Hustled

Her husband, the rock star, ripped through the hotel room like thunder. He had a show to play and a reputation to keep. Drunk from noon, surrounded by the band. Dahlia begged him to take her. Just once. No dice. He tossed the word ‘sober’ like it was poison and slammed the door behind him, the echo still ringing after he disappeared into the night. Daylight woke her. Still alone. Couch cushions cold. Phone calls rang until voicemail kicked in. That was it. She opened her laptop, already slick with intention, and found exactly what the ache demanded. Johnny showed. Six-foot something, chest carved like he’d been built for destruction. She wore nothing under the trench but a black lace push-up, the matching thong, and the garter straps that bit into her thighs. When she opened the door, his eyes did the talking. So did hers. They skipped the small talk and headed straight to the living room where her husband’s mess still covered the coffee table—empty bottles, rolled bills, the aftermath of every promise he’d broken. She dropped the trench. Told Johnny the truth. Her husband’s groupies could choke on the dick he wouldn’t give his own wife. She needed to be opened, used, wrecked by someone who actually had the balls to finish the job. Johnny’s mouth covered hers before she finished the sentence. Tongue, teeth, hands everywhere. Her hips rolled against nothing, pussy already dripping down the inside of her thigh. He sucked her nipples hard enough to bruise, then ordered her to touch herself while he watched. She circled her clit slowly, teasing, letting him hear how wet she was. He pushed her onto her back, spread her, and buried his face. Tongue lapping, sucking, swallowing every drop her cunt fed him. Dahlia twisted around, swallowed his cock in the same motion, throat working, spit sliding down the shaft while he tongue-fucked her. She kept at it until her jaw ached and her pussy throbbed empty. Doggy on the rug. Johnny lined up, gripped her hips, and drove in deep on the first thrust. The room filled with the sound of skin slapping wet skin, her moans getting louder each time his balls smacked her clit. Then she looked back, voice hoarse: “My ass. Fuck it.” He didn’t hesitate. Pulled out glistening, pressed the head against her tight hole, and slid in slow, stretching her until she whimpered. Once he was buried, he fucked her like the hole belonged to him—hard, relentless, balls-deep. She came screaming, legs shaking, pussy gushing down her thighs. Johnny followed seconds later, pulling out to paint her cunt and the thin strip of thong with thick ropes of cum.