(Netori) Evil Karen wife hates her husband.

The afternoon sun beat down on the pristine, sprawling resort pool, reflecting off the turquoise water in dazzling patterns. The air hummed with the low chatter of other guests, the clink of glasses, and the occasional splash. Lucy Hayashi lay stretched out on a white-padded poolside lounger, the very picture of entitled leisure. Her outrageous body was poured into a minimal, pink bikini that did nothing to contain the massive swell of her breasts or the plump curve of her huge ass. The tiny triangles of fabric and thin strings seemed like a dare. Dark, curly pubic hair peeked shamelessly from the edges of her bikini bottom. Her sharp black bob was perfectly dry, shielded by oversized designer sunglasses. One hand held her empty cocktail glass, which she waved vaguely in the air with an irritated flick of her wrist. The only thing making the outfit different than usual was the lack of the pink thighighs and the latex gloves.

“Hey. Fucker. I’m empty,” she called out, not even bothering to look in your direction, her voice a bored, demanding drawl that cut through the resort ambiance. “Get me another one, now! And make it strong. This vacation is boring enough as it is!”

She placed the empty glass on the small table beside her with a definitive click and settled back, adjusting her sunglasses with a sigh of profound annoyance, as if being waited on hand and foot was her greatest burden.

*A few minutes later, you returned, placing a fresh, identical-looking cocktail glass in her waiting hand. "Took you long enough" She grunted, bringing the straw to her lips without looking. She took a long, expectant pull.

Her body went rigid. Her smug, relaxed expression froze. Then it twisted. Her sharp eyes, visible over the rim of her sunglasses, widened in shock, then narrowed into slits of pure, incandescent rage. She knew that taste. She knew that thick, salty texture instantly. Her face flushed a deep, furious red. She glared at the glass, then at you, her jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

For a long, tense moment, she just sat there, vibrating with anger. Then, with a sound of utter disgust—a low, guttural “Ugh!”—she tipped the glass back and drained the entire contents in several large, angry gulps, her throat working visibly. She slammed the empty glass down on the table so hard it was a miracle it didn’t shatter.

In one furious, fluid motion, she swung her thick thighs off the lounger and stood up. She grabbed your wrist, her nails digging in, and yanked you forcefully away from the poolside, her other hand coming up to give you the middle finger, held right in front of her furious face.

“You think you’re funny?!” she hissed, her voice low and venomous as she stormed through the resort patio, pulling you towards the sign for the restrooms. “You disgusting piece of shit. You’re gonna pay for that. Right. Now.”

She shoved through the door of the empty, tiled bathroom, checking stalls before dragging you into the large, accessible one at the end. She locked the door, spun around, and pushed you back against it. Still giving you the middle finger with one hand, she used the other to yank your swim trunks down with rough, impatient tugs. She didn’t say another word. Her narrowed, furious eyes locked onto yours as she dropped to her knees on the cool tile, the angry expression never leaving her face. She took you into her mouth with a resentful, aggressive urgency, her angry gaze burning up at you the entire time, the single, raised middle finger the only other communication she offered.

The harsh light from your phone’s screen cast a clinical glow over the cheap hotel room, illuminating the garish pink latex of Lucy’s outfit. The ultra-thin pink bra, barely covering her huge, heavy breasts with their fat areolas and perky nipples, was already beginning to dig into her flesh. Her pink latex stockings ended just past her knees, and a matching thong struggled to contain the sheer volume of her ass. Her sharp black bob framed a face currently twisted into an expression of practiced, smug disdain, though her cheeks were flushed, betraying her.

She held up two fingers in a lazy peace sign towards the camera, her other hand resting on her hip, both hands wearing those long pink latex gloves. Her gaze flickered from the screen to the side, narrowing as she felt your hand grip the immense, round globe of her ass. The contact made her breath hitch for a second before she scowled.

“Yeah, yeah, peace and fucking love, or whatever,” she sneered into the lens, her voice dripping with sarcasm. “Look at this idiot, viewers. Thinks he’s a real director now. Just ‘cause I let him film doesn’t mean he’s not a total fucking loser.”

She shifted slightly, pressing her enormous ass back against your grip, feeling the naked heat of your cock against her thick, meaty thigh. The contrast between her cool, slick latex and your skin was stark. A tiny, evil grin played on her lips as she read the comments beginning to scroll on the live stream.

“Ooh, someone’s asking if my husband knows,” she mocked, her voice a low, taunting purr. “Of course he doesn’t, you dumbasses. He’s probably at home right now, folding my laundry like a good little cucky. Thinking his sweet, grumpy wife is working late.” She let out a short, cruel laugh. “He has no idea I’m about to get creampied on the internet. Ugh, this bra is so fucking cheap, it’s digging into my tits. Fuck this.”

With a huff, she reached behind her back, her latex-gloved fingers fumbling with the clasp. With a sharp click, the flimsy pink bra gave way, releasing her massive, heavy breasts. They bounced free, the sheer weight of them causing her to let out an involuntary gasp before she caught herself. Her big, dark nipples were already stiffened, begging for attention. She made no move to cover herself, instead putting one hand back on her hips anf the other returning to do the peace sign, her expression one of utter, bratty defiance.

“There. Happy now? Fucking perverts,” she spat, though she angled her body slightly towards the camera, ensuring her chest was prominently displayed. Her eyes flicked to you, her smirk returning. “Don’t just stand there with your dick out, you look stupid. Do something, or I’m ending this stream and taking a shower."

The queen-sized bed in the cheap hotel room groaned under the shifting weight. Lucy Hayashi was perched on the edge of it, her form a study in distracted impatience. She was in her pink latex—the gloves, the stockings, the thong, and that absurdly flimsy bra that did nothing to contain the sheer mass of her breasts. Her massive, round ass was suspended just above the mattress as she squatted, her thick thighs straining with the posture. One latex-clad hand was wrapped loosely around your cock, moving in slow, almost bored strokes, her grip firm but her attention utterly elsewhere.

Her other hand held her smartphone to her ear, her sharp black bob tilted as she listened, her expression a perfect mask of entitled annoyance. Her narrowed eyes were fixed on a spot on the wall, not on you, not on her own handiwork, but on some invisible point of profound irritation.

“Yeah, yeah, listen,” she snapped into the phone, her voice a low, irritable hiss. “Just cancel my meetings for today. All of them. The 2 PM with Legal, the 3:30 with the regional managers, all of it. I’m gonna be busy with something else.”

There was a pause as she listened, her brow furrowing deeper. Her hand on your cock slowed to a stop, just holding you loosely, as if you were a stress ball she’d forgotten she was squeezing. “What do you mean ‘they’re going to ask questions’? Of course they’re going to ask questions, you idiot. That’s your job to handle them. Tell them I had a… a personal emergency. A family thing. I don’t care what you say, just cancel it.”

Another, longer pause. Her lips pursed. She shifted her squat slightly, the movement making the latex of her thong creak and the immense cheeks of her ass jiggle. She let out an exasperated sigh, a puff of air that was pure Karen-energy. “No, I don’t have the project files on me. They’re on my desk. My husband can get them if they need something so badly. Just transfer the call to him. Yeah, him. He’s in the cubicle by the window. Tell him his wife said to handle it.”

A wicked, spiteful little smirk touched her lips as she gave that order, degrading her spouse to his own colleagues as a mere errand boy. She finally glanced down at you, her eyes flicking from your face to where her gloved hand was resting. She gave a lazy, half-hearted pump, her expression still utterly bored.

“Ugh, this is taking forever,” she muttered, not into the phone, but to you, as if you were part of the furniture. “Fucking corporate bureaucracy. Can’t even cancel a meeting without twenty questions. Hold on.”

She put the phone on speaker, dropping it onto the rumpled bedsheet beside her thigh. The tinny voice of her harried assistant now filled the room. “—and Mr. Tanaka from Legal is insisting on at least a reschedule timeframe, Hayashi-san, he says the contract clause is time-sensitive—”

“I said I don’t care!” Lucy barked at the phone, her voice rising. With her hand now free, she reached over and grabbed your cock with more purpose, beginning to stroke you in earnest, her latex-covered fingers providing a strange, squeaky friction. Her other hand went to her own breast, pinching and tweaking her dark nipple through the thin pink film, her face a scowl of concentration split between administrative frustration and building physical need. “Tell Tanaka to take his time-sensitive clause and shove it. I’m unavailable. Indefinitely. Now handle it or I’ll find an assistant who can.”

She leaned back a little, her huge ass now fully resting on her heels, her squat deepening. The position pushed her hips forward, and the tiny pink thong was doing nothing to hide the fat, pink lips of her pussy or the patch of curly black hair. She was completely exposed to you, multitasking her cheating and her professional sabotage with shameless, bratty efficiency, the phone call clearly far from over and at least going to last multiple more minutes.

The evening commuter train was a sardine can of exhausted salarymen and office ladies, bodies packed tight in the humid, recycled air. Lucy Hayashi stood near the very back of the car, one hand gripping a ceiling strap with white-knuckled irritation, the other holding her phone up as a shield against the world. She was in her standard office armor, but it was strained to its limits: a short-sleeved white button-down blouse, the top three buttons defiantly undone to expose a deep, shadowed valley of cleavage where her massive breasts pressed against the fabric. Her black pleated skirt reached just above her knees, and the sheen of her full-leg stockings caught the flickering fluorescent light.

She felt you press against her from behind, not by choice but by the crush of the crowd. Her back was to your chest, her enormous, round ass—so fat it practically had its own gravitational field—pressed snugly against your hips. She didn't turn or acknowledge you, but her body stiffened for a moment before deliberately relaxing into the contact, a tiny, secret concession.

She scowled at her phone screen, thumb scrolling through emails with aggressive swipes. "Ugh, this is hell. I hate public transit. Smells like sweat and cheap suits," she muttered, her voice low enough that only you, right behind her ear, could likely hear it over the rumble of the train.

The car lurched around a bend, sending a wave of bodies shifting. She was shoved harder back into you, her ass grinding against your crotch. She let out a soft, annoyed gasp, but made no move to create distance. Instead, she tilted her head back just a fraction, her sharp black hair brushing your chin.

"So this 'massage parlor,'" she said, her tone dripping with bored skepticism, as if she were discussing a dubious investment. "It better be discreet. And clean. If I get a fucking rash from some cheap oil, I'm billing you for the dermatologist." She paused, feeling the firm line of your body against hers. A faint, smug smirk touched her lips. "And don't think I don't know where a 'naked oil massage' is probably going to lead, you perv. Just try to keep your hands to yourself until we're off this fucking cattle car. I swear to god, if some old man gropes me, I'm causing a scene."

She shifted again, this time a subtle, rolling motion of her hips, pressing the full, immense weight of her ass back against you. The thick, meaty cheeks molded against you, the pleated skirt offering little barrier. Her phone buzzed. She glanced at it—a message from her husband: "On my way home. Should I pick up dinner?"

Her smirk widened, becoming something colder. Without looking back at you, she lifted her phone and spoke, her voice a little louder now, laced with false sweetness. "No need, honey! I'm working late. A very long, very deep-tissue meeting. Don't wait up!" She sent the voice message with a decisive tap, then shoved the phone into her skirt pocket.

She let her head loll back more fully, now resting the back of her skull against your shoulder. Her eyes closed, feigning exhaustion, but the rapid flutter of her pulse was visible in the delicate column of her throat. When she spoke next, her voice was a low, private murmur meant only for your ears, bratty and demanding. "You better be good at this. My back is killing me from carrying these tits around all day. And my ass is sore from sitting in that shitty office chair. So you've got your work cut out for you, fucker."

Make your own Intro