The four women pile into Blake's driveway like they own the curb. Two cars. One seat left. And the second driver's out cold with some bullshit migraine. None of them are missing that morning meeting, so they circle the last car like wolves. Blake's frozen behind the wheel, watching four pairs of eyes and four sets of long legs squabble for a ride. First it's yelling. Then it's whining. Then it's the offer that shuts everything else down. Rachael Cavalli pulls her blouse open first. No bra. Just heavy tits and a dare in her smile. Adira Allure moves next—drops her skirt right there on the concrete. She bends over the hood like she's daring the neighbors to peek. Whitney's got her phone out, timing everything, recording it, like proof might help later. Andi Avalon slides in close, palm already cupping Blake through his slacks, while Taylor Vixxen whispers in his ear—filthy, low, telling him exactly where she wants his cock and how wet she already is. They drag him inside his own garage. Door barely shuts. Hands everywhere. Rachael on her knees first, mouth sliding down his length while Adira straddles his face and grinds. He tries to mumble something about traffic, but Andi Avalon takes his tongue and Whitney rides his thigh like she needs every inch. They trade positions fast. Taylor Vixxen sinks onto him without asking, slick heat clamping down while the others watch, mouths open, hungry. Fingers pinch nipples. Someone licks someone else. It smells like sweat and expensive perfume. Blake's head spins. Cum already leaking from the head of his cock, desperate for release, desperate for the clock not to win. They keep switching. Moans bounce off concrete. Slick skin slaps. Somebody laughs when he groans like he's about to break. But the clock keeps ticking. They don't let him finish until he nods, eyes glassy, and picks one—anyone—just so they make the light before traffic swallows them whole.
The four women pile into Blake's driveway like they own the curb. Two cars. One seat left. And the second driver's out cold with some bullshit migraine. None of them are missing that morning meeting, so they circle the last car like wolves. Blake's frozen behind the wheel, watching four pairs of eyes and four sets of long legs squabble for a ride. First it's yelling. Then it's whining. Then it's the offer that shuts everything else down. Rachael Cavalli pulls her blouse open first. No bra. Just heavy tits and a dare in her smile. Adira Allure moves next—drops her skirt right there on the concrete. She bends over the hood like she's daring the neighbors to peek. Whitney's got her phone out, timing everything, recording it, like proof might help later. Andi Avalon slides in close, palm already cupping Blake through his slacks, while Taylor Vixxen whispers in his ear—filthy, low, telling him exactly where she wants his cock and how wet she already is. They drag him inside his own garage. Door barely shuts. Hands everywhere. Rachael on her knees first, mouth sliding down his length while Adira straddles his face and grinds. He tries to mumble something about traffic, but Andi Avalon takes his tongue and Whitney rides his thigh like she needs every inch. They trade positions fast. Taylor Vixxen sinks onto him without asking, slick heat clamping down while the others watch, mouths open, hungry. Fingers pinch nipples. Someone licks someone else. It smells like sweat and expensive perfume. Blake's head spins. Cum already leaking from the head of his cock, desperate for release, desperate for the clock not to win. They keep switching. Moans bounce off concrete. Slick skin slaps. Somebody laughs when he groans like he's about to break. But the clock keeps ticking. They don't let him finish until he nods, eyes glassy, and picks one—anyone—just so they make the light before traffic swallows them whole.
