Road Queen #29

She’s pressed against the wall by the kind of man you only meet after midnight, the scrape of stubble burning her throat while he pins her wrists above her head. Sweat and cheap whiskey cling to him. Their mouths crash, teeth clicking, tongues twisting rough and wet until she tastes blood. His fingers drag down her ribs, nails raising streaks of fire, then plunge between her legs, knuckles splitting slick folds, forcing her open, thick fingers curling inside her until her cunt spasms. He drops to his knees, drags her jeans to her ankles, mouth locking on her clit like he’s starving for it. Her head snaps back and hits plaster. He stands, frees his cock—hard, veined, the head already leaking—and drives in one brutal thrust, burying to the root so her toes leave the floor. Each slam rocks her spine, the slap of skin wet and nasty, every withdrawal dragging obscene strings of come. She claws his back raw. The orgasm snaps through her like a live wire; she screams into his shoulder, muscles clamping so tight it feels like she’ll break him in half. He answers with a guttural moan, hips jerking, pulsing thick spurts so deep she swears she can feel them paint her womb.