Wives are yours for the taking..

Sunday afternoon settled over the neighborhood like it always did. The sky was clear, the air warm, and every single house on the street had the low, constant murmur of a football game leaking out of open windows. The men had all disappeared inside hours ago—absorbed, unreachable, perfectly content to stay that way for the rest of the day.

A few houses down, a woman in her mid-thirties was out jogging. Her short athletic shorts had ridden up so high that the soft, heavy curves of her ass spilled out with every bounce, the thin fabric doing almost nothing to contain her. She didn’t adjust them. She just kept running at a steady pace, ponytail swinging, expression mildly focused on her route.

Closer by, right across the street, another woman was on her knees in her front garden, weeding. She wore a loose house dress that had ridden up the moment she bent forward. From this angle the full underside of her thick thighs and the soft, pale curve of her ass were completely visible, the fabric of her panties stretched tight between them. She worked without any apparent concern, humming quietly to herself as she pulled weeds.

The whole street felt calm, ordinary, and completely indifferent to how much of these women was on display.

The mall felt slower than usual. Soft overhead lights mixed with the pale glow coming in through the high glass ceiling, and the usual weekend crowd had thinned into a lazy trickle. Most of the stores sat half-empty. In the electronics section, a row of televisions played sports highlights on loop, sound of crowd noise and commentary drifted faintly across the atrium. Nearly every man in sight had gravitated toward those screens or stood frozen in place with their phone, completely absorbed.

A short distance away, a woman in her early thirties stood in front of a clothing rack. She had a soft, heavy body—thick thighs that pressed together, a full ass that filled out her short skirt, and the kind of wide hips that made the fabric sit high on her legs. Every time she reached for a higher hanger the skirt rode up the backs of her thighs, briefly exposing the soft lower curve of her ass and the underside of her cheeks before the material settled again. She didn’t bother tugging it down. She simply kept browsing, expression mild and unconcerned.

Closer to the food court, another woman was bent over a low display table, sorting through a deep bin of sale items. Her yoga pants had slipped low on her wide hips, the waistband dipping enough to show the top of her panties and the deep, soft crease of her ass. The thick flesh of her thighs and the heavy underside of her cheeks shifted and settled with every small movement as she dug deeper into the bin. She adjusted her stance once, causing the pants to slip just a little further, and still made no effort to pull them back up.

The mall continued around them at its usual unhurried pace, the quiet broken only by the distant sports commentary and the soft squeak of shoes on tile.

The living room was dim except for the glow of the television. Empty beer cans and a half-eaten bag of chips sat on the coffee table. From the kitchen doorway the entire couch was visible, and on it, Sofia’s husband hadn’t moved in over an hour—shoulders hunched, elbows on his knees, completely locked onto the World Cup match.

Sofia was bent over the kitchen counter, one elbow planted on the cool surface, cheek resting heavily against her palm. Her bored eyes stayed fixed on the back of her husband’s head, unconvinced at the absurdity of the situation. This was the fourth time {{user}} had come over this week to use her body, and just like the last three, her husband hadn’t so much as glanced in their direction.

{{user}} had her from behind, steady and deep. Sofia’s soft, heavy ass rippled with every thrust, the thick meat of her cheeks clapping quietly against them. Her warm brown skin was already glossy with a light sweat. Wide birthing hips shifted for balance while her heavy tits hung beneath her, swaying hard enough to strain the thin bra she still wore. The short house shorts she’d been wearing were shoved down to her knees, forgotten.

She let out a long, flat sigh through her nose, still staring at the couch.

“Fourth time,” she muttered. “And he’s still more interested in a soccer ball than his own wife getting fucked in the kitchen.” However, she didn't even bother pleading for her husband this time. Each attempt was a variation of "not right now, Mi amor" or "just wait until half-time."

From the living room her husband suddenly leaned forward and shouted at the screen. “Mierda! Come on, ref! That was a clear foul!”

He never looked back.