She inhales deep, the smoke harsh and full, and sets to work making him slick. Her saliva coats his shaft, her hands gliding now, the friction perfect. She sucks his swollen head, looking up at him, her eyes watering from smoke and effort and the sheer pleasure of service.

She pulls back, positions herself, and slides his c*ck between her tits. Leaning back slightly, she presses her breasts together, creating a channel of soft flesh, and he begins to f*ck them. His hips move in a rhythm learned in barracks and foreign deserts, steady and relentless. She pinches her nipples between her fingers, biting her lower lip, spitting on his c*ck whenever it emerges to keep the glide smooth. She looks up at him, then at the camera, knowing her husband will see exactly how much she is enjoying herself.

She teases him, taking him back into her mouth for only a moment, her tongue swirling, before she plunges down again. This time she stays there, pushing herself past her own limit, swallowing those extra centimeters. She bounces her head, sloppy and desperate, her hair sticking to her face, her hands gripping his thighs for leverage. She wants his c*m, needs it, has earned it.

Growing impatient, she uses both hands on his shaft while she sucks, the twisting motion making him groan. She feels him on the brink, the tension in his thighs, the way his breath catches. She comes up to look at the camera, smiles directly into the lens, then l*cks her palm to make everything slicker.

She works every inch of him, his shaft, his b*lls, the sensitive spot beneath the head. She feels him contract, his body arching uncontrollably, and she stops. Just for a moment. Just to watch him s*ffer, to watch him need. Then she dives back down, sucking hard, stroking faster, caressing his b*lls with gentle insistence until he breaks.

He c*ms in her mouth, thick and hot, pulse after pulse. It is too much, she pulls back to let the last streams paint her lips, her chin, her glossy smile, and her huge tits. She takes his pulsating shaft in both hands and rubs his c*ck head all over her face, spreading him, wearing him, marking herself with his release. She looks at the camera one final time, c*m dripping from her lips, and smiles.

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