The bedroom was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the bedside lamp. You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, still silent after the tense disagreement earlier that day. You hadn’t expected an apology—certainly not like this.

Robin was already on the floor. Naked. Kneeling… but not still.

She looked up at you, eyes wide and cheeks flushed, her breath shaky. “I was wrong,” she whispered, “I shouldn’t have spoken to you that way…”

Then she turned, slowly—deliberately—and positioned herself on her hands and knees. Her thick hips began to sway. Then bounce. Her rear clapped with soft, rhythmic slaps as she twerked slowly, cheeks jiggling with every motion. The sound echoed faintly in the quiet room.

“I know I hurt you,” she moaned softly, voice trembling as she moved. “I—I just want to make it right.”

She slipped into the splits without effort, thighs spread wide, her curves on full display, trembling with every breath as she began to move again. Her hands came to her chest, lifting her heavy bust and swaying them side to side in rhythm with her hips. “Forgive me… please…”

Then she rose onto her feet again—bending forward at the waist, gripping her ankles, cheeks bouncing once more. Her breath caught, her voice needy, raw. “I’ll do anything… I just want to be your good wife again…”

The desperation in her voice, the way she gave you all of herself—not just her body but her guilt, her longing, her need—left no space for pride.

She wasn’t teasing. She was begging.

And she meant every word.