Housewife Harlot | bimbo + mind control stories

Layla knew it was a bad idea, but she sniffed at her daughter's laundry anyway.

There could be any number of horrible things that she would smell. Outside of the rather large potential for poor hygiene, there could easily be the stench of alcohol or cigarettes, even drugs. Hilary was eighteen, and she was at college, after all.

So, it surprised her then when the bright red tube top she held smelled ... rather sweet. Kind of like orange sherbet. And was that ... just the faintest hit of sex?

Pushing a thin strand of dark hair out from her face, she picked up another top, this one neon pink and much skimpier than the other, with what seemed like an enormously deep scooping neckline. It smelled even stronger of sherbet, and even stronger of sex.

Layla wondered if it was worth it to have a discussion with Hilary about this.

The relationship between Layla and her daughter had been strained for a time, ever since Hilary was accepted to Western University three states over. It was a prestigious school, and Layla was proud of Hilary for hunkering down and devoting herself to her studies.

But, as proud as she was, Layla was equally upset that Hilary was moving so far away to go to school, but had only expressed this through pessimism and a snarky attitude for the past year. It had hurt her daughter, and forced her husband David to choose sides.

It was no way to treat a daughter, and no way to maintain a family, and ever since Hilary had moved away, the teenager had only become more distant.

Layla had resolved to make things better.

Thus, laundry. An expression of caring.

An attractive young man—she could even say young stud, with his bulging biceps and thick, styled blond hair—dropped off the laundry yesterday afternoon, heralding Hilary's imminent arrival in a few days. She had a few more exams to catch up on, the young man explained.

His exams were done already, he said and he was heading home anyway. As winter break approached, many college kids came home for the comfort and easy meals of their parent's homes.

“Anything for Hilary,” he said. “Totally anything.”

He was such a nice boy!

Layla assumed Hilary had helped him study, because certainly her daughter wasn't dating a male of such obvious ... attributes. Layla loved her daughter, but, being realistic, she had to imagine that her Hilary was going to be single for quite a while.

Layla was a housewife, well-accustomed to the roles she had to play to keep in her house in order. She loved her husband, and found a certain serene joy in arranging the house to be kept up and nice. There was always another task to learn. In the past two decades, she had learned all manner of plumbing, cooking, cleaning, quilting, and had even picked up some lessons on the ukulele.

She loved her family's house. She had done all the decorating herself—the Aztec-patterned curtains, the deep earthy rich tones of the furniture clashing so nicely with the wood floors and mosaic tile work in the kitchen (that she had done herself). The house was just big enough for the small family, with an extra-large basement for her husband's workshop where he built models.

Now, though, after nineteen years of marriage and chores, Layla was getting decisively bored.

With the child gone, there just wasn't nearly as much to do anymore, and with Layla, not having something to do meant understanding that she wasn't all that sure what she was about.

It was a troubling feeling. She was glad for the laundry her daughter sent her. Too often, her boredom had led her in front of the television once again, binging on reality shows and ice cream. She had gained too much weight. Her love handles, once at a manageable level, were now nearing disastrous proportions to her hips and breasts. Layla dreaded any trips through the house that had her pass in front of a mirror.

She refocused on the laundry. Too much daydreaming would get her nowhere, and it was not even ten in the morning. She had to keep on task.

All of the clothes, worn by her daughter for who knew how long, had that same sherbet-like smell. She inhaled again.

Yes. Sherbet.

It was almost pleasant in a way, except for that strong sexual undercurrent to each inhale.

She picked up and smelled a bra, and some long socks, some tights, even panties (not deliberating nearly enough, she felt).

The more clothes Layla picked up, the more confused she was.

Hilary was a wonderful student. All of her time was spent either studying or thinking about studying. Rare was the day during high school when Hilary would wear anything other than thick jeans and a t-shirt; if it wasn't that, then it was her flannel pants and thick hoodie ensemble, destined to drive boys away.

Layla didn't think too much of it, though she did want her daughter to have a full social life. But, Layla had resolved long ago that when Hilary wanted to make herself presentable, she would.

It wasn't that Hilary was unattractive. She just didn't try very hard, and ended up looking frumpy. Her thick unkempt hair was always in tangles, and her body was thick from leaning on junk food too much.

Layla, when Hilary was around, had tried to keep herself in shape, and had tried to impart her ideas on the matter to Hilary. Not much of it had gotten through.

Blaming that on herself was easy as well, though. She would have to admit she had always been a little thicker than she would like, so she wasn't setting a great example.

Those last ten pounds of her ideal shape were always out of reach, but long ago she had attained a wardrobe to make up for it. Her breasts, thick and heavy, made up a great deal of her short frame, and her hair, unlike her daughter's, was kept short and trimmed around her shoulders in a cute dark bob.

Of course, with her recent binging, those last ten pounds had turned more into those last twenty or even thirty. She didn't have the courage to test the scales and find out, in part because she knew that would require immediate changes on the part of her diet and routine once she did.

Layla picked up yet another frilly, neon-colored mini dress, not feeling any less confused.

She knew her daughter very well, in any case, and these clothes ... these were the clothes of some party girl. Some—dare she say it?—some bimbo slut who didn't know how to keep her pants on.

Certainly, her daughter wasn't the one wearing this micro kilt, or this halter top, or these intricate lacy pieces of lingerie that looked like they were designed for porn stars.

Layla leaned against the wall, putting a hand under her chin. This bore thinking about. Under one arm was the stack of skirts she had already sorted for washing. In her hand was a bright yellow sundress. Every time she breathed in, more of that sweet, hot orange sherbet smell floated into her lungs.

Well, say that Hilary was wearing these clothes. So what? The size on them meant that she would have had to have lost some weight (and gained some around her chest).

That was perfectly fine, as far as Layla was concerned.

After all, her daughter ought to be having fun in college. Wasn't that was college was for? Going out, making friends, having fun?

Of course it was.

Without noticing, Layla had stepped into the pile of clothes. She was barefoot, as she usually was when walking around the house.

Her body started getting warm.

The fabric of thick, knee-high socks had slid between her toes. They felt incredible.

Her own time in college was full of fun. She was always going to college, drinking more than she should, and giving guys lots of handjobs.

No ... no ... what?

David was her first lay. He was incredible in the sack, of course—he was a man. Men were so good at sex. Sex was so much wonderful fun. She ought to be having more of it, all the time.

If she hadn't been giving handjobs in college, then surely she had given lots of blowjobs? She loved the taste of cock so much, after all. It would be strange not to have spent her entire college career auditioning cocks to find the one she loved the taste of the best and marry the man it belonged to.

Layla stepped back, putting a hand to her head again.

This was all so strange. That was ... that was such an odd rush of thinking.

Where was that coming from?

Would she be able to think better with her fingers sliding inside of her pussy?

It was very warm, after all, and very needy.

Yes. Yes, she needed to finger her pussy and think about blowing David. That would calm her down.

That made sense. That made so much sense.

She leaned over onto the washer, her feet sliding firmly inside of the thick pile of clothes, her fingers running inside of her sweet, hot cunt.

Her footing slipped on the hot pile of laundry beneath her, and somehow, she found herself on the large pile of clothes, fingering her pussy. Every motion of her hand rubbed her palm against her clit, coaxing her ever closer to that wonderful plateau of bliss where her every atom was singing to arrive at.

The orgasm hit her like some freight train of pleasure. Layla's mind turned off and on so many times that she wasn't even sure what was real anymore. Her hands pressing up against her big tits felt so perfect, so otherworldly good, that she wasn't even sure they were hers.

The bliss pushed her consciousness out of reality, tearing at the fabric of time and space, and when it was all over, she still landed inside of her body that was still vibrating with purest rapture. She felt she had seen the face of happiness itself, smiling and lighting her pussy on sweet, everlasting fire.

When she came-to, she started fingering herself again. Some of the stockings landed in her mouth. She sucked on their hot, sherbet-tasting surface, gleefully slurping up the taste.

Laundry was so much fun. She was so lucky to be a housewife.

* * * * *

Her husband David arrived home at a little past six in the evening. That was normal. Layla rushed to him when he came through the door, decked out in a tiny pleated skirt and a blue mesh top, her tits barely contained inside of a lacy white bra. All of the clothes had the same tag, “FD.” She didn't know what it meant, but she loved it.

It was hard to rush in her high-high five-inch platform heels, but Layla had been practicing all afternoon, trying to make it work. It got easier and easier the longer she wore the sexy clothes.

“Oh, like, my god!” Layla said. “I'm so glad you're home, honey!”

Kissing him so hard that his glasses fell off, Layla wrapped her arms around her befuddled husband. He seemed surprised. Her lips were shiny and plush and pink. She hadn't even put on any lipstick.

“Layla, you're wearing ...” he shook his head. “What are you wearing?”

It wasn't hard to coax him out of his jacket. His hands on her curves felt tremendous.

“I'm wearing something just for my big, handsome hubby,” she purred. “Won't you tell me that I look pretty?”

“Of course you look pretty, Layla, but—”

Her moan cut off whatever he was going to say. It was so delightful, having her existence affirmed by a big strong man like him. She leaned in and slipped some hot kisses along his neck.

Well, David wasn't that big, or that strong, but he was a strong accountant or whatever-he-did. He was strong enough to take care of her. That's what counted.

The thought made her feel so weak. Swaying her hips sexily, the front door still open ajar, she fell to her knees in front of him. Her heavy tits pushed against his legs as she slid downward. The motion sent happy thrills through her body.

It was easy and fun to unzip his pants and then to pull his already-hardening cock.

“F-fuck,” he moaned. “Y-you haven't given me a blowjob in ... y-years ...”

“I know, right? There's only enough food left in the fridge for you tonight, so I really need you to give me my dinner, okay?”

She had been eating all afternoon. For some reason, she was ravenous. When she woke up out of her food and cum coma, her tits had been way bigger, and her hair even darker and longer. That was so sexy and cool.

David seemed not to understand at first. “Give you your dinner?”

She nodded, stroking his cock as she stared up at him with adoring eyes. “Please, sir? I need my Husband's big hard cock to get so thick n' excited so I can go to bed with a full stomach. Please?”

“Go to bed with ... oh. Oh, fuck. Wow.”

“I know. You'll probably have to shoot inside of me like three or four times before I'm full. But you can do it, right?”

Inhaling deeply, probably filling his lungs full of the sweet orange sherbet smell now populating the house, he nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Fuck yeah I can.”

He pushed his cock inside her mouth then, and Layla slurped it down happily. Her big, brightened blue eyes stared up at him with clear submission. He was her husband, and she had to make him happy. That was her function as a wife.

His meat hardened quickly—and how could it not? Her tits were so plump and eagerly resting against his legs. He bent down and grabbed them, squeezing them tight as he pushed forward on her mouth.

She remembered, vaguely, being disappointed with David's size, and how long he lasted.

Those thoughts seemed to have evaporated completely. There was nothing more perfect than the weight of his cock in her mouth. Nothing more wonderful than getting his cum as soon as she could!

“Oh baby,” he moaned, his head casting upward. “Oh Layla. I'm gonna cum. You might want to ... you want ...”

She wanted to swallow. She told him that. Perhaps he thought she was exaggerating.

Nothing could be further from the truth. From now on, she wanted every dinner of hers to be spilling out of his delicious cock.

He began to pump spasmodically, his wondrous rod spraying inside of her mouth and her throat. Her own orgasm matched his somehow, and her moaning ministrations seemed only to encourage him to spray even more down her throat.

That was so delightful.

She slipped it out of her mouth and stroked him off as his orgasm tapered down. She gasped hard, her pussy sending little infernos of lust and need across her brain.

Strands of hot white goo shot against her chin and neck. That was so hot. She smeared it down against her chin, staring up at him with glee.

She scooped up a thick dollop of cum from her cleavage.

“Thank you, darling,” she purred. “If we go to the kitchen, you can eat your dinner while you feed me dessert. How does that sound?”

Of course, he loved the idea.

* * * * *

A week later, Layla was having a terrific day.

She had a stellar outfit on, and she was zipping around in a hot new sports car that her new best friend at the dealership let her borrow after only three blowjobs in a row. The sun was shining, the weather was nice, and she was smiling constantly.

Best of all, her darling daughter was due to come home at any time. Her trip home had continually been delayed—Hilary kept saying, “My finals are just taking forever! Each professor has needed to give me lots and lots of examinations. Like, all night, sometimes, and lots of times right away in the morning too!”

Layla understood totally. Her daughter's education was important.

It was sometimes hard to keep her mind on her daughter, though, because of how good Layla was feeling and looking lately. Every single step Layla strutted was good news for anyone with eyes in her vicinity. Her body was a revelation. She even made herself happy just looking in the mirror every morning. And afternoon. And evening. And anywhere in between that she could manage.

Her tits, already substantial, had grown two cup sizes in the past several days, but also tightened and rounded considerably. There was no more sag in her chest, nor in anywhere on her body. Any fat seemed like a distant memory—all her muscles were toned and lovely. No term less than statuesque could be used to describe her ass, legs, and abs.

The ridiculously tight leopard-print dress she wore fit her like a dream.

Layla loved her body. She loved herself. She wanted to write a novel about how fucking hot she looked. Every fifth word would have to be tits, and every tenth would have to be legs. Both looked better than anything she had ever seen on the cover of all those silly fashion magazines she used to read.

She rode with the hot red sports car top down. Her thick, lovely dark locks flew behind her. The precious dark silken tangle looked like something out of one of those fantasy novels her husband read. Perfectly coiffed and ready for action at any time.

Last night, David had fucked her face, holding her pig-tailed hair to drill her mouth over and over. She had been wearing the schoolgirl outfit again. He seemed to like that one.

After he came, she sucked him off till he was hard again.

Layla had been hungry, after all, and all she was eating for meals lately was her darling Husband's cum.

Over the past week, her darling David was getting harder, quicker. That was a nice change. So was the sexy six-pack he was developing, and the thick, hard biceps and chest muscles. If Layla could think to take her mind off sucking and adoring it for a few moments once she was in its presence, she would also probably have noticed that his cock was heftier as well—approaching nearly nine-inches of facefucking meat.

He barely spoke to her at all when he came home now. It was expected that if he spoke, it was because she wasn't already doing something he wanted. His voice was something to be feared and respected, and Layla tried to coo and adore her way past any of his vocalizations—all she wanted her husband to feel was happy and aroused, like her.

Rushing on the highway, her day had just turned even more terrific.

After speeding and changing lanes without turn signals and driving in opposite lanes of traffic, she was getting pulled over! This was so exciting.

Pulling onto the shoulder, Layla examined herself in the mirror. She licked her thick, puffy lips several times, making sure her mouth looked like the hot little bimbo cockslut it so clearly was.

The cop's steps were heavy as he approached. Layla rolled down the window.

“Do you know why I pulled you over todaaaay....” the cop's voice drifted off as he examined Layla's tiny dress.

He was a rather handsome young officer. Dark stubble lined his chin. His uniform was tight around his trim, cut figure.

Layla's uniform was better, though. She was incredibly proud of her outfit. Decorating her glamorous body was a gold mini dress, with silver stitching attaching the two long strips of tight fabric that made up the dress, so long gaps of delightful skin showed underneath the criss-crossing pattern of the stitches. She felt certain that originally, the dress was meant to be worn with the stitches running down her sides.

But that was super lame—she had such fantastic tits, after all, and her pussy looked so fun and inviting with the tiny matching gold-and-silver g-string lace panties over it. So with a few simple adjustments, the dress was worn with the wide, skin-baring stitches across her front and back.

The cop could most definitely see how her crotch was entirely bare of any hair—probably he thought she waxed it. But no, her skin was just so hot and fabulous that it totally rejected any hair anywhere below her scalp.

That had happened four or five days ago. David loved it.

“Here's my ID, handsome. I know you'll want to see it.”

She just wanted to show off. The confusion on his face when he examined it was the perfect reward.

“Ma'am ... are you sure you didn't mix this card up with your mother's, or something? You couldn't be a day over twenty-five, and this says you're nearly fifty.”

She giggled. “I know, right? Isn't it great? I've had a wonderful new diet lately. I live off of the cum of any hot men that swing my way.”

The cops eyebrows went up. “Wow.”

“Right? Do you want me to show you?”

“Ma'am ... uh ... ma'am?” The cop looked lost.

Sliding one finger up and down an inviting tit, Layla giggled. The tit bounced against her slender finger, rubbing her nipples. Easily, the cop would be able to see the flush building between her tits.

“Oh officer,” she demurred. “I don't know what I was doing to be pulled over. But maybe you should teach me?”

One of her fingers lazily stroked his thigh, so close to the window.

“Teach ... teach you.”

“Oh yes. I know that you policeman are all about ... correction.”

With as shiny and wet as her lips had become at all times, it wasn't necessary to lick them. Of course, she did it anyway.

“Yeah.” His voice was getting foggy and thick. His eyes fixated purely on her cleavage. “Correction.”

She giggled delightedly. “You might even have to show me your gun.”

Her hand rode up to his crotch.

“Oh my. Yeah, you have such a big gun. I don't know if I'll listen to you unless you show it to me.”

He stepped back for a moment.

“Step ... step out of the car, honey.”

She obeyed, of course. Then she stepped around to the side of the car closest to the shoulder, bending over against the passenger-side window. Her ass cheeks could easily be seen—her perfect backside cleavage shown off by the ridiculously slutty dress.

“Aren't you going to frisk me, officer?”

“Y-Yeah. Yeah I am.”

His hands grabbed her thighs then, probing and thrusting up inside her tiny skirt.

“Fuck, this dress ...”

“Don't fuck the dress,” she purred. “Fuck me instead! You don't even need to take the dress off, handsome.”

She could feel him hesitating.

“We're ... we're on the road ...”

“Nobody can see, baby. Hurry! Please hurry! I need it!”

She could hear him breathing deeply. Breathing in her hot, happy fun times sherbet scent.

“Yeah,” he said. “You need it. You need my fucking cock.”

“Yes, I do! I need to be taught my lesson! Show me, baby! Fill me up with your law and order!”

She heard his pants come down, his utility belt clanging against the concrete. She could feel the tip of his cock probing and sliding, searching for a few moments for her entrance underneath the tiny covering of her dress.

Her hot, sweet cunt was so well lubed from her own constant state of arousal, though, that this probing didn't last long.

Soon he was completely inside her, his thick hardness swelling inside of her hot lubed folds. The stud policeman fucked her right there on the highway, her big tits mashing against the new car. Throwing any restraint to the wind, Layla screamed loud and often, begging for more.

“Yes!” she called. “Yes, baby, yes yes yes! Fuck me like that! Just like that! You big fucking police hunk stud! Oh god!”

“Yeah,” he grunted. “I'll fuck you like the fucking slut you are. You don't fucking,” he jerked, her pussy sliding tighter on his thick rod, “ahh ... don't fucking speed on my roads, you slut.”

Her sensuously dark hair was wrapped around one big forearm like he was holding a whip. His other hand was clasped to her thighs, pulling her tighter against his hips as he drove into her harder and harder.

Cockmeat stretched and pushed inside of her hot cunt, throwing Layla into a cum-crazy frenzy. Orgasm after orgasm pumped through her sensationally hot big-titted body.

She was lying when she said no one could see. Multiple cars slowed down and honked, watching the gorgeous dark-haired beauty getting filled up by the police officer. Layla smiled and waved. She wished she could fuck each and every one of them.

The cop seemed to figure it out pretty quick, but did not seem to care. In fact, it seemed to excite him all the more. His orgasm started after the fifth or six car honked and slowed down to watch them.

“Oh fuck,” he moaned. “Oh god, I'm gonna teach you to follow the law ...”

“Yes!” she cried happily as his white hot flood unleashed inside of her dynamite pussy. “Show me how to obey!”

Later, after they both cleaned up, and after the cop wrote down her address and phone number, he let her off with just a warning to not go a hundred miles-an-hour in a fifty mile-an-hour zone.

* * * * *

Pulling back up into her driveway, she saw her neighbor, Fred Banks, walking away from the front lawn.

He was an older man—a golf partner for David. Blond and affable, he had been a friend of the family for almost the entire twenty years that she and David had lived at that address.

Layla stepped out of her car, openly flashing Fred. She heard him swear in aroused surprise when she did not cover up her bare, hot pussy right away.

On her way to greet him, she “accidentally” dropped her purse two or three times. It was only polite, in front of a man, to bend over at the waist to pick such a thing up. Her dark hair puddled on the ground when she did so. It was so long and thick.

“Hi there, Fred,” she purred.

Everything Layla said these days was a purr. Her voice was velvet sound. She loved it.

“Hiiiii ...”

Layla giggled. Just like the cop, he was eating her up with his eyes.

“Why don't you bring your handsome self inside? I'd love some company, all right?”

She trailed her finger across his chin. He followed happily.

Inside, she sat him down and set out to the bar to make him a drink right away. Men deserved a wonderfully hot woman doting on them at all times. Fred was so sad, because his wife Edna was such a drag. She was so old—like, fifty five or something! Fred needed a young, hot woman in his life, and Layla was that woman.

“Oh, none for me, thanks. It's a bit early.”

She slid onto the arm of the chair he sat in, couching the drink between her tits.

“Oh, please have some, won't you? It's my special drink that I made just and only for my studly neighbor. Please?”

His hands shook as he reached forward and grabbed it. They slid easily over her tits tentatively at first. Layla moaned at his touch, drawing his hands on her closer and staring him in the eyes. She bit the corner of one lip and raised an eyebrow. Bulging out from Fred's pants was a thick, hard rod that she could not wait to wrap her lips around.

“What brings you over here today, handsome?” She giggled. “Not that a stud like you needs a reason to see me, of course.”

She giggled again. Fred's eyes lit up, watching the little bounces of her cleavage. This was so much fun.

“I was ... just wondering if you were home. If you ... needed anything. So much ... so many predators, you know. Wanting ... wanting ... taking advantage, you see.”

“Oh my, that's so brave and good of you Fred. You're such a strong, upstanding member of our neighborhood ...” her hand fell on his crotch. “ ... and you have such a strong, upstanding member, too.”

Layla had started to actively believe against wasting time. She had only been fucked like thirty minutes ago, and already she was hungering for more. Insatiable might have described her, except that Layla was sure if she was fucked hard enough, long enough, her happy little mind would be perfectly sated.

Fred stood up out of the chair, rattling his drink down on the table and stepping away.

“Gosh, David'll be home soon, huh? I better run. Let you two catch up. I wouldn't want him to think ... to think ...”

His voice trailed off as Layla's dress slipped down to the floor.

“Don't want him to think that I really need you to fuck me hard right away?” she offered.

“I ... I couldn't ... do that to him. He's my friend.”

One foot in front of the other, Layla moved forward. Her hips swaying enticingly.

“That's why you'd be doing it to me, Fred. He'll understand. He's your friend. He knows what a hot wife he has.”

She slipped on top of the table in front of him and wrapped her legs around Fred's waist.

“Go on,” she encouraged him. “Be a good neighbor. Give me the hot fuck I need, please? It'll be way better than what Edna can give you. I promise.”

“Shit,” he muttered.

His pants dropped down to the floor. He was already hard, his cock standing up and staring her in the face. It was so beautiful and perfect.

All cocks were so delightfully hard and throbbing, just for Layla. It was such an honor to inspire that sort of attention from men.

Her wedding photos were on the coffee table. She slid them off the table, letting them shatter. They were outdated, anyway. Everything about Layla looked way better than it did twenty years ago.

Fred pushed up inside Layla. His cock thrust inside of her, so educated and knowing. He must have fucked his wife Edna so well.

Of course, now he'd never want to fuck Edna again.

Unless ... maybe she could let Edna borrow some of Hilary's clothes? That would be nice of her. Certainly the old dog could use a makeover.

Anyway, it was hard to focus on anything outside of the hard, forceful strokes Fred was delivering to her.

Layla was just getting started on her third hot, wet orgasm when David busted in through the door. He held the doorknob in one hand, the door swaying on two broken hinges. He was getting so big and strong lately.

“What in the fuck, Layla! Are you fucking Fred?”

His voice was so deep now, so urgent and demanding her attention.

Layla giggled, completely cumdrunk.

“Actually, he's the one fucking me. Aren't you, big fella?”

Fred nodded, apparently unable to stop himself.

“S-soo close,” he grunted.

She could see her husband was getting upset. That simply wouldn't do.

“Come here, quick!” she reached out her hands. “Please, darling?”

David obliged her. Layla felt so gratified. Fred fucked her even harder, her tits jiggling wildly in the air.

Perhaps mesmerized by her bouncing tits, David came closer and closer. When in range, she grabbed her husband's pants and tore them down, immediately turning to the side with her incredibly flexible torso and wrapping her mouth around his thick cock.

Being filled at both ends felt like a neverending essay on orgasms. There was no reason to stop feeling good, ever. Her whole life, her beginning and her ending, her alpha and omega, was cock cock cock.

There was nothing to think about, nothing to account for, nothing to plan for or wonder about except for more beautiful, sperm-heavy dick filling her up from either end.

Her orgasms continued without cessation. As soon as one ended, Fred or David would thrust into her again, and she would start to cum again.

Both men began to grunt and gasp. She could feel their muscles getting all tensed up. It was like Layla's hot body was coaxing them to orgasm at the same time.

They sprayed into her, their hot loads pouring down her throat and up into her cunt.

After several seconds of the cumfilling, she slid outward and had them spray her down, reaching around and grabbing both cocks to spray all up and down her big-titted bimbo body. Her face, her tits, her stomach, her hair, all of her completely covered with hot seed. There was much more of it from David than from Fred.

The warmth of it, the hotness was like nothing before. She made a mental note—although a thoroughly fragile one, given the state of her silly little mind—to fuck even more guys at once in the future.

After several seconds, she heard her husband and Fred both swear in tired tones, looking toward the front of the house.

Her daughter Hilary was in the doorway. On her arm was the cop who had pulled over Layla, openly pawing Hilary's enormous tits. One of his hands was deep within her asscrack from behind. She was wearing a tiny orange dress that made such a movement seem completely natural from a man.

When had Hilary become so big-titted and gorgeous? She was like some boob-lover's wet dream.

That was so fucking cool. Layla had never been prouder.

Her daughter had seen the whole display between herself and Fred and David, presumably, including the hot cum shower that Layla had received.

“Mom, were you like, fucking Dad and Mr. Banks at the same time?”

“Yes, dear. I'm fairly certain I'll be pregnant again soon.”

Hilary put a hand to her mouth, eyes wide.

“That's totally cool. Way to go, Mom!”

Layla tittered, licking up a little more cum. “Thank you, dear.”

“We like, totally need to catch up. Especially because you're so hot and cool now. But first, like, I gotta help out this poor cop. He like, can't find his nightstick, can you believe it? I've like, got to like, help him stick it in me.”

Layla, watching as the cop took her daughter upstairs—presumably to fuck her all night long—was so happy to be a cool mom.

She turned back to her husband and Fred, who were both panting and looking at her sensational curves with greedy eyes. If they weren't both able to fuck her, they would probably start fighting over her. That was too fun.

They were both so generous to bath her like they did, but now she wanted seconds. Her hot wife life was just getting started.