The time my wife got raped in the sunroom by her Ex boyfriend

My wife was raped by her boyfriend in the sunroom 🥵🥵

The sun room smelled of jasmine and old wicker, the heavy August heat still clinging to the glass panels even as evening bled through the slats. Somewhere deeper in the house, the television murmured a sitcom laugh track that made the whole room feel held-breath quiet by comparison.

Jaxson's thumb traced the inside of my wrist. Slow. Deliberate.

“Your dad just got up for a beer,” he whispered, his mouth brushing the shell of my ear.

The words landed somewhere low in my belly. I didn't turn toward the door. Instead, I let my head fall back against the rattan daybed and watched his face shift in the half-light — all sharp jaw and darker eyes, that one crooked canine he always tried to hide when he smiled.

“We have maybe ten minutes before someone checks the patio lights,” I said. Nineteen years old and already fluent in the choreography of my parents’ evening routines.

His free hand found the hem of my sundress. Fingertips ghosted up my thigh, paused at the damp cotton between my legs. Not pushing. Just resting there, a question asked in pressure.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day.” His voice had gone gravelly, lower register than the boy who’d picked me up for mini-golf three hours earlier. “You have no idea.”

“Tell me.”

“The way your dress rode up in the car. The little noise you made when the putt missed. I almost pulled over on Riverside.”

He said it like a confession. My thighs tightened around his hand without permission.

“Then don’t stop now,” I breathed.

The laugh track swelled in the other room. Jaxson’s mouth covered mine before I could hear my father’s footsteps cross the kitchen tile. His kiss was all tongue and urgency, a frantic thing that sucked the air from my lungs. My sundress bunched around my hips as his fingers pushed the cotton aside. Not tentative anymore. He found me slick and hot, his middle finger sliding up through my folds with an ease that made me whimper into his teeth.

“Shh.” He pulled back just far enough to meet my eyes. “Can you be quiet?”

I nodded, already biting my lip hard enough to taste chapstick.

Two fingers crooked inside me. My spine arched off the daybed and the wicker creaked — a sharp, accusatory sound. We both froze. A bead of sweat rolled from his temple and dropped onto my collarbone.

From the living room: canned applause. No footsteps.

“Jesus,” he exhaled.

“Keep going.” My own voice sounded foreign, all rasp and need. I reached for his belt buckle. “I want you inside me. Now.”

“Your parents —”

“Are watching Wheel of Fortune reruns and my mom refills her wine glass exactly once between the third and fourth puzzle. I know the window.” I’d unbuckled the belt. The button. The zipper. “I want you to finish inside me.”

His breath stuttered. “You’re on the pill.”

“I know.”

“You’re sure?”

Instead of answering, I guided him down against me. The thick, blunt head of him nudged my entrance and I wrapped one leg around his hip, pulling. He sank in with one long stroke that stretched me so completely I saw starbursts behind my eyelids.

My gasp got lost in the hollow of his throat.

For a moment neither of us moved. The weight of him, the smell of his sweat mixing with the jasmine, the absurd domesticity of the next room — it all sharpened the sensation until every nerve ending felt flayed open. Somewhere in the kitchen, a cabinet door closed. Jaxson began to thrust, shallow at first, the daybed wobbling with each roll of his hips.

“Look at me,” he gritted out.

I did. His pupils had swallowed the color. The boy I’d known since Algebra II was gone, replaced by something hungrier, focused entirely on the place where our bodies joined. His pace quickened until the wet, rhythmic sound of it rose above the television murmur.

“Harder,” I managed.

The daybed groaned. My shoulder blades left damp crescents on the rattan. I could feel the orgasm circling, not a wave but a hot, electric current that narrowed the world to the spot his pelvis ground against my clit. My mouth opened around a scream that never left my throat — I shoved my knuckles between my teeth and bit down as the current snapped.

White noise.

Blind panic that someone must have heard my heels drumming against the frame.

And Jaxson still moving inside me, faster now, his rhythm splintering.

“Where —” he panted.

“Inside.” I locked my ankles behind his back. “Fill me up. Please.”

His whole body seized. A guttural sound tore from his chest — half groan, half sob — and I felt the hot pulse of his release deep against my cervix, flooding me in thick, pulsing waves. He shuddered through it, forehead pressed to the cushion beside my ear, while his fingers dug bruises into my hip.

The sitcom cut to commercial. A jingle for laundry detergent.

Jaxson lifted his head slowly, dazed, his chest still heaving. He didn’t pull out. Instead, his thumb traced down my belly, smearing the thin sheen of sweat there.

“Don’t move,” he murmured.

He pulled out then, gently, and a slick trickle followed onto my inner thigh. The loss left me hollow for exactly three seconds. Then his hands were turning me — flipping me onto my stomach with an authority that made my breath catch.

“I want more.” His voice had gone soft, almost reverent. “I want to be inside you somewhere no one’s ever been.”

The implication landed and unfurled into heat between my legs.

“Have you done that before?” I whispered into the cushion.

“No. Have you?”

“No.”

Another cabinet door somewhere in the house. Closer this time. Maybe the pantry, which meant someone was hunting for snacks, which meant curiosity might wander toward the sun room.

“We don’t have much time.” I twisted to look over my shoulder. “But I want you to.”

“You’ll tell me if it hurts.”

“I’ll tell you.”

His fingers, still slick with our mingled wetness, traced down the cleft of my ass. One digit circled the tight pucker there — tentative, questioning — and I pushed back against the pressure. A low sound vibrated in his throat. He gathered more moisture from where I was still dripping, coated himself and me with slow, clinical care that somehow made the anticipation worse.

“Breathe out,” he said.

The pressure built. My body resisted for a long, suspended second, and then — a give. A burn. Jaxson’s tip breached me in a location no one had touched, and I sucked in air like a drowning woman.

“Okay?” He was trembling. I could feel it through the single point of connection.

“More.”

He fed me inch by excruciating inch while the television blared a car insurance ad and my mother’s laugh echoed from the kitchen. My hands fisted in the rattan. The stretch was monumental, a deep, splitting fullness that bordered on too much before tipping into something else entirely — something I had no name for at nineteen, only the absolute certainty that I wanted him to keep going.

“You’re —” His voice cracked. “God, Selena.”

He was fully seated now, hips flush against my ass, both of us motionless and shaking and listening to the house breathe around us.

Then the sliding glass door to the patio rattled in its frame.

A shadow moved on the other side of the frosted pane. My mother’s silhouetted hand lifted toward the handle.

“Selena? You still out there, honey

This story has been edited for our enjoyment, mostly because my wife doesn’t remember everything that happened also the ages of Selena and Jaxson are 14 and 16
Also, my wife is 5’5 mixed and have 47 dd titts and a Megan the stallion level ass