Kiss the Badge, Break the Vows

Your back arches off the mattress as Kendra's hips drive forward, the thick silicone of her strap-on stretching you open with a deep, relentless rhythm that steals the air from your lungs. The headboard slams against the wall in time with her powerful thrusts, the obscene sounds of your slick flesh meeting her toy filling the room. Your fingers clutch desperately at the tangled sheets, your body trembling from the overwhelming pleasure building low in your belly. Kendra's dark wavy ponytail sways with her movements, her brown eyes locked on your face as she watches you come undone beneath her.

"Who's making you feel this good, baby?" Kendra growls, her voice husky with desire as she changes angles, hitting that perfect spot inside you that makes your vision blur. "Tell me who owns this pussy."

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand, vibrating insistently against the wood. Weston's name flashes across the screen, and panic wars with pleasure in your hazy mind. You make a desperate sound, a mix of a moan and a gasp, and Kendra's eyes snap to the phone. With a fluid, predatory grace, she snatches it up without breaking her rhythm, answering it herself.

"Hello?" she says, her voice dropping into a surprisingly high-pitched, breathy imitation of yours. She continues to thrust into you slowly as she speaks. "I'm... I'm not feeling well right now, Weston. I think I need to lie down."

"Seriously? Again?" Weston scoffs. "You're always 'sick' when I need you to—"

You can't help but let out a sharp cry as Kendra grinds particularly deep, and for a split second, her concentration wavers. Her own husky, commanding tone bleeds through. "He just needs to— uh, I mean, I just need to rest."

The line goes silent for a moment before Weston's voice returns, sharp with suspicion. "Who was that? Is someone there with you? That didn't sound like you."

Kendra's predatory grin spreads across her face as she realizes the game is up. She shifts her voice back to its natural, authoritative timbre. "This is Detective Kendra Monroe," she says, her voice dripping with authority despite the intimate position. "And I'm her girlfriend. This is what you get for neglecting her, asshole."

"Monroe?" Weston's voice cracks with disbelief. "The same cop who arrested Henderson and Miller last month? You're—"

Kendra's eyes widen with recognition as she places the name. "Wait a minute—Caldwell? You're that pompous bastard who tried to intimidate me at the station?" A predatory grin spreads across her face. "Small world. Your wife's in excellent hands now. Better than you ever gave her."

Without another word, she ends the call, tossing the phone onto the nightstand before turning her full attention back to you. "Now," she murmurs, her hands gripping your hips as she resumes her powerful rhythm, "where were we?"

The afterglow of your lovemaking still clings to your skin as you lie tangled with Kendra in the now-disheveled sheets of Weston's king-sized bed. Her warm, naked body is spooned against yours, one arm draped possessively over your waist as she presses soft kisses to your shoulder. The room, usually so cold and sterile, feels alive and filled with the scent of sex and Kendra's coconut body wash. You're drifting in a haze of contentment, feeling more cherished and safe than you have in months, when the bedroom door bursts open with such force it slams against the wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the sudden silence.

Weston stands in the doorway, his face a mask of apoplectic rage that makes his handsome features twist into something ugly. His expensive suit is slightly disheveled, his blond hair normally perfectly coiffed now falling across his forehead. "You unbelievable whore," he snarls, his voice trembling with fury as he takes in the scene before him—his wife, naked in their marital bed, wrapped in the arms of another woman. "Is this what you do when I'm working to provide this lifestyle for you? Spread your legs for the first lesbian who shows you a little attention?" His eyes sweep over Kendra with naked contempt. "Of course it's a cop. Always sticking your nose where it doesn't belong."

You flinch at his words, shrinking back against Kendra as if trying to disappear, but your girlfriend moves before you can even process Weston's venom. With a fluid motion that shows no self-consciousness about her nudity, Kendra sits up, positioning herself between you and your furious husband. Her curvy body is a stark contrast to Weston's rigid form, her dark skin glowing in the soft light of the bedroom. "Watch your mouth, Caldwell," she says, her voice dangerously calm despite the situation. "The only whore I see here is you—whoring out your wife's emotional needs for your precious reputation."

Weston laughs without humor, his eyes wild. "Her emotional needs? She has everything she could possibly want! This house, cars, clothes—what more could she need?" He gestures wildly around the room. "I gave her the perfect life!"

"You gave her a cage," Kendra retorts, standing up and taking a step toward him, completely unintimidated by his wealth or his rage. "You gave her things to compensate for the fact that you're too busy, too arrogant, and too self-absorbed to actually be a husband. You see her as an accessory to your success, not as a person who deserves love and attention." She glances back at you, her expression softening for just a moment before turning hard again as she faces Weston. "She deserves to be worshipped, not neglected. That's what I give her. That's why she's with me now."

"Get out of my house," Weston spits, his face purpling with rage. "Both of you! You're nothing but a gold-digging lesbian and she's a traitor!"

Kendra actually smiles at that, a slow, predatory grin that makes Weston take an involuntary step back. "See, that's your problem," she says, her voice dropping to a husky whisper. "You think everything is about money. About status. You never learned that the most valuable things can't be bought." She turns back to you, reaching out a hand. "Come on, baby. Let's get dressed. You don't have to live like this anymore." Her eyes are filled with fierce determination and unwavering loyalty, a silent promise that she will protect you from this moment forward.

The crystal glasses clink with false cheer as Weston parades you through his company's annual gala, his hand clamped possessively around your upper arm like a vice. Your gown, an expensive but conservative navy silk that he selected, feels more like a costume than clothing. "And this is my beautiful wife," he says for the tenth time that evening, his voice dripping with the kind of pride one might show off a new sports car. "She's been my rock through the merger negotiations." You offer a practiced smile, your eyes scanning the room of strangers who see you as nothing more than an extension of your husband's success, a beautiful accessory to his empire. The weight of their collective gaze feels heavier with each introduction, your smile becoming more strained as the night wears on.

Then, the atmosphere shifts subtly, a current of attention flowing toward the grand entrance. Your head turns instinctively, and your breath catches in your throat. Standing just inside the doorway is Kendra, looking devastatingly authoritative in her police uniform. The dark blue fabric stretches across her full bust and nips in at her waist before draping over her wide hips. But it's when she turns slightly to speak to the security guard that your gaze truly snags. The cut of her trousers perfectly accentuates the round, shapely curve of her backside, a sight so familiar and intoxicating that your body responds with an immediate, deep ache of longing. You can't tear your eyes away, completely oblivious to Weston introducing you to his business partner beside you.

"Excuse me, sir," Kendra's voice cuts through the polite chatter, clear and commanding. "I need to borrow Mrs. Caldwell for a moment. There's been a development regarding a vehicle registered in her name that was involved in a minor incident outside." It's a believable lie, delivered with such official authority that no one questions it, least of all Weston, whose primary concern is how this might reflect on him. He releases your arm with a look of annoyance, already calculating the potential PR damage. "Make it quick," he snaps at Kendra, his eyes dismissively raking over her uniform before turning back to his colleague. "Handle this, darling. Don't keep important people waiting."

Kendra's hand finds yours, her touch firm and reassuring as she leads you away from the suffocating crowd and down a quiet, dimly lit corridor. The moment you're out of sight, she pulls you into a secluded alcove, the formal pretense dropping away. "You look incredible tonight," she murmurs, her brown eyes soft as they sweep over you, "but you look even better when you're wearing nothing but my handcuff marks." Before you can respond, she's kissing you, a deep, possessive kiss that tastes of freedom and raw desire. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you flush against her uniformed body. "You deserve so much better than this," she whispers against your lips, her voice thick with emotion. "Than him. Than being treated like some pretty object he owns. Let me show you what real worship feels like." Her words are a promise, a vow to cherish you in ways your husband never has or could.

The party buzzed with the kind of forced laughter that came from people who were more interested in being seen than having fun. Weston stood at the center of a circle of his colleagues, his hand possessively on your waist as if you were a prize he'd won at auction. "And this," he announced with a smirk, "is my wife. Isn't she perfect?" The words weren't a compliment; they were an assessment, like he was showing off a rare painting he'd acquired. You forced a smile, your cheeks burning as his friends appraised you with the same detached curiosity they'd give any expensive object Weston owned.

As the evening wore on, Weston's attention drifted further away. He was deep in conversation about some business deal, barely glancing your way when you tried to speak to him. You excused yourself and slipped away to a quiet study down the hall, sinking onto a plush armchair. The room was dark except for a single lamp casting a warm glow on bookshelves filled with volumes no one actually read. You picked up a silver photo frame from the end table—your wedding day. You looked so happy, so hopeful. Now you just felt like part of Weston's carefully curated collection.

The sound of raised voices from downstairs pulled you from your thoughts. You recognized Weston's arrogant tone, followed by a woman's calm but firm response that made your heart skip. "Sir, I'm going to need you to lower your voice and step away from the vehicle." That was Kendra Monroe's voice—the detective who'd handled your neighbor's break-in last month. You'd only met briefly, but you remembered her warm smile and the way she'd actually listened when you spoke, unlike most people in Weston's circle. You crept to the door and peeked out, watching as she handcuffed one of Weston's drunken friends who'd been causing a scene in the driveway.

"Officer, this is completely unnecessary!" Weston was saying, his face flushed with indignation. "These are respected professionals, not common criminals."

"Respected professionals don't usually try to drive home with a blood alcohol level that could knock out a horse," Kendra replied coolly, not backing down an inch despite Weston's intimidating posture. "And your friend here just assaulted my partner when we tried to stop him. So unless you'd like to join him downtown, I suggest you step back."

You watched as Weston's jaw tightened, his ego clearly bruised by being spoken to as an equal rather than someone he could command. He finally backed away with a dismissive wave, muttering something about police overreach as Kendra led the man to her squad car. You retreated back into the study, your heart racing—not just from the confrontation, but from the way Kendra had stood her ground against Weston's usual tactics of intimidation.

The study door creaked open about ten minutes later. You looked up expecting Weston, but instead found Detective Monroe standing there, her expression softening when she saw you. "I thought I saw you slip away earlier," she said, her voice gentle now. "Parties like these can be overwhelming when you're not really part of the crowd."

You shrugged, unable to find words. Kendra stepped inside, closing the door behind her. She moved with an easy confidence that contrasted sharply with Weston's rigid posture. "Your husband seems to think his money puts him above the law," she noted, leaning against the bookshelf. "But I've met men like him before. All surface, no substance."

Something about her honesty made tears prick your eyes. You blinked them back, not wanting to seem weak in front of this strong woman. Kendra noticed anyway. "Hey," she said softly, crossing the room to kneel in front of you. "None of that. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

Her dark brown eyes held yours with an intensity that made your breath catch. "I see how he treats you," she continued, her voice dropping to a near whisper. "Like you're just another expensive thing he owns. But you're not. You're brilliant and funny and kind—things he's too busy admiring his own reflection to notice."

Your composure finally broke, and a tear slipped down your cheek. Kendra caught it with her thumb, her touch sending a jolt through you. "He doesn't deserve you," she said, her thumb lingering on your skin. "Someone should worship the ground you walk on. Someone should make you feel like the most precious thing in the world, not just another pretty face to show off."

You couldn't speak, could barely breathe as her face moved closer. "I could make you feel that way," she murmured, her lips just inches from yours. "I could give you everything he won't."

Then that confident smirk you'd seen earlier returned, playfully this time. "Besides," she added, her voice dropping to that intimate edge that made your toes curl, "you're under arrest... for looking too adorable while sulking in this room without a permit."

The party had been unbearable, another evening of being paraded around like Weston's most expensive acquisition. You'd slipped out the back, the cool night air a welcome relief from the cloying atmosphere of wealth and false smiles. Now, back in the silent, sterile perfection of your house, the guilt of leaving gnawed at you, but it was quickly overshadowed by the familiar ache of being used. You were just part of the scenery, a beautiful object to enhance his image. Sinking onto the velvet sofa in the grand entryway, you pulled your knees to your chest, the diamonds on your wrist feeling cold and heavy, like shackles of a different kind.

A firm, rhythmic knock echoed through the cavernous space, startling you. It wasn't Weston's impatient rap or a delivery's tentative tap. Through the sidelight, you saw the distinct silhouette of a police officer, her posture exuding a calm authority. Wiping your eyes, you opened the door to find Detective Kendra Monroe, her dark brown eyes filled with a concern that seemed genuine. She explained a neighbor had reported a suspicious vehicle, which turned out to be your forgotten ride share driver waiting around the corner. Seeing the state you were in, she asked if everything was alright, her voice a low, soothing melody that made something inside you unclench.

You stepped aside, letting her into the massive, cold foyer. Her gaze swept over the marble floors and sweeping staircase, a flicker of understanding in her eyes before it returned to you. "Fancy house," she observed softly, her presence warm and grounded, a stark contrast to the room's opulent chill. "But it doesn't feel like a home when you're this sad in it, does it, pretty thing?" The endearment, spoken so naturally, sent a shiver through you. It wasn't possessive like Weston's; it was appreciative, like she was seeing you, not just your reflection in a gilded mirror.

She moved closer, her police-issue utility belt clinking softly with each step. Her fingers brushed a stray tear from your cheek, her touch gentle but firm. "A man who has all this," she murmured, her eyes holding yours, "and still makes a woman like you cry? That's not just neglect, that's a crime." Her gaze dropped to the polished handcuffs resting on her hip, and a slow, confident smile spread across her face. "I'm not here to arrest you, though. I was thinking of a different kind of crime... one where these cuffs are used for a much better purpose than locking up bad guys."

Her voice dropped to a husky whisper, her lips close to your ear. "How about we play a game? You're under arrest... for being too beautiful to be this sad. The sentence is being reminded exactly how incredible you are until you forget his name." She didn't wait for an answer, her hands finding your waist and pulling you flush against her. In that moment, with her strong arms around you and her promise of devotion hanging in the air, you knew with absolute certainty that you would never feel neglected again.

The sound of the front door closing downstairs was the only signal you needed. You had abandoned Weston at yet another tedious corporate gala, feigning a migraine to escape the suffocating weight of his arm around your waist and the vacant smiles of his associates. Now, cocooned in the silk sheets of your bedroom, you stared at the ceiling, the lingering scent of Kendra's perfume on your pillows a small comfort against the grand emptiness of the house. You heard her familiar, confident tread on the stairs, a sound that always made your heart beat a little faster.

Your bedroom door opened without a knock, and there she was, a vision of authority and affection. Kendra stood framed in the doorway, her dark police uniform immaculate, but it was the vibrant bouquet of wildflowers in her hand that captured your attention. She leaned against the doorframe, a playful smirk gracing her lips as her eyes roamed over you in the bed. "Ma'am," she began, her voice a low, husky tease, "I'm gonna need you to stop looking that adorable without a permit. But since I'm feeling generous, I came to make a delivery instead of an arrest."

She pushed off the doorframe and crossed the room in a few long strides, placing the flowers on the nightstand before her strong arms scooped you effortlessly from the bed. You gasped as she lifted you, your body molding against the firm warmth of her uniform. Her lips found yours in a searing kiss, a perfect blend of tenderness and raw possession that melted away the lingering chill of the party. It was a kiss that claimed you, that reminded you whose arms you truly belonged in, whose affection was real and not just for show.

Setting you back on your feet, she took a small step back, her brown eyes never leaving yours. Her hands moved to the top button of her uniform shirt. "I know you love the uniform," she murmured, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper as she slowly, deliberately, began to unbutton it. The crisp dark fabric parted to reveal the smooth, warm skin of her chest and the delicate lace of her bra. The shirt joined her utility belt on the floor, followed by her trousers, each piece shed with a confident grace that held you captive. "But I also look better naked, don't you agree?"

The bedroom was bathed in the soft, golden glow of a single lamp, casting long shadows across the silk sheets. You lay back against the pillows, your breath catching in your throat as Kendra stood before you, a breathtaking vision of raw, unapologetic desire. Her naked form was a masterpiece of curves and strength, from the proud jut of her full breasts, capped with dark, inviting nipples, to the soft patch of hair between her thighs that barely concealed the glistening folds of her pussy. She turned slightly, giving you a perfect view of her big, juicy ass, the round cheeks flexing as she moved with a predator's grace.

"I'm going to make you forget your own name tonight," she promised, her voice a low, husky murmur that vibrated through the air and straight into your core. "This body is all yours to worship, and I'm going to worship yours right back until you're screaming." She ran her hands slowly over her own hips, her gaze locked on yours, a smoldering promise of the pleasure to come. There was no shyness in her posture, only a profound confidence in her own skin and the power it held over you.

With a seductive smile, she moved to the dresser and retrieved a small, black velvet bag. The soft clinking sound from within sent a jolt of anticipation through you. She returned to the bed, kneeling at the foot, and tipped the bag's contents onto the duvet beside your legs. An array of silicone and glass toys tumbled out, each one promising a different kind of ecstasy. There was a sleek, curved vibrator, a thick, realistic dildo with a suction cup base, a string of glittering anal beads, and a small, bullet-shaped egg attached to a remote control.

Kendra's fingers danced over the collection, her expression one of playful consideration. She picked up the curved vibrator, tracing its smooth lines before setting it down and moving to the thick dildo. She looked from the toys to your face, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief and lust. "So many choices," she murmured, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Which one do you like me to use on you first?"

The party was a dull roar of expensive perfume and clinking champagne flutes, the kind of gathering Weston thrived on but that made your skin crawl. You stood near the grand staircase, nursing a glass of flat champagne and trying to look interested in a conversation about stock portfolios, when a familiar voice cut through the monotone. "Excuse me, folks, police business," Kendra announced, her presence immediately commanding the room's attention. She was in her uniform, her dark hair in that loose ponytail you loved to pull, her brown eyes finding you instantly across the crowded room. She moved with an easy confidence that made Weston's associates straighten their backs, a smirk playing on her lips as she approached you, ignoring the curious stares. "Heard there might be a public intoxication issue," she teased, her voice low enough for only you to hear as she handed you a glass of rich red wine. "But I think the only thing intoxicating around here is you in that dress."

Weston's hand clamped down on your arm, his smile tight and forced as he stepped between you and Kendra. "Officer Monroe, what an unexpected surprise," he said, his tone dripping with condescension. "I'm sure whatever you need can wait. We're in the middle of entertaining." He didn't wait for a response, already pulling you away toward a group of his business associates, his grip possessive and tight. "Darling, I want you to meet the Hendersons," he announced, completely oblivious to the charged moment he'd just interrupted. You glanced back over your shoulder, catching Kendra's eye as she leaned against the wall, her arms crossed over her full chest, watching you with that protective, hungry gaze that made your pulse quicken. She gave you a subtle wink, a silent promise that this wasn't over.

As Weston paraded you around like a prized trophy, introducing you to his colleagues with a dismissive arm around your waist, you could feel Kendra's eyes on you from across the room. She had struck up a conversation with one of the catering staff, but her attention was clearly on you, her body angled in your direction. Every time Weston turned his back, you'd catch her mouthing something suggestive, her tongue darting out to wet her lips, or she'd adjust her duty belt in a way that made you imagine her hands on your hips instead. The contrast was staggering—Weston's cold, possessive touch versus the memory of Kendra's warm, worshiping hands exploring every curve of your body. When Weston finally left you to mingle with some executives, you felt a presence behind you, and Kendra's voice was warm in your ear. "You have the right to remain silent... or you can come with me to the guest bathroom and I'll make you scream my name instead."

The bedroom is a sanctuary of pleasure and rebellion, the air thick with the scent of Kendra's arousal and your shared desire. You're completely naked, positioned between her powerful thighs as she straddles your face, her full ass pressing against you in a way that both grounds and excites you. The taste of her pussy is intoxicatingly sweet and musky, a stark contrast to the flat champagne you'd been nursing earlier. Her hips roll rhythmically against your tongue, and you can feel her thighs trembling with pleasure as you explore every fold with focused attention. The silk sheets beneath you are already damp with sweat and passion, evidence of how long you've been lost in this intimate act of worship.

The bedroom door crashes open with such force that it slams against the wall, the sound shattering the intimate bubble you and Kendra have created. Weston stands there, his face contorted with rage, his expensive suit disheveled as if he's been tearing at his tie. His eyes widen at the sight before him—his wife buried between another woman's thighs, both of you naked and unashamed. For a moment, he seems frozen in disbelief, his mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water before his shock transforms into pure fury. "What the HELL is this?" he roars, his voice echoing through the master bedroom you supposedly share with him.

Kendra doesn't stop riding your tongue, doesn't even flinch at Weston's intrusion. Instead, she looks down at you with a smirk before turning her attention to your husband, her confidence unwavering. "Well, well, look who decided to come home from his important business meeting," she taunts, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she deliberately grinds her hips against your mouth. "Sorry to interrupt your busy schedule of neglecting your wife, Wes, but someone had to make sure she was properly satisfied." She runs her fingers through your hair, a gesture that's both tender and possessive. "Unlike some people, I actually notice when my woman needs attention."

Weston's face turns purple with rage, his fists clenching at his sides. "Get off her! Get off my wife right now!" he demands, taking a step forward into the room. "This is my house, my bedroom, and you—" he points a trembling finger at Kendra "—are trespassing. You're a disgrace to that uniform you're wearing." His eyes shift to you, expecting you to immediately comply, to push Kendra away and apologize. "Stop that right now," he commands, his voice shaking with anger. "I said stop eating that pussy and get up this instant!"

Kendra laughs, a deep, throaty sound that vibrates against your tongue. "Oh, I'm trespassing?" she mocks, shifting her weight to press more firmly against your face. "Last time I checked, I was invited. Multiple times. In fact, I believe someone begged me to come over tonight while her husband was too busy to notice she exists." She leans forward slightly, giving Weston an even better view of what he's missing. "You don't get to demand anything anymore, Wes. You lost that privilege when you decided your wife was just another accessory to your success story." Her hands grip your head more firmly, holding you in place as she looks down at you with questioning eyes. "So what should you do? Listen to your neglecting husband who treats you like a trophy or do you keep pleasing your girlfriend who showers you with affection when he's not around?"

The bedroom is filled with the rhythmic sounds of pleasure and the slick glide of Kendra's strap-on moving inside you. She's taking you from behind, her strong hands gripping your hips as she sets a pace that has you seeing stars. Each thrust sends waves of ecstasy through your body, your fingers clutching the sheets as you bite your lip to contain your moans. The contrast between this raw, passionate connection and the mechanical intimacy you've endured with Weston is staggering. Kendra's body presses against yours, her breasts brushing your back as she leans forward to whisper filthy encouragement in your ear, her voice a low rumble that vibrates through your entire being.

The bedroom door splinters inward, the wood cracking as Weston forces it open with his shoulder. He stands there for a moment, his handsome face twisted with disbelief and rage as he processes the scene before him—his wife being thoroughly fucked by another woman. "How long has this been going on?" he demands, his voice shaking with fury as he takes a step into the room. Kendra doesn't stop her movements, doesn't even flinch as she continues driving into you, her rhythm steady and confident despite the interruption. She simply turns her head to look at him over your shoulder, a smirk playing on her lips as she decides to answer for you.

"Months," Kendra says, her voice casual as if discussing the weather. "I've been fucking your wife for months while you were too busy with your portfolio meetings and cocktail parties to notice she was desperate for actual satisfaction." She punctuates her words with a particularly deep thrust that makes you gasp against the sheets. Weston's face grows darker, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on the police uniform thrown across a chair in the corner. "Do you just flash that badge to fuck men's wives?" he sneers, his ego clearly bruised as he tries to regain some semblance of control.

"You think that's how a lesbian like me gets laid?" Kendra laughs, the sound rich with amusement as she finally slows her movements slightly, though she remains buried deep inside you. "You're dead wrong. I'm not some whore looking for desperate women to fuck." She reaches forward, pushing your hair back from your face in a surprisingly tender gesture before turning her attention back to Weston. "I was doing a house call months ago, but what I found was a lonely, neglected, horny wife without anyone to satisfy her. I found out in the months I came over that you barely touch her, and when you do, your skills suck in the bedroom."

Weston's ego won't let that stand, his chest puffing out indignantly. "That's not true! I'm great in bed! She told me I was!" he insists, his voice rising with desperation. Kendra throws her head back and laughs, a genuine, throaty sound of amusement that makes her breasts jiggle. "Oh, darling," she says, her tone dripping with condescension. "She only said that to feed your fragile ego. You really believed her?" The look of devastation on Weston's face is almost comical as the truth sinks in, his confidence crumbling before your eyes. Kendra taunts him further, detailing specific occasions when you'd confided in her about Weston's sexual inadequacies, each revelation like a dagger to his pride.

"Now watch, cucky," Kendra commands, her voice dropping to that authoritative tone that never fails to make you wet. "Watch as a real woman fucks your wife better than you ever can." She resumes her powerful rhythm, each thrust deliberate and punishing as she puts on a show for Weston. You bury your face under a pillow, overwhelmed by pleasure and embarrassment, your body arching to meet Kendra's movements. Through the fabric, you can hear Weston's choked sounds of disbelief as Kendra demonstrates exactly what you've been missing, her hands roaming your body possessively as she drives into you with renewed purpose, proving her point with every expert thrust of her hips.