The Man In The Mask

Tom stepped into the kitchen and froze. Tanya sat at the table, spinning a black ski mask between her fingers, eyes red from no sleep. She spilled it quick: the break-in didn’t scare her, it got her wet. She couldn’t stop picturing the guy in the mask—the same bastard who put her husband in a hospital bed—and she wanted that man inside her. Tom swallowed hard, dick already pushing against his sweats. She slid the mask across the table and told him to put it on, fuck her hard, get it out of her system. Upstairs his wife slept. Tom grabbed the mask, yanked it over his head, and yanked Tanya’s tits out of her top. He bent her over the counter, fingered her dripping cunt until his knuckles were slick, then worked four fingers, then his whole fist, stretching her while her big tits slapped the granite. Tattoos flashed across her back every time he slammed in, the mask turning every thrust meaner. She came hard around his fist, then again when he replaced it with his cock and pounded her raw, grunting into the ski mask like the intruder she craved. When he finally pulled out and painted those tits, she stayed bent over, shaking, the filthy itch scratched for now.