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Korean Cindys SuperBowl Party

The wives were supposed to be here too. I’d sent the group text weeks ago: “Super Bowl Sunday at our place, everyone welcome—bring your appetites and your team trash talk.” I figured the women would tag along like always, sipping wine in the kitchen, rolling their eyes at us. But none of them showed. Not a single one. Apparently the invite got lost in translation or the women just assumed it was “guys only” and made other plans. Except Cindy.

My wife walked in around 6:25 wearing the brand-new Seahawks jersey she’d ordered special for the party—number 14, Lockett, fitted just tight enough across her small chest that her dark nipples were already faintly visible through the thin navy fabric when the AC kicked on. Below that, skin-tight black spandex shorts that hugged every generous curve of her thick thighs and that round, Korean ass I still couldn’t get over after all these years. No panty lines. None. Just smooth, stretched material clinging to her like paint. White tennis shoes, laces double-knotted, the kind she wore when she pretended she was “just going for a quick walk.” Her black hair was pulled into a high, messy ponytail that bounced every time she moved.

She smiled that shy, polite smile she always gives in mixed company, said “hi everybody” in her soft accent, then disappeared into the kitchen to put out more chips and dip. The guys noticed her—of course they did. A few low whistles when she bent to slide a tray into the oven, the shorts riding up just enough to show the lower curve of her cheeks. I laughed it off, proud in that dumb husband way. That’s my girl.

First quarter was electric. Seattle jumped out early, crowd noise from the broadcast rattling the windows. Cindy floated around refilling bowls, laughing at the right moments, touching guys’ shoulders when she squeezed past them on the couch. Sweet, demure, perfect hostess. Second quarter she sat on the arm of my recliner for a while, one small hand resting on my neck, legs crossed so the spandex pulled even tighter across her mound. I could smell her perfume mixed with something warmer, something unmistakably her.

Halftime came and went. She disappeared into the kitchen again to grab more beer. I didn’t think anything of it.

Third quarter started. Seattle was up by 10, New England clawing back. I kept glancing toward the kitchen doorway, expecting to see her come back with another tray. Five minutes. Ten. Nothing. I figured maybe she was on the phone with one of her church friends or taking a quick break in the laundry room.

Then I caught the looks.

First it was Mike from accounting—quick side-eye toward the hallway, then back to me, eyebrows raised just a fraction. Then Dave, one of the old Army guys, smirking into his beer like he knew something I didn’t. A couple others exchanged glances, lips twitching. Not mean. Not mocking. Just… knowing.

My stomach did a slow roll.

I waited through another commercial break, then excused myself like I was heading to the bathroom. Instead I drifted down the short hallway past the half-bath, past the guest bedroom. The door to our master suite at the end was cracked open, just an inch. Light spilling out. Low voices.

I pushed it wider.

Cindy was on her tiptoes.

White tennis shoes planted wide, heels lifted high so her thick calves flexed, ass pushed out. The Seahawks jersey had been tugged up over her small tits, bunched under her armpits so those dark, fat nipples pointed straight down at the carpet. Her spandex shorts were peeled down to mid-thigh, stretched tight around the fullest part of her legs, trapping them there. Bent forward over the edge of our bed, both delicate hands braced on the mattress, ponytail swinging.

Behind her was Ryan. Not one of the Black guys from her old life—no BBC tonight. Just Ryan, 32, divorced, built like a linebacker from his college days, one of the quieter guys in the group who always brought good whiskey. His jeans were around his knees. His cock—thick, pale, veined, and currently buried to the root inside my wife—was glistening wet every time he pulled back.

She wasn’t loud. Cindy never is at first. Just these tiny, broken whimpers every time he bottomed out, her accent thickening with every thrust.

“oh… oh god… so deep… Ryan-ssi… please…”

He had one big hand wrapped around her narrow waist, the other fisted in her ponytail, using it like a handle to pull her back onto him. Her ass jiggled with every smack of his hips. The shorts around her thighs made obscene little squeaking sounds as the fabric stretched and rubbed.

I stood frozen in the doorway. My dick was already painfully hard in my jeans.

Ryan glanced over his shoulder, saw me, and didn’t even slow down. Just gave me that same half-smirk the others had been wearing.

“She asked real nice, Tom,” he said, voice low and rough. “Said she needed it bad. Said you wouldn’t mind watching your little Korean wife get properly fucked during the third quarter.”

Cindy’s head snapped up. Her eyes found mine—wide, glassy, pupils blown. Cheeks flushed dark pink. For one heartbeat she looked ashamed, guilty, like she wanted to apologize.

Then Ryan slammed in hard, and her mouth fell open in a silent cry. Her whole body shuddered. She didn’t look away from me again.

Instead she whispered, voice trembling, accent so thick I almost didn’t catch it:

“Tommy… he’s… he’s so much bigger than you… feels like… like it’s splitting me…”

She came right then—quiet but violent, thighs quivering, toes curling inside those white sneakers so hard I thought she’d pop the laces. Ryan groaned, gripped her hips with both hands now, and started pounding faster, deeper, the wet slap of skin on skin drowning out the game noise from the living room.

I didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just watched my 59-year-old wife—my shy, church-going, respectable ajumma—get railed over our own bed while twenty guys drank my beer thirty feet away.

When Ryan finally grunted and buried himself balls-deep, pumping into her with slow, heavy thrusts, Cindy’s eyes rolled back. She bit her lip so hard I saw the skin whiten.

He pulled out a minute later, thick ropes of cum already leaking from her swollen, dark-pink pussy, dripping down the inside of one thigh onto the carpet. She stayed bent over, panting, ass still up, shorts still tangled around her legs, jersey still rucked up.

Ryan zipped up, patted her ass like she was a good girl, then walked past me toward the door.

“Game’s still on, man,” he said casually. “Don’t miss the fourth.”

Cindy finally straightened, shaky. Turned to face me. Cum was still sliding down her leg. Her nipples were rock-hard under the jersey. She looked small, wrecked, beautiful.

She stepped toward me on trembling tiptoes, closed the distance, and pressed her sticky body against mine.

“Tommy…” she whispered against my chest, voice tiny. “I’m sorry… I just… I needed it so bad tonight…”

Then she reached down, wrapped her delicate fingers around the bulge in my jeans, and squeezed.

“Want to… clean me up before the guys notice I’m gone too long…?”

Behind us, the crowd on TV erupted—another touchdown.

I locked the door.

(kik MyKoreanWife)