Claire arched off the kitchen floor, her fingers scrabbling against Jake's sweat-slick back as he drove into her with rough, uneven thrusts. "Fuck—fuck—you've been imagining this all day," she gasped, nails biting into his shoulders when his thumb found her clit. "Pretending it was Mom bouncing on your cock instead of me—" Jake snarled, flipping her onto her stomach, her ass raised high as he slammed back in, deeper this time, the wet slap of skin drowning out her scream.
On the patio, Mrs. Robinson's head fell back against Mark's shoulder, her husband's mouth latched onto her nipple while Mark's fingers worked between her thighs. "Christ, look at her," Mark growled, grinding his erection against her ass as Mr. Robinson's teeth grazed her collarbone. "So fucking greedy—spread wider, sweetheart, let us both in—" Her moan fractured into a whimper when her husband's hand replaced Mark's, his fingers thrusting deep as Mark's tongue traced her ear.
Inside, Elena rode Liam's face, her thighs trembling around him while Jake's cum dripped down Claire's thighs beside them. "Taste that?" Elena taunted, grinding down harder, her fingers twisting in Liam's hair. "That's your sister—you like knowing Jake's been fucking her right where you're licking?" Liam's groan vibrated against her, his hips bucking helplessly off the couch, his cock leaking onto his stomach.
The air thickened with the scent of sex and charcoal, Mark's laughter rough against Mrs. Robinson's throat as her husband yanked her onto his lap, her wetness smearing his thighs. "Don't stop," she begged, her hips rolling against him, her fingers still tangled in Mark's hair. Somewhere, the grill hissed, unattended. The neighbors' voices blurred into static. And the Robinsons—*finally*—stopped pretending.
Then the gate creaked open. Six silhouettes, broad-shouldered and bare, stepped into the yard. The tallest, a man with a scar curling over his ribs, tossed a cooler onto the patio table with a thud that made Mrs. Robinson flinch. "Heard you were throwing a party," he said, his grin slow, deliberate. His gaze raked over her, flushed and spread across her husband's lap, Mark's fingers still buried inside her. "Mind if we join?"
Mr. Robinson's arms tightened around his wife—protective, instinctive—but Scar just chuckled, nodding to the others as they circled the patio. "Relax, old man," he drawled, palming himself through the fly of his shorts. "We just wanna show you how a real man fucks your wife." The others groaned in agreement, hands already working their cocks, eyes locked on Mrs. Robinson's trembling thighs.
Mark's fingers withdrew with a wet pop, and Mrs. Robinson whimpered—whether in protest or anticipation, even she didn't know. Scar stepped closer, his knuckles brushing her knee. "You gonna watch," he murmured to Mr. Robinson, "or you gonna learn?" The silence that followed was broken only by the slick sound of Claire coming untouched in the doorway, her brother's name a sob on her lips.
Scar's palm cracked across Mrs. Robinson's ass, the slap echoing across the patio. "On your knees, princess." Her husband's grip tightened convulsively, but she was already sliding off his lap, her thighs glistening, her breath ragged. The other men circled like sharks, their cocks bobbing—thick, veined, impatient. One, with a tattoo curling around his hip, gripped her hair. "Open," he ordered, and she did, her tongue darting out before the first salty inch pressed against her lips.
Mr. Robinson's chair screeched back. Elena's hand clamped down on his wrist, her nails biting in. "Don't," she breathed, her pupils blown wide as Scar positioned himself behind her mother, his hands spreading her cheeks. "Just watch." The first thrust tore a scream from Mrs. Robinson's throat, her body bowing as Scar buried himself to the hilt. The tattooed man groaned, his hips jerking into her mouth. "Fuck, she bites—"
Claire collapsed against the doorframe, her thighs shaking. Jake's fingers dug into her hips as he fucked her through it, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. Somewhere, Liam sobbed Elena's name, his release painting her stomach. And through it all, Mr. Robinson sat frozen, his cock throbbing, his wife's moans rising like a prayer—or a damnation.
Scar's thrusts turned brutal, each snap of his hips punctuated by the wet slap of skin. Mrs. Robinson gasped, her mouth stretched around the tattooed man's cock, tears streaking her cheeks. The others crowded close, their hands roaming—pinching her nipples, spreading her wider—until she was nothing but a trembling, moaning thing between them. "Look at her," Scar growled, yanking her head back by the hair. "Begging for it. Your little wife loves being a whore."
Mr. Robinson's chair cracked under his weight when he stood. Elena's grip on his wrist turned bruising. "Don't you dare stop them," she hissed, her other hand working Liam's cock in tight, furious strokes. The tattooed man groaned, his fingers tightening in Mrs. Robinson's hair as he came down her throat. She swallowed greedily, her lips shining—just as Scar pulled out with a wet pop and dragged her onto all fours. "Next," he ordered, and the others surged forward.
The patio became a blur of sweat and thrusting hips, Mrs. Robinson's cries rising with each new cock filling her. Mr. Robinson's knees hit the tiles. Jake's thrusts stuttered. And somewhere beyond the haze, Elena smiled, her fingers finally loosening—because her father's hand was fisted around his own erection, stroking in time with the men wrecking his wife. "There you go," she whispered. "Now you get it."
The sixth man hauled Mrs. Robinson upright, her back flush against his chest, her legs spread wide as Scar gripped her hips and slammed back in. "Count for us, sweetheart," he growled, his teeth sinking into her shoulder. Her moan fractured—"T-two, three—"—as another man pressed against her mouth, her thighs, her slick cunt taking them all like she was made for it.
Claire came so hard her vision whited out, Jake's name a broken chant. Liam sobbed into Elena's neck. And Mr. Robinson—Mr. Robinson watched, his hand moving faster, his wife's eyes locking onto his as the men used her, her gasp of "D-don't stop—" searing into his skull like a brand.
Somewhere, the grill erupted into flames. Nobody moved to stop it.
Except Diane—bless her—who sauntered over bare-assed with a fire extinguisher, her tits swaying as she sprayed foam onto the blaze with one hand while the other palmed her own breast absently. "Don't mind me," she chuckled, watching Scar drag Mrs. Robinson onto her knees by the hair, her mouth stretched around one cock while another disappeared between her thighs. The fire hissed into embers just as Mrs. Robinson moaned around her mouthful, her fingers clawing at Scar's hips. "Fucking take it," he snarled, slamming deeper, his balls slapping against her chin.
Mr. Robinson's knuckles whitened around his own cock, his jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "Look at her," Elena purred in his ear, her fingers trailing down his chest. "She loves it." His wife's whimper confirmed it—high and broken as the tattooed man twisted her nipple hard, his other hand guiding a third cock to her dripping entrance. "Such a hungry little slut," he cooed, thrusting in alongside Scar, the stretch making her scream around the girth in her mouth. "Bet your husband never filled you like this."
The air reeked of sex and extinguisher foam, Diane now leaning against the charred grill with a cigarette dangling from her lips. Mrs. Robinson's body bowed between the men, her skin glistening with sweat and spit and cum as they rearranged her like a toy—bent over the picnic table, legs forced wider, one hand fisted in her hair while the other pressed her face into the wood. "Count," Scar demanded, his palm cracking across her ass. She sobbed out numbers between gasps, her voice raw: "Seven—oh god, eight—" as another cock replaced the last, each thrust punching a cry from her throat.
Mr. Robinson came untouched, his release streaking the patio tiles as his wife's back arched in a silent scream, her body clamping down around the cocks buried inside her. Diane blew a smoke ring toward the sky. The grill sputtered its last. And the men just kept fucking her—deeper, harder—until the only sounds left were skin and obscenities and Mrs. Robinson's broken, blissful sobs.
Scar gripped her throat, forcing her to meet her husband's gaze as he pounded into her from behind. "Tell him," he growled, his thumb pressing into her windpipe. Her lips parted—not to beg for mercy, but to moan, "Harder," as the tattooed man yanked her head back by the hair. Mr. Robinson's stomach clenched. His wife's thighs trembled. And Diane, ever the pragmatist, flicked her cigarette into the charred grill before sauntering over to stroke his cock with foam-covered fingers. "Relax, tiger," she murmured. "Your wife's just getting what she really wanted all along."
The sixth man hauled Mrs. Robinson upright, her legs wrapped around his hips as Scar claimed her mouth in a filthy kiss. "You gonna thank us?" he taunted, his palm cracking across her ass. Her whimper morphed into a scream as two more cocks pressed against her—one at her entrance, one nudging her ass—while the others watched, stroking themselves, their voices rough with praise: "Take it, you greedy slut," and "Fuck, look at her—" and "Come on, Mommy, one more—" Mr. Robinson's nails bit into his thighs. His wife's climax tore through her like a storm.
And then—finally—the men pulled out, their releases painting her stomach, her thighs, her heaving breasts. Mrs. Robinson collapsed onto the patio, her body a trembling, sweat-slick mess, her husband's name a plea on her lips. Scar wiped his cock on her thigh, grinning down at her. "Anytime, princess." The screen door slammed. The neighbors cheered. And Mr. Robinson—Mr. Robinson reached for his wife, his fingers tangling in her sticky hair, his voice rough with something between fury and want: "*Mine.*" Diane snorted.
Inside, Claire came so hard she saw stars, Jake's teeth sinking into her shoulder as he emptied himself inside her with a groan that shook the walls. Elena smirked from the couch, Liam's spent cock still twitching in her hand. "Told you they'd break first," she murmured, licking her fingers clean. The house stank of sex and smoke. The grill was ruined. And the Robinsons—the Robinsons were finally home.
Mark strolled back onto the patio, a fresh beer in hand, his gaze lingering on Mrs. Robinson's sprawled form. "So," he drawled, popping the cap with his teeth. "Same time next week?" Mr. Robinson's grip tightened. His wife moaned. Diane laughed.