Tough Critic

Kira Noir used to be the one Angela got off to at night. She’d write that everywhere, wouldn’t shut up about it on every site she could find. Lately the love-sick lines have soured. Body’s still fire, legs like they’d wrap round you twice, but Kira looks checked-out, bored, phoning it in. Angela’s two seconds from clicking “post” on another roast when the knock comes. She opens and Kira Noir fills the doorway, dark eyes sharp, strap already packed and obvious under her coat. She brushes past Angela like they’ve fucked before and tells her exactly how many times those weak little rants get under her skin. The purple silicone is out before Angela can answer, thick and glossy in Kira’s grip. Fix it. Every shitty word. Angela types. Kira corrects over her shoulder, tits brushing the back of her chair, breath hot on her neck. Every time Angela slips in one more snide line, Kira’s palm cracks across her ass, fabric bunching. The critic’s hands shake on the keys. When she’s done, Kira spins the chair, spreads Angela’s thighs, pushes two fingers straight in. Slick, hot, zero warm-up. Then the harness is buckled, the purple head drags across Angela’s clit once, twice, and Kira drives in. Hard strokes. Skin slapping. Angela claws the armrests and forgets how words work. Every thrust knocks another sarcastic post out of her head. They’re loud enough that the neighbours might complain. Kira won’t stop until the fan-girl in Angela learns the difference between commentary and experience.