Come By For Pie

Johnny Castle jogs past hedges and catches sight of an ass he'd know anywhere. Chanel. His ex. She glances back, clocking the same ridges he keeps carving at the gym, and heat slams between them like an elevator crashing. Johnny pictures his face buried between those cheeks, tongue hunting old territory. Chanel's mouth waters over the veined muscles shifting under his shirt. Dessert, she says without smiling. He says yes without breathing. Night drops. Her text lights his screen: Come in. He steps through the front door and hears a sound he made a thousand times himself—those wet, desperate moans. They pull him down the hall, through the cracked bedroom door. Chanel's in the black lace number he once ripped off her, on all fours, spine curved. Ryan's hips smack into her. Each thrust makes the bed creak. Johnny's cock shoves hard against his zipper. Chanel turns her head, eyes half-lidded. "Join us." Ryan pulls out slick and glistening. Johnny strips in two moves and takes his place, sinking into heat that remembers him. They trade back and forth—mouths, hands, every hole. Chanel rides one cock while her mouth swallows the other, drooling down her chin. She keeps the lace on; they yank it aside when they need access. Cum first floods her pussy, then coats her tongue, and still she begs for more. By the end she's stretched, dripping, wrecked, and both men collapse beside her, balls empty, chests heaving.