Time blurred.
The digital clock in the corner of the feed ticked past hour after hour, but Mario barely noticed.
His wife was being wrecked in every way possible—lifted, twisted, pinned, ridden, filled—over and over until she was nothing but a trembling mess beneath Ross.
By the time the first faint glow of morning touched the curtains, Ella was sprawled on the bed, utterly spent.
Her legs lay open, her pussy dripping a messy mix of her own wetness and Ross's cum.
Her breathing was shallow, her eyes half-lidded, her body limp with exhaustion.
Ross, on the other hand, looked like he could go another round without breaking a sweat.
He leaned over her, brushing her hair from her face, and smiled faintly—like a man who had just claimed something precious and knew it was his now.
Mario sat there in silence, his limp cock resting uselessly against his thigh, and wondered if there was any part of her left that still belonged to him.
