Peeking through the door, you shouldn’t be seeing this. Dad’s girlfriend—big tits bouncing, hair a mess—is bent over the armrest of the couch while he slams into her from behind. No lube, just sweat and skin slapping. She gasps every time he grabs her hips and pounds—the whole couch creaks under them. Then she flips around, legs in the air, demanding it harder before he finally lets loose inside her with a groan that sounds like regret.
