A Humid Heist in the Kitchen

The fridge door swings shut with a thud that echoes through John's quiet kitchen, the leftover pizza boxes from last night's takeout still stacked on the counter like forgotten trophies. It's been a week since that taco-fueled frenzy, the one where your tongue was buried so deep in his ass you could taste the spice lingering hours later. Work dragged you both into overtime hell—John's construction shifts running late, your desk job piling on reports that made your eyes cross—but tonight, he crashed early after scarfing down a massive meat lover's pie solo. You showed up unannounced, key he'd slipped you months ago burning a hole in your pocket, the kind of trust that feels heavier than it should. The living room's dark, TV flickering some late-night rerun on mute, and you hear it before you see him: that chainsaw snore rattling from the bedroom, deep and rhythmic, the sound that always pulls you in like a siren's call.

You toe off your shoes in the hallway, the floorboards creaking under your socks as you ease toward the door. It's cracked open, just enough moonlight spilling in from the cheap blinds to outline his sprawl on the king-sized bed. John's out cold, face mashed into the pillow, one arm flung wide like he owns the whole damn room. He's stripped down to those ratty gray boxer briefs, the fabric stretched tight over his ass, riding up to expose the bottom curves of those tan cheeks dusted with that thick black hair you love running your fingers through. His belly's splayed out beneath him, spilling sideways against the mattress, and his feet—those massive size 12s—dangle off the edge, toes twitching faintly in his sleep. The air's thick with his scent, that mix of sweat and faint cologne from the day's grind, and your tiny peepee stirs in your jeans just from the sight.

You slip inside, heart pounding like you're pulling off some heist, though it's just you and him in this humid shoebox of an apartment. The snore hitches for a second as you approach, but he doesn't stir—John sleeps like the dead after a long haul, especially post-binge. You kneel at the bed's edge, eyes locked on that ass, the way the briefs hug the cleft, promising the warmth and musk you've been craving all week. Memories flicker: the last time he pinned you down, his weight making you feel small but secure, or that afternoon he dozed off snoring at 3 p.m. and you couldn't resist licking him awake. Tonight, you're bolder, hands itching to claim what's yours while he's oblivious.

Your palms slide up his calves first, feeling the coarse hair and the solid muscle beneath, warm from the sheets. He doesn't flinch, snore rolling on steady. Emboldened, you climb onto the bed, mattress dipping under your weight as you straddle his legs carefully, knees bracketing his thighs. Up close, his ass is even more inviting—two large, tan orbs straining the fabric, the black hair peeking out from the leg bands like an invitation. You press your hands flat against them, squeezing gently at first, the give of his flesh soft yet firm, like kneading warm dough. Fuck, it feels good, that familiar comfort washing over you, reminding you how he squeezes you back sometimes, making the world fade. Your peepee's fully hard now, that pathetic little nub tenting your pants, and you grind it against his calf absentmindedly, chasing friction.

The briefs are thin, almost worn through in spots, and you can feel the heat radiating from his crack. You hope for it—those farts he brews up after heavy meals, the kind that hit your face like a dirty secret during your playtime. The pizza was loaded with sausage and peppers; if anything's building, it'll be potent. Your fingers hook into the waistband, tugging it down slow, inch by inch, exposing more of that hairy expanse. He shifts slightly, a low mumble escaping, but the snore kicks back in, louder, vibrating through his body into your hands. There—the briefs slide past the fullest part of his cheeks, bunching at his thighs, and his bare ass is right there, cheeks parting just enough from the position to tease the dark fur lining the cleft.

You dive in, hands cupping those orbs fully now, thumbs tracing the crease where ass meets thigh. They're heavy, warm, the hair tickling your palms as you spread them wider, careful not to jostle him too much. The scent hits you—musky, earthy, with a hint of the soap he used earlier mixed with his natural tang. Your mouth waters, but you hold off, content to knead for now, fingers digging into the meat, feeling the subtle flex of muscle under the fat. Your other hand fumbles with your zipper, freeing your tiny peepee—it springs out, barely two inches of stiff desperation, already leaking a bead of pre-cum that you smear along his skin with a frantic stroke. You pound it furiously, the slap of your fist against your thigh quiet but urgent, hips bucking as you hump the air near his leg.

God, you wish he'd wake up and claim you proper, make you his in that way that blurs lines—call you his wife, pin you down, fill you up until you're both wrecked. The thought makes you stroke harder, peepee throbbing in your grip, the humiliation of its size fueling the fire. John's so much bigger, his cock a thick monster compared to this joke between your legs, and he loves ribbing you about it, turning shame into something hot and twisted. You lean in, nose brushing the hair at the top of his crack, inhaling deep—nothing yet, but the promise is there, his gut probably churning from the pizza. Your free hand slips lower, fingers grazing his balls through the tangled briefs, heavy and full, swinging slightly with his breathing.

The snore falters again, a wet rumble building in his chest, and you freeze, hands still on his ass. Then it comes—a low, bubbling fart slipping out, muffled against the sheets but potent, the smell wafting up like warm cheese and spice, earthy and unfiltered. It coats the air around his hole, and you bury your face closer, tongue darting out to taste the edge of the cleft, lapping at the hairs dampened by the release. Fuck, yes—salty, bitter, with that pizza tang that makes your head spin. You moan softly against his skin, the vibration probably lost in his sleep, and keep pounding your peepee, the slick sounds mixing with his snores. Another one builds, you can feel it in the clench of his cheeks under your palms, and when it rips free—hotter, longer, direct against your cheek—it's like a reward, the gas puffing into your open mouth as you lick deeper.

You spread him wider, tongue spearing toward his hole, circling the puckered rim that's already twitching from the farts. It's hairy, coarse strands catching on your lips, but you push through, tasting the faint bitterness, the warmth of him. John's body responds even in sleep, hole flexing under your assault, and you work it like you mean it—thrusting in shallow, then deeper, swirling to clean every inch. Your hands never stop squeezing those cheeks, pulling them apart to give you better access, the black hair matting with your spit. Down below, your peepee's a blur in your fist, the tiny head purple and slick, balls drawing tight from the combo of his ass on your tongue and the filthy farts still leaking out in spurts.

Emboldened, you shift lower, one hand abandoning his ass to grab at his foot. It's dangling there, sole up, the arch callused from work boots, toes splayed in relaxation. You remember worshipping these before—sucking them clean while he laughed, the salt bursting on your tongue like a treat. You lift it, bringing the big toe to your mouth while your tongue stays buried in his crack, alternating licks between foot and ass. The toe's thick, fitting your mouth like a mini-cock, and you suck hard, teeth grazing the pad, drawing a faint twitch from his leg. Another fart bubbles out, this one wetter, smearing against your chin as you multitask, the smell mixing with the foot's earthy tang.

You're lost in it, pounding away, peepee leaking steadily now, the edge building fast from the sensory overload. His ass clenches around your tongue, farts punctuating each probe, and his foot flexes in your grip, heel pressing against your chest. You wish for more—for him to roll over, mock your little dick, squeeze you until you feel safe in his bulk. "Be my wife, John," you whisper against his skin, the words half-muffled, half-desperate, imagining him grunting it back at you, making it real.

Suddenly, the snore cuts off. His body tenses under you, ass cheeks clamping on your face for a beat, then relaxing as he stirs. "The fuck... Travis?" John's voice is gravelly, thick with sleep, but there's no anger—just that playful rumble that sends shivers down your spine. You pull back, face slick and flushed, peepee still in your hand, but he doesn't give you time to explain. In one fluid move, he twists, massive frame rolling over to pin you beneath him before you can scramble away.

His weight crashes down, belly smothering your chest, the soft rolls enveloping you like a blanket—warm, hairy, making you feel small and protected, just like always. "Sneaky little shit," he growls, eyes half-lidded but sparking with amusement, beard scratching your neck as he nuzzles in. "Couldn't wait, huh? Pounding that sad nub while I sleep?" He chuckles, the sound vibrating through his gut into you, and you nod, breathless, hands instinctively grabbing at his sides, squeezing the love handles that ground you.

John doesn't bother with words after that. He hooks a leg over yours, trapping you fully, and starts grinding—his hips rolling slow at first, the thick length of his cock, still half-hard in the briefs, dragging along your stomach through the fabric. It's heavy, pressing down, dwarfing your exposed peepee that's trapped uselessly against his thigh. He picks up speed, dry humping you with purpose, the friction building heat between your bodies. His belly heaves with each thrust, smothering your face intermittently, the hair tickling your nose as you breathe him in—sweat, farts, pizza remnants all mingling into that addictive musk.

"Fuck, you're my dirty secret," he mutters, breath hot against your ear, one hand coming up to cradle your head, squeezing you affectionately into his bulk. You melt under it, legs spreading wider to let him rut harder, your peepee rubbing futilely against him, chasing sparks that aren't quite enough. He teases you with it, shifting so his cockhead nudges your tiny one through the briefs, the size difference making you whimper—his so fat and insistent, yours a joke in comparison. "Look at you, leaking like a faucet. Good boy, taking my weight while I use you."

The humping turns frantic, his grunts filling the room, body slick with fresh sweat that slicks the slide between you. You bite at his shoulder, hands roaming his back, feeling the muscles bunch under the fat. Another fart slips out from the pressure, hot against your thigh, and he laughs low, not stopping. "Yeah, breathe it in, wife— that's what you get for waking me." The word hits like a spark, and you buck up, but he's in control, pinning you down, grinding deeper, his cock throbbing through the fabric.

It builds quick—his breaths ragged, belly clenching against you—and then he tenses, a deep groan ripping from his throat. "Shit, Travis... gonna flood these briefs on you." Hot spurts pulse out, soaking the cotton, the wet heat seeping onto your skin as he ruts through it