The kitchen smelled like burnt garlic and cheap pasta sauce. Betty stood at the stove in her stretched-out tank top and old yoga pants, stirring the pot while the sauce bubbled over the edge. Michael had just walked in from the garage, still in his work boots, grease smudged on his forearm. I was sitting at the table scrolling my phone, pretending not to notice how Betty’s heavy tits shifted every time she reached for the salt.
“Smells like dinner’s almost ready,” Michael said, coming up behind her. He pressed against her ass, hands sliding around her wide hips.
Betty laughed low. “You’re filthy. Don’t start something you can’t finish before the noodles are done.”
He didn’t answer. Just ground against her harder. I looked up. Our eyes met over her shoulder. She bit her lip, gave me that small nod we’d been trading for weeks.
I pushed my chair back. The legs scraped loud on the tile.
Michael noticed. “Sandra’s joining us tonight?”
Betty turned the burner down low. “Guess so. Been teasing her all week.”
I walked over. My heart was already hammering. Betty smelled like garlic and that vanilla body spray she always wore. I dropped to my knees right there on the kitchen floor. She spread her legs a little, still facing the stove like nothing was happening.
I tugged her yoga pants down just enough. No panties. Of course. Her thick thighs opened wider. Dark curly hair covered her mound, already damp at the slit. I leaned in and dragged my tongue flat over her pussy lips. Salty, musky, warm. She let out a shaky breath.
“Fuck… that’s it, baby girl,” she muttered.
Michael unzipped behind her. I heard the condom wrapper tear. He always used one with her—house rules since last year. I kept licking, sucking her clit between my lips while she braced one hand on the counter. Her other hand reached back, stroking his cock as he rolled the rubber on.
He pushed in slow at first. Betty groaned, head tipping forward. Her belly pressed against the edge of the counter. I could feel the rhythm start—his hips bumping her forward, making her pussy slide against my mouth.
“Goddamn, she’s soaked,” Michael grunted. “You taste that, Sandra?”
I moaned into her cunt in answer. My tongue flicked faster. Her clit swelled under the hood. I sucked harder, lips sealed around it. Betty’s hand dropped to my head, fingers tangling in my hair.
“Eat her good,” Michael said. His thrusts picked up. Wet slapping sounds filled the kitchen. Skin on skin. The pot on the stove hissed as sauce dripped onto the burner.
Betty started rocking back to meet him. Her ass jiggled with every hit. I had to tilt my head to keep my mouth on her. My chin was slick, nose buried in her bush. She smelled stronger now—sweat, arousal, dinner all mixed together.
“Fuck, Michael—deeper,” she gasped.
He grabbed her hips with both hands. The pace turned rough. Each thrust shoved her pussy harder against my face. I slipped two fingers inside her. Hot, tight, dripping. She clenched around them immediately.
“Oh shit—right there,” she panted. “Don’t stop, Sandra. Keep sucking my clit.”
I curled my fingers, rubbing that rough spot inside. Her legs started shaking. Michael’s breathing turned ragged above me.
“Gonna make her come on your face,” he told me. “You want that?”
I nodded, mouth full of her. My own pussy was throbbing in my shorts, but this wasn’t about me tonight.
Betty’s moans got louder. Dangerous loud. The neighbor’s dog barked outside. She didn’t care.
“Fuck—fuck—I’m close—”
Her thighs clamped around my head. I sucked harder, fingers pumping. Michael slammed in one last time and held deep.
Betty came with a choked cry. Her pussy pulsed around my fingers, clit jumping against my tongue. Wetness flooded my mouth. I kept licking through it, slower now, letting her ride it out.
Michael pulled out. The condom was shiny, stretched tight. He peeled it off, tied the end, and dropped it in the trash under the sink like it was nothing.
Betty sagged against the counter, breathing hard. Her tank top was twisted, one tit almost out. She looked down at me, face flushed, hair messy.
“C’mere,” she said.
I stood up. My knees ached from the tile. She kissed me deep, tasting herself on my tongue. Michael stepped in behind me, hands on my waist.
“You’re next,” he murmured in my ear.
But Betty shook her head. “Not yet. Pasta’s gonna be mush.”
She pulled her pants back up, adjusted her top. Michael zipped himself away. I wiped my chin with the back of my hand.
Betty turned the burner off and drained the noodles. Steam rose from the colander. Michael grabbed plates from the cabinet.
I sat back down at the table, legs still shaky. Betty served the food like nothing happened. Sauce splattered on the plates. The TV in the living room droned some cop show.
Michael sat across from me. Betty took the chair beside him.
“Eat up,” she said, smirking. “You earned it.”
I picked up my fork. My lips still tingled from her pussy. The pasta was overcooked, sauce too salty.
None of us said much.
But under the table, Betty’s foot slid up my calf.
Later, I knew, we’d finish what we started.
Upstairs.
Door locked.
No more pretending it was just dinner.

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